The Partnership I: Dissolution (0/14) By: Glymax and Anne Cologna Comments to: Glymax@aol.com or may be posted publicly on the fictalk list. Rating: PG-13 for language Classification: S/X A Loads of angst - Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Maggie, Glymax, Anne, Glymax's husband, Anne's cats...sorry, we get carried away at times Archivists: This is the first installment of a series entitled The Partnership. Please archive under Glymax. *Please send to ATXC* Spoilers/Time line: Lots of spoilers for all US4 seasons. However, nothing specific after "Home", overseas folks should be able to catch on. We set our story in the current year because the timing seemed good to us. That was October. Then we watched Paper Hearts and Leonard Betts and Never Again and Memento Mori. While events in our story may sound familiar, they exist in a parallel universe to what's going on Sunday nights on Fox, but one true to the show. We hope you like what you read here, but don't get confused with the live action version. Or get confused - it's more fun that way! Relationship: Platonic We'd like to campaign for a category called MSP, for Mulder-Scully Partnership - see author notes in the final post for explanation. Summary: The search for Samantha continues and has serious implications for the future of Mulder and Scully's partnership. The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, nor do we intend to profit from this work. Acknowledgments - well, we quoted Shakespeare and the Bible, as well as Kramer vs. Kramer and another artist that we will name publicly at the end (wouldn't want to spoil the plot!). Plus a grateful bow to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, Mitch Pileggi, Sheila Larken and even Laurie Holden, who's wonderful portrayal of these characters helped us envision what we wanted to do and what they would look like saying our words. Now if CC and Co were only accepting scripts... BIG THANKS to Jeannie and Emily and Je Nie, our incredible Beta Readers and editors. You are wonderful, catching everything big and little, even past participles! Now if you could just explain what a past participle is. Author's Notes - our final installment to this is an explanation of our collaboration and what we were trying to accomplish. If you're one that wants insight into the creation of such an animal or if you desire to give feedback, check out the last section. Finally, to Kathleen Lietz - "We made it!" A Beta Reader's Circle collaboration. The Partnership I: Dissolution (1/14) ****** "It's time." "They're not ready. They won't believe." "They have no choice but to believe in the truth." "Or what they believe is the truth." ****** Early February 1997 The Shakespeare Stabber. That's what the press had decided to call this serial killer. He would bound and gag his victims, stab them through the heart, then use their blood to write messages on the walls. Lines from Shakespeare, meant to taunt law enforcement. Not terribly imaginative, but effective nonetheless. The DCPD had tried to handle the case in the beginning, but no substantial leads were forthcoming. When the killer struck for the third time in a week, this time across the river in Virginia, the FBI finally had some grounds for jurisdiction. It had been a busy time for the Violent Crimes and Behavioral Sciences Units. Public outcry demanded that this case be solved and solved quickly. With the huge backup of cases already pending, Section Chief Blevins had no choice but to go to Walter Skinner and request help from the nut in the basement and his sidekick. That's why Scully found herself virtually chained to a table in the autopsy bay. That's also why Mulder was holed up at the Georgetown University Library, wracking his brain to remember where he had seen the vague Shakespearean lines that the killer used as clues. He rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, trying to visualize the words in his head. He had seen them before, he was sure of it. But where? Mulder picked up the picture taken from the crime scene and held it inches from his face. The bloody writings on the wall were barely readable. O hateful, vaporous and foggy Night! Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, Make war against proportion'd course of time He closed his eyes and repeated the phrase over and over to himself. His train of thought was derailed as a passing foot made contact with the leg of his chair. Doing nothing to try to hide his annoyance, Mulder glared up at the responsible party. A young man in his early twenties smiled back apologetically. "Sorry, I never could do two things at once," he said holding the book up to explain his actions. Mulder waved his hand in a gesture of acceptance and turned back to his work. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head. He started at his own thought. That was it. He searched the table in front of him for a copy of that piece of work. Plays, sonnets, poems. Everything but that one. He rose from his chair and headed for the Shakespeare section. Running his fingers down the spine of each book, he finally found the volume he was looking for. He pulled it from the shelf and quickly turned to the correct page. And stopped. And stared in disbelief. An envelope with his name neatly printed on the front marked the correct line of the poem. His body tensed as he quickly scanned the area for the person who had put the envelope there. He saw no one. It was 9:00pm on a Friday night, the place was practically deserted. He strode back to his table and took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coat. After putting them on, he picked up the envelope and held it up to the light. It appeared to contain a single piece of paper. With shaky hands, he opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Agent Mulder, I have information concerning your sister. We must meet tonight at 10 pm outside the south door of the library. A man in a red ski cap will give you further instructions. It is imperative that you tell no one of our meeting. This includes your partner. If you break this agreement, no meeting will take place. Mulder carefully placed the note on the table. He shook his head as different emotions battled for dominance over his heart. Fear and doubt raged war against hope and excitement. They had been down this road before, he and Scully. Shadowy informants with their cryptic messages, leading them on, raising their hopes, only to have them dashed in a few scant hours. But there always existed in him that tiny sliver, the desire for the truth, that would not let his quest die. This whole thing smelled like a trap. He was being watched. Scrutinized. The warning not to involve Scully did nothing to alleviate his uneasiness. He could walk out that door and be gunned down where he stood or whisked away, never to be heard from again. But he had to know. He had to take that chance. He glanced at his watch. 9:45. Fifteen minutes to record his findings on the case and wrap things up for the night. After photo copying the pages he wanted, he threw his things into his briefcase and put on his coat. With a heavy sigh, a mixture of tension and curiosity, he made his way to the north door of the library. He had absolutely no intention of walking head on into whatever awaited him. Experience had taught him that sometimes sneaking up from the rear was preferable. The chilly winter wind whipped at his face as he cautiously made his way around the building. He cursed silently when he had to go out around a large yew bush that grew to close to the building to allow him passage. He reached the south entrance and stopped. No one. Mulder steeled his resolve and slowly mounted the stairs, putting himself in plain sight. His fingers reached for the assurance of the gun in its holster. But even that did not keep him from jerking to attention when the bell in the clock tower stroked the hour. As the echo of the last chime faded, the door behind him opened. He whirled and found himself standing toe to toe with a man in a red ski cap. He recognized him as the young student who had broken his concentration in the library. The young man smiled. "Agent Mulder, I presume." Mulder nodded and waited for him to continue. The man shuffled his feet and gave Mulder a smug grin. "You really need to brush up on your knowledge of literature. I suppose you didn't study that much in college. I was afraid my plan wouldn't work, that you wouldn't find the note in time." The agent narrowed his eyes at the man in front of him. "You? You put the note there?" The other man nodded. Mulder bit back most of his anger. "If you knew what I was looking for, why didn't you just tell me? It would have saved me a lot of time." "Not part of the agreement. Besides, I was told you would come up with the answer in time." Mulder waved his hand, trying to change the subject. "You have some information for me?" The head under the red hat shook in a negative response. "No. I don't. But the person in that black sedan over there does." He pointed to the vehicle parked in the shadows. Mulder's heart dropped to his feet. Shit. A black sedan. Never a good sign. He turned back to the young man and fixed him with one more glare. Maybe if something was about to happen, this guy would flinch. The man grinned. Great. Just great. Walking with slow, deliberate steps, Mulder made his way to the vehicle. When he was about ten feet away, the driver's side door opened and a huge African-American man got out. Mulder reached for his gun and took careful aim. The driver raised his hands to show that he was unarmed, then made a gesture to let the agent know he was opening the rear door and for him to get in. Mulder hesitated momentarily, but his curiosity got the better of him in the end. As he reached the door, he bent down to peer in and nearly fell over from shock. "Miss Covarrubias?" She nodded. "We don't have much time, Mr. Mulder. Please get in and shut the door." Mulder obliged, but immediately turned to her. She was dressed in a full length black velvet gown, a diamond studded necklace graced her neck. Her hair was pulled up away from her face, accentuating her high cheek bones. "Going to the ball, Cinderella?" The ice-blue eyes of Marita Covarrubias locked on him, then lasered through him. "I don't have time for games, Mr. Mulder." "And neither do I. What's this about?" She tapped the driver on the shoulder and he started the vehicle. After checking his mirrors, he cautiously pulled away from the curb. "Certain items have come into the possession of my superior. Items that may aid you in your search for your sister." Mulder looked at her with confusion and slight anger. "Why the sudden interest in my personal business?" "The situation has changed. I will tell you everything, but I must have your assurance that you will tell no one. Not your mother, not your Assistant Director, not even your partner. *No one* must know. Is that understood?" Mulder turned his head and stared out the window. His mind was whirring with the implications. This still could be a trap, and yet... "Okay," he answered so softly she had to strain to hear. "What have you got?" End Part 1 The Partnership I: Dissolution (2/14) ****** Tuesday, February 18, 1997 basement office Scully switched on her computer and went to the corridor to pour herself another necessary cup of coffee. The long hours were definitely getting to her, and she only had a couple of minutes to check her e-mail. She scrolled through her index, noting the messages from the pathologists' mailing list that she would have to sort through later. Only one message was marked urgent, and she clicked on that line somewhat absentmindedly, more focused on how to best deliver the caffeine to her system for maximum effect. The cup of coffee stopped halfway to its destination, and her open mouth was not symbolic of her thirst, but her surprise at the message. Hold on. Hold on to yourself. For this is going to hurt like hell. A very strange message. A very strange effect. A message sent from her own account. --- Thursday, February 20, 1997 basement office Mulder snorted at the cliche, but it was true that what he felt was a huge sigh of relief at the phone call from Arlington. Scully's permanent assignment was to assist him with the X-Files, but her value as a pathologist measured in exact proportion to the amount of paperwork they needed to complete that week. She was never called out when the stack was low. In a childish retaliation, he decided to leave the expense reports and more tedious forms to Scully, while he reviewed the pending cases. Soon, another case review joined the toppling file pile on Scully's desk. Three more and he could head out to his next meeting with Marita. Her cryptic message had come last night; the note inserted in his American Express bill. The irony for him was that he needed the maxed out charge card to get to New York City. He wasn't sure exactly which struck him as more disturbing, her access to his mail or how much she might have read about his mail order habits. He pulled the next file open and reviewed the first few paragraphs, estimating the strength of Scully's expected countering arguments against his desire to take on another round of paperwork. A routine murder, few leads, a possible connection to the Shakespeare Stabber that they had been pulled from earlier in the week, but this crime seemed remote enough to dismiss the idea of a copycat. On second thought, perhaps there was enough to warrant a consult. He scanned the fact sheet for the location of the murder - Yonkers, NY Close enough. --- Friday, February 21 Arlington Medical Examiner's office 3:00 p.m. Scully switched off the tape recorder and stepped away from the stretcher. Seven autopsies in two days, most related to a terrible traffic accident that had necessitated a medical determination of first which mangled passenger had possibly driven the vehicles and then which driver was more intoxicated. She moved into the lounge to change out of her scrubs and wished one more time for a shower in this particular facility. Not any more unusual than other places she had been forced to work in, and at least this time, the circumstances were typical, reality-based. She pulled on her blouse and pants and looked in the mirror. Her hair was matted down from the cap she had worn, and her forehead shone in the lights once again. On Sunday, she would be 33 years old. Thirty-three years old. Single. Not a date in sight, never mind any hope for sex. Not a prospect for anything more than work. She had once had more in her life, more balance, more light to counteract the shadow. She often reminded herself of what she did have. Not many women could count her achievements in their own lives, and fewer women earned as much respect and admiration, although her salary could be a bit higher in comparison to Mulder's. Even being loaned out to the local ME's office was a complement, and she shushed the tiny voice insisting that the agency cooperation was just a public relations ploy. She pulled out her cellular phone and was overcome by a sudden dizziness. She sat quickly on the bench, squeezing the wooden seat tightly and closing her eyes to regain her equilibrium. Her mother's constant admonition echoed in her head, making her more nauseous. A couple of deep breaths. Keep calm. She concentrated on her breathing and watched the spinning room slow to a gentle whirl. Another few blinks brought it to a halt and some careful stretching settled her stomach. She punched Mulder's cellular number, the action as automatic as buttoning up her jacket. He hadn't called her at all today, which was unusual, considering he usually whined incessantly about paperwork without her to keep him on task. The third ring surprised her, the fifth ring annoyed her, and the seventh ring prompted her to disconnect. He had probably forgotten the phone at home or in his car again. --- Office of the Special Representative to the Secretary General United Nations Building, New York City 3:15 p.m. His stash of patience was obviously back in D.C., Mulder thought, alternating between angrily tapping his foot, scanning three magazines without reading so much as a word and glaring at the secretary. She did not glance his way, not even when the volume of his disruptiveness exceeded the soft radio music echoing in the office. He had been waiting an hour in the office, adding that to the running total of 16 hours he had been waiting to meet with this woman. She had not arrived at the designated place - *her* designated place, he reminded himself petulantly - last evening, and she had ignored his persistent knocks at her door. Whatever information she had, she seemed content to parcel it to him piece by tiny piece. The problem was that the lack of action left him with far too much time to think, and he simply did not want to consider the ramifications of what this information could be. He reminded himself of a tensed coil, ready to spring at the first hint of release. Twenty-three years of waiting, of searching, of believing. Not trusting anyone for so long, and then relenting enough to extend his trust to Scully. Certainly, he and Scully had been down this road before, used, manipulated and betrayed many times. But the regulation this time was that he traveled alone. Fine. He was accustomed to that, used to drawing her lines for her when he needed to. Leaving Scully out meant he didn't have to factor in her safety to the equation, and that allowed him more freedom in choosing his actions. He knew she got upset, knew he had been saved more times by her ignoring the line than by respecting it. Idaho, Alaska, Hong Kong, Canada, Russia - he didn't just leave her behind in the U.S. anymore, he was becoming quite adept at the international ditch. He knew she thought he was trying to protect her, and she was right about that. It was more complicated than mere overprotectiveness, though. This was about Samantha, and she was *his* sister. His charge. His responsibility. Not Scully's. There was a longing there that Scully, while she could understand the loss of a sister, just could not empathize with on his level. Twenty-three years. He hadn't been able to find anything interesting on television the night before in his hotel, relegated to one channel featuring Best Picture week. Kramer vs. Kramer had been on when he finally returned to his room, cold and tired from his useless vigil. Meryl Streep had been on the stand, being grilled by Dustin Hoffman's attorney. "What was the longest significant relationship of your life?" he had repeated again and again. He looked at the screen, seeing the character's nervousness and recognizing his own despising of courtrooms and lawyers. The longest significant relationship in his life... Parents? No, left the house as soon as he could, fleeing to Oxford, drowning himself in the Bureau. Phoebe? Significant in its effects on him, but not the most important. Scully? He paused for a moment, recalling the various images in his mental Rolodex - waking up to her touch in Puerto Rico, seeing her by his hospital bed after the crash with Krycek, her comforting hug at his mother's bedside. Five years of safeguarding each other, protecting each other. Certainly a significant relationship. But not the most significant. Truth be told, that person was Samantha. For twenty-three years, she had captivated him, beckoned him, taunted him and eluded him. Her impact on him resonated far beyond the simplistic notion of guilt. In more noble musings, he could put forth the belief that what he was searching for was the truth, a larger web of conspiracy and cover-up. But the core of that search was Samantha. She was his Holy Grail, his windmill, and, in homage to Scully, Samantha was his white whale. She had influenced every major decision in his life, including his current ones, lying about expense reports, avoiding his partner, and placing his trust in this woman who seemed to find such enjoyment in jerking him around. So today he showed up one more time at Marita's office, forsaking the anonymity, not caring what she thought. Her secretary had notified her that he was present, and she had seen fit to make him wait further. He began playing with the obviously expensive wood puzzle on the coffee table, banging the pieces together solely to annoy the composed secretary. He remembered the times he had intentionally tried to rattle Scully in much the same way, and getting little to no response from her each time. He was startled to hear a low voice. "Agent Mulder." He looked up, expecting to see the blond woman, who on last sight was dressed for an evening of glamour. He was greeted by the secretary dressed in the female equivalent of the suit-and-tie ensemble he was wearing. She had added her own disapproving stare. "Miss Covarrubias has been called into a very important meeting for the rest of the evening. She regrets any inconvenience." He exhaled sharply. "Look, it's quite apparent she's ignoring me. She has information for me and it's imperative that I see her." He looked the secretary straight in the eye and hoped that, if she ignored his don't-mess-with-me tone, then she would respond to his visual plea. It usually worked on women. "I understand that, but her duties take precedence in this instance. You'll have to come back on Monday." His telepathy must be weakening, he thought. Her eyes and tone of voice left no opportunity for persuasion. He turned and left the office. --- Sunday, February 23, 1997 Scully's apartment Her last task was to place in the simple earrings her mother had given her a year ago. She stared at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser briefly before moving toward her bedside table. She opened her eyes to find herself clutching her pillows, watching the three pictures on her wall perform a juggling act. She breathed in slowly through her nose, counting to ten on each exhale, and stared at the pictures on her wall, back in their proper positions. She leaned across the bed to the phone on the nightstand. His greeting was cordial in vocabulary only. "Hey Scully," he had said simply. Nothing unusual about that, except she gained a faint sense that he was uncomfortable with her weekend call. She had phoned in a last ditch attempt to invite him to join her and her mother for dinner, trying to bolster her own work-dominated schedule as well as his own. She had asked him earlier in the week, and he had hastily declined. It was a paperwork week, those times that the work world was tedious and decidedly unglamorous. Those who thought she lived an exciting life as an FBI agent did not get to complete the reports, expense vouchers and de-briefings that consumed most of their time. Mulder had been oddly reserved at the office, buried in one file or another, online for databases and on the phone all week. Scully offered her assistance and had accepted his polite refusal graciously, secretly grateful for his taking more than his share of paperwork. She had dismissed his almost-relieved tone of voice informing her she was needed for a consult at the Arlington medical examiner's office for two days. "I was just checking again about dinner, if you might have changed your mind." She hadn't meant her invitation to sound so hesitant, but the sensations she was feeling were foreign to her. She didn't understand their origin, nor how they had erupted so suddenly. "Thanks, Scully. I'm just beat today, though." To her ears, he sounded exhausted - and distracted. "Rain check for you, Mulder?" She began to suspect that she sounded both pleading and desperate, and she hated the pathetic image that created. "Yeah." Although his voice did not indicate that he would find the strength to cash in the voucher. "See you tomorrow, then." Scully decided not to waste breath on the wish for him to rest well, knowing his insomnia would only strengthen by its mention in any conversation. "See ya, Scully." Again, his voice sounded relieved, like he'd been let off the hook. "Dana, are you ready to go for your birthday dinner?" Margaret Scully walked out into the kitchen with her coat and car keys ready. "Yeah, Mom, ready as I'll get for tonight." With one last glance at the phone, she headed out the door. --- Mulder listened to the dial tone regretfully as he hung up the phone, but quickly switched back to the printout of the e-mail message he had received the day before. The message was obviously from Marita, everything she was supposed to have shared with him in New York. But she had accessed his e-mail and sent the message from him from his own account, so he had no way of tracking the source of the information, or simply replying to her. She was making it clear that he would have no avenues of inquiry beyond what she offered. What she had offered here, however, would keep him busy for a while simply checking all of the information. He turned on his computer, setting his modem to dial in. First things first, he was changing his password. End Part 2 The Partnership I: Dissolution (3/14) ****** Monday, March 3 Scully's personal journal It's been a while since I've done this. I used to write all of the time when I was a little girl. I remember being excited to go to the store with Mom to pick out my latest blank book. Not those silly ones that were five years long with a lock that Bill and Charlie would break in two seconds. A real journal, cloth covers, cream-colored pages. Mom would buy me a colored-ink pen to make it even more special. Red, green, purple, pink - I'd alternate the colors depending on what happened that day. I'm not sure when I grew out of the habit. Maybe when studying notes in my homework took over. Certainly grading exams as a TA in college were enough review of my days, those long days I wanted to be over. Since then, I've had the eighty-plus field journals to keep me occupied. When Mom gave me this for my birthday, I was unsure of her rationale. She said that she had noticed a change about me. She didn't go into detail, but I have learned to trust her instincts, much as I may have doubted them when I was younger. I was worried that she would ask me how I was feeling. The dizzy spells have continued - fortunately, they have only occurred when I am alone. I can cope with them privately, without them affecting my work. I think this is all I'll share tonight, until I get the feel for this again. Mom was right, it does feel good to put my thoughts down. Perhaps they'll make more sense next time. --- Thursday, March 6 New Haven, Connecticut 2:00 p.m. "Mulder, please remind me again why we were called in on this case." Scully got up and walked around the small apartment they were searching, looking for clues to a crime she did not understand. She stared at a picture on the wall for a moment before it occurred to her that her partner was not responding, either deliberately or absentmindedly. She would bet her per diem allowance on the latter. He had been preoccupied the entire week, and this latest investigation had not sparked any of his usual interest. She turned to look at him as he read through an address book and other seemingly important documents. They had been in Connecticut a day, and he had not presented one theory, nor an odd observation, not even a lazy joke. They had stayed the night in a decent hotel, but he changed his usual routine of reviewing files. He had knocked on the adjoining door and told her he was taking the car for a while. He had neglected to ask her if she needed it for anything - she didn't, but that wasn't the point - and closed the door after seeing her shaking head. He shuffled through the papers of the suspect, but it appeared to her that he was offering only a cursory glance, his mind elsewhere. "Mulder?" She stepped a bit closer and tilted her head to gain his line of sight. He stared just a moment before looking her way, but didn't say anything. "Mulder? Is there something wrong?" Scully had not wanted to guess the cause of his distraction, but it was rare that he answered open-ended questions. So, as partners of psychologists soon learn, the closed questions sometimes yield results. He shook his head. "There's nothing here, Scully. Tomorrow you check with the hospital pathologist, but right now, we're wasting our time." He dropped the pile of papers on the desk and strode quickly out of the room, leaving his partner behind, a quizzical look on her face. --- Friday, March 7 Yale Medical Center noon "Thank you for your help, Doctor. If you have any questions, you can reach me at this number." Scully offered her business card to the elderly man, the pathologist on record for this latest case, the one she had no idea why they had taken in the first place. She stepped aside to let a couple of male nurses wheel a gurney past her. A soft smile came to her as she recalled the look on the pathologist's face when she informed him of her credentials. Most men were offended by her knowledge and responded in either patronizing or sexist tones, but this particular doctor had first reacted with the usual surprise, then with a genuine apology for his response. He reminded her of a phrase she had not used in a long time - a true gentleman. She had enjoyed their interaction today and appreciated the respect and courtesy he had shown her. It had been missing on this trip, she realized. The local authorities had been completely confused during her questioning, and she could not prevent a small trace of sarcasm from entering her tone as they fumbled with her basic questions. It was usually at this point that Mulder would enter the conversation, trading off with her as their custom that worked effectively. But Mulder had stayed silent, letting Scully conduct the interview, offering only a grunt here and there. She had glanced at him frequently, her signal that she was ready for him to step in. After his third look away, she decided she was on her own with this and concluded the interview. Mulder had then taken off to do some research at the Yale Library. Scully had been unsure of what applicable line of study would apply to this, but she had not had the opportunity to voice her protest before Mulder was in the car driving away. Scully walked to the hospital elevator, intent now on finding Mulder and finishing their role in this investigation. Nothing fruitful at all, just another waste of the taxpayers' dollar. Rarely did they walk away from a case without at least a rational theory to postulate, or in Mulder's case, a less-than-rational explanation. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she resolved to convince Mulder to pick her up and head straight to the airport. The onset of the dizziness coincided with the bell sounding the arrival of the elevator. Scully moved as quickly as she could to the wall next to the elevator, hoping she would not attract attention. The young interns exiting the elevator were animatedly sharing the latest gossip and passed her by without a glance. She quickly moved into the empty elevator and punched the lobby button before sagging against the wall. She rested her forehead against the wall and let the cold metal revive her. She gripped the railing and squeezed tightly, willing the nausea to pass. Since she began giving more attention to these spells, she had determined that the nausea lasted less than a minute, and her disorientation settled soon after that. She had decided not to see a doctor, giving more credence to the accurate belief that doctors make the worst patients. The elevator arrived at the lobby level, and Scully walked out and sat in a nearby phone booth. She spotted a taxi parked outside the hospital entrance and decided that she would just go to Mulder instead. --- March 15, 1997 Dana Scully's personal journal Our latest case has taken us to Arizona. Unfortunately, this time the hotel was overrun by a convention. It's hard enough for me to sleep when we're on the road, harder still to have a roommate, unusual as it has been for me. This will probably incur more gossip at the water cooler, the kind that has always followed us. Honestly, if people look closely at the way we've been interacting lately, no one would believe the rumors. In fact, they would probably argue quite persuasively the opposite. There is a soft moan from the dark. Mulder. Mulder is sharing my room for the night. My eyes are adjusting to the faint moonlight coming in between the curtains. I see him in the next bed. He is turned away from me, but I see the blanket moving. Another moan, slightly louder. He is dreaming. I called out to him softly. No response, just a noise like a growl. I called to him again, surprised as he rolled over quickly and sat upright, mouth open as he gasped in a huge draw of air. His sudden movements startled me and I mimicked his intake of breath. I regained control first and watched him, too stunned to react. He was sitting perfectly still. No movement. I leaned forward, hoped he saw me in his periphery. Nothing. I whispered softly to him, asking if he was okay. Coming back to himself, he let out a long breath and wiped his hands over his eyes. He replied only that he was fine, albeit spoken from behind his hands. But he was not fine.. Not yet. He was shaken by his dream, still caught on the edges of its vivid imagery. I was unsure what to do. Dreams belong to the private realms of the soul. They are intensely personal and often painful. It is difficult enough to deal with those feelings. Being scrutinized by another person is embarrassing. But I have been where Mulder was. I have had my fair share of nightmares and often wished for the company of another human being upon waking. He refused my offer to turn on the light, quickly, as if that would cause more pain. He repeatedly rubbed his hand over his forehead and through his hair. A soothing motion, like a mother would do for a child. He was comforting himself. My chest constricted as I realized that he had always had to look inward for solace. "I'm fine, Scully." His voice was tight with shame. A grown man, an FBI agent, is not supposed to be frightened by something as childish as a dream. I decided not to push. It's funny, in a sad way, how much of ourselves we hide from each other. Even after five years together, the standard answer to any question regarding our fears is "I'm fine." It's a lie. We both know it. But I am as guilty as Mulder, maybe more so. Is it an automatic reflex, used to shield the other from a potential weakness? Or is it a defense mechanism, designed to protect ourselves from exploring our true feelings? I should ask Mulder sometime, put that fancy psych degree of his to work. Unfortunately, the questions themselves would require a deeper introspection than either of us are apparently willing to make. At least out loud. Perhaps leaving the questions unasked makes it easier for us to function, to do what we do, to assimilate all the experiences we've had. It's hard for me to recognize and accept what we have encountered, to believe the obscenity of what we've seen, to know that our work has caused others to kill and more to die. Denying how that affects me is a way to deny that it truly has happened, that someone tried to kill me and killed my sister, that someone may have purposely poisoned me or mutilated me... He is starting to settle down, but he's not there yet. Must have been bad. I wish I could offer him some comfort, say or do something to make it better. But I know he would reject my attempts. He'd pull away so fast he would probably hurt my feelings as well. I doubt that he has had anyone to comfort him in so long and now he doesn't know how to react when someone tries. He only knows that they will be taken away from him. Perhaps he thinks they will leave because of what he does. It is this fragility that I am only beginning to understand, to recognize in both him and in myself. His life has been marked by loss - his sister, his father, and even his mother, for all intents and purposes, is gone too. I think of my mother, her neverending support for me, her strength when Dad died, and her understanding when Melissa was killed. I grew up with that security, that shelter, only now I watch it drift away from me piece by piece. I am only now beginning to understand how precious it is. That security, even the small fraction of it I have left, is something I wish Mulder could feel. But in that sense, he doesn't trust me. He does trust me more, I think, than he has trusted anyone. He trusts me to support him, to defend him. Definitely to second guess him, but always with respect, always with the thought that we almost have to disagree to find the truth. But trusting a person with paranormal evidence or life-threatening encounters is somehow different than trusting a person with your feelings. Maybe he thinks that he will somehow fail to measure up in my eyes, that I will think poorly of him. Or more likely, he will think that he has somehow failed me. I don't always understand it, but I am beginning to. By showing me that he's human? That his emotions are real? That he can be hurt, just like the rest of us? Or maybe it would be too upsetting to the roles we play. We are both professionals. By mutual consent, we have drawn an invisible line that divides the personal from the professional. We are joined at the hip while we're working, but our private lives, what little privacy we have, are separate. It's not something that we talked about. It just evolved. We need some distance to keep our sanity. Even then, our private, solitary moments are tinged with anxiety. Finding microphones in your apartment will do that, having someone killed... Mulder used to come to my apartment sometimes, tries to make it appear work related, but it's really just to hang out. I think he gets lonely. I know I do too. And he calls at all hours to discuss a bizarre theory that just couldn't wait until morning. I don't mind. Sometimes his phone calls interrupt one of my more introspective moments. Like this one. But we don't really delve into anything personal, and we definitely don't date. Our relationship isn't like that. I don't think I could handle the intimacy. He knows so much, has seen so much of me, when I'm sick, angry, grieving. It's easier to keep the personal on a more superficial level. The questions would draw me closer to him, touch upon subjects too painful, too emotional to recover from in just an evening of conversation. Too difficult to reestablish those connections with someone else if he were no longer there. And so he teases me about what I'm wearing and I tease him about his video collection. I know he watches porno, although I don't understand it. How does he regard me as an intellectual equal and watch something that reduces women to just physical beings? Intimacy. Perhaps it's too much for him too. I can see the emotion he feels. I just wish I could help him release it. I've only crossed that invisible line once that I remember. After the Pfaster case. I let it get to me and I lost control. Sometimes it embarrasses me. I broke down in front of him. Not very professional at all. But he was so gentle and understanding and he just kept pushing me. Had Agent Bocks been the one to comfort me afterward, I could have held together. But it was Mulder. I'm glad he was there for me, but I'm just as grateful that he didn't mention it again. He could very easily use my moment of weakness as a weapon, use it to force something less than platonic. He doesn't. I went over to Mulder's bed and bent down to get a closer look at him. His eyes were closed, his arms wrapped tight around one of his pillows. He must have sensed my nearness, as his eyes suddenly snapped open. He turned toward me and his lips turned up in a slight smile. I smiled back and suggested that he might be more comfortable if he lay down. I tried to keep my tone light. Not mothering, I hoped, just friendly, suggesting. I took the pillow from his grasp and placed it near the headboard. I nudged his shoulder and he settled down into bed. When I came back from the bathroom, he greeted me with a soft snore. I moved up to his bed to watch him sleeping peacefully now. I saw the errant lock of hair from his forehead and almost reached to brush it back. No. Too close. My partner. My counterpoint. My best friend. Sweet dreams, Mulder. End Part 3 The Partnership I: Dissolution (4/14) ****** March 16, 1997 The plane circled National Airport for what seemed like the hundredth time before actually beginning its descent along the Potomac River. Caught in the crosswinds, it bounced and bucked like an amusement park ride, jarring all on board. Scully tightened her grip on the armrest in response. Even after all the miles she had logged, she never really felt comfortable flying. It wasn't that she was afraid of being in the friendly skies; she just couldn't relax until her feet were firmly planted on terra firma. Thoughts of her first day of freshman physics haunted her. The professor had presented evidence of the impossibility of the bumble bee's ability to fly. Right now, she wished she had skipped that lecture. Scully slid a sideways glance at Mulder, hoping that he didn't notice her increasing discomfort. He hadn't. He was preoccupied with trying to rouse himself from the light doze that he had succumbed to shortly after takeoff. His eyes were in a constant state of motion, drifting shut only to snap open seconds later. He shifted in his seat and yawned. Finally feeling Scully's stare upon him, he turned toward her, a deep frown etched on his face. She frowned back. "Mulder, you look like death warmed over." She knew he had not been sleeping well during this case. His nightmare the previous evening was just the latest in a series of insomnia bouts. This nap on the plane was probably the longest period of rest he had had in days. It wasn't enough to rid him of the pasty complexion and dark circled eyes. "What a coincidence. That's exactly how I feel," he snapped back with irritation. "But before you comment on my appearance, maybe you should check the mirror. You're not exactly a beauty queen right now." Scully looked away. It was useless to try to deal with him when he was in this mood. Unfortunately, this was the only mood he seemed capable of producing as of late. Irritable, short tempered, snide, and sometimes mean, he would lash out at her with a vengeance. She had tried talking to him on several occasions, but had met the resistance of a brick wall. Whatever it was that was upsetting his equilibrium, he wanted to keep it to himself. Mulder grimaced as he watched her turn away from him and instantly regretted his remark. Damn it. He didn't mean to treat her that way, and she certainly didn't deserve it. Sometimes words fell out of his mouth before he thought. This whole business with Marita was beginning to wear on his nerves. Cloak and dagger was not his favorite game and keeping Scully in the dark only made it more difficult. But thus far every piece of information that his new "informant" had given him had been verified. An acquaintance of Marita's superior had lost his son in 1972. Well, not exactly lost; the child had been taken from him. Abducted from the backyard of his Bridgeport, Connecticut home. No demand for ransom, no evidence of foul play, nothing. The local police had done a thorough investigation, but had turned up no clues. No body was ever found and no one claimed responsibility. Until now. Mulder glanced back at Scully, her body tensed in preparation for landing. And maybe something else. Guilt flooded his senses and he leaned closer to her, an apology on his lips. But before it could be vocalized, the captain's voice boomed over the intercom alerting the flight crew. The apology was left unsaid. They waited in line at the luggage carousel. Scully was still bristling from Mulder's remark, but her anger softened as she watched him sway on his feet as he tried to stay awake. She took a deep breath and prepared for the tirade that was about to take place. "Mulder. I think I should drive you home tonight. Okay?" To her surprise, he nodded his head in agreement. She took the proffered keys and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. As Scully pulled away from the curb, Mulder threw his hand in the air, the best "goodbye" gesture he could manage. He picked up his bags and headed for the front entrance of the apartment. As he started up the front steps, movement in the bushes caught his attention. Reflexes made him reach for his gun. "Agent Mulder?" the disembodied voice asked. Mulder tensed. "Who are you? Step out where I can see you. Slowly. Hands in front." There was a rustling noise and a man slowly emerged from the bushes, a plain envelope in his hand. "Agent Mulder. I have a message for you." ******* March 17, 1997 Mulder's apartment 4:00 a.m. Mulder sighed as he picked up the telephone receiver. He really hated to do this, but he could see no way around it. He read the note in his hand once more before crumbling it and tossing it toward the trash can. He was to meet Marita in New York City this morning at 7:00 a.m. She had vital information that could not wait. Discretion was imperative. Yeah. Easy for you. You don't have a meeting with Skinner at eight. Not to mention a partner who was probably getting suspicious. He dialed Scully's number. It rang five times before she picked up. "Hello?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep. "Scully. It's me." "Mulder? What time is it?" "Four." He could hear her rubbing at her eyes, trying to focus on the conversation. "What's the matter?" He hesitated while he put his thoughts in order. "Mulder?" "I can't sleep. I'm tired...I want to take a pill." Scully frowned at the receiver. That was a big concession for him. He never took a sleeping pill until it was deemed absolutely necessary. The way his body reacted to the medication, he would be out for hours. "Okay. I think it's a good idea," she said, trying to reassure him. Again he hesitated. "Skinner." "I'll take care of it. Get some sleep, Mulder." As he hung up the phone, he bowed his head. Another lie. --- New York City later that morning Mulder shivered as he rounded the corner and was hit with a blast of cool air. He pulled the collar of his coat up tight around his neck and held it there for a few seconds. It felt like a noose. How ironic. He stopped at the corner and looked up at the green street signs. 110 block. Four blocks to go. He checked his watch again. 6:55. He'd better hurry. As he picked up the pace of his stride, he sighed. Was all this really necessary? He had caught the red eye flight out of DC, took a cab from the airport to a hotel on 4th Avenue, exited through the back entrance of the hotel and caught another cab across the street, which had let him out seven blocks from his intended destination. He had to hoof the last part of his journey, alternating between sidewalks and alleys. All this in the name of clandestineness? He hoped it was worth it. His steps slowed as he approached the rear of the warehouse. A bright orange door. Just as the note had indicated. He stepped up to the iron gate that blocked his path and looked into the loading yard. The place was deserted, had been for some time; the blacktop pad was littered with cardboard boxes and oil drums. Two rats were frolicking in the debris. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Letting out a deep breath, he scaled the gate and landed on the other side with the grace of an old woman. He was too tired for gymnastics right now. As he struggled to regain his balance, a hand grabbed his arm. Mulder gasped in surprise and jerked his arm away. He spun and bent in a defensive crouch ready to fend off his attacker. When he saw the face, his body relaxed. "You scared the shit outta me!" he hissed. "You're late, Mr. Mulder." "Sorry. Do you know how hard it is to find a cab driver who speaks English this time of the morning? My Arabic is a little rusty." She fixed him with a glare and grabbed his elbow, pulling him toward the back door. "We don't have much time." "Great line. Bet you're a real popular gal," he said sarcastically. She tightened her grip in response. --- Marita opened the door and none too gently pulled him in behind her. The hallway went pitch dark after she shut the door and Mulder froze, waiting for his tired eyes to adjust. He heard her heels click on the tiled floor, moving away from him, but he couldn't locate her. After a second, the sound stopped, then started again. This time moving closer. "Come on," she said softly. She grasped his hand in hers and led him down the corridor. After a couple of twists and turns, they came to another door. She knocked twice and waited. There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and a few moments later the door opened. Standing on the other side was an older man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, Mulder guessed. But his eyes were older, much older. He was balding, pudgy, and moved with a stiffness that implied illness. He locked eyes with Mulder, but spoke to Marita. "This is him?" She nodded. "Yes. I can see that it is," he said. He continued to regard Mulder with a steady gaze for a moment longer, then turned and slowly shuffled back to his chair, waving for them to follow. Mulder and Marita both grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the circular table sitting in the middle of the room. Silence shrouded the room for what seemed like an eternity. They sat and stared at one another, no one talking or moving. Mulder's patience was starting to wear thin. He gave Marita a questioning look and turned his hands over, palms up. Okay, what now? "Mr. Mulder, this is Randolph Foster." She waited and watched as he processed the information. And a second later his eyes lit up with recognition. "You...your child was kidnapped in 1972," he stated. The man nodded. "Marita told me that you had looked into the old case records. Did you find anything?" Mulder cocked his head, confused. "Was I supposed to? It appears the police did a competent job, but no evidence became available to aid in the search." He hesitated, his hazel eyes narrowing. When he spoke again, there was a hint of suspicion in his voice. "But, I was also told that the situation has changed. You know something now. Don't you?" The older man held up his hand to stop Mulder's interrogation. "Mr. Mulder...Fox. I knew your father." Mulder flinched inwardly, but his face showed none of the emotions he was feeling. "So? A lot of people knew my father. What does that fact have to do with the your son's disappearance?" The man smiled, a sad smile that practically radiated pity. "I know that your sister also disappeared under mysterious circumstances at about the same time." Mulder looked at Marita, his eyes blazing with intensity. Suddenly, he stood, pushing back with enough force to knock the chair to the floor with a clatter. He reached over the table and grabbed the older man by the lapels of his jacket. He leaned in as far as the table would permit and closed the rest of the distance by pulling the man to his feet. "What have they done with her! Tell me what you know! Now!" he yelled, his face a few inches from Foster's. Marita was on her feet in an instant. She laid a hand on Mulder's arm, trying to pry his grasp loose. "Mulder! Stop!" Mulder whipped his head around toward her, searching her eyes. She smiled gently and softly repeated her warning. Mulder let go, but gave the man a light shove. He stalked away from the table, trying to regain his lost composure. Marita went to Mr. Foster. When she was assured that he had not been harmed, she walked over to Mulder who was standing in the corner staring at the brick wall in front of him. "He knows something," he said quietly. Marita let out her breath, choosing her next words carefully. She had not been prepared for Mulder's outburst and was glad the situation had defused so quickly. "Yes. He does. But this is a delicate situation. You can't go charging around like a bull in a china shop. I expect you to handle yourself accordingly." She laid a gentle hand on his back. "We are all here for the same reason; we all want answers." Her words soothed him. And he allowed himself a slight smile. Her words, like something Scully would say. The thought of his partner, ditched again, covered him in guilt. He wished she were here. Marita's voice in his ear brought him back to reality. "Mr. Foster has a long story to tell and we're wasting time. Come. Sit down." Mulder returned to the table and picked up his chair. He tried to communicate his apology to the other man with his eyes. Apparently he understood. He nodded his head in acceptance and cleared his throat. "I was working for the State Department in the early 70s, on a project that few, even in the highest level of power, knew about. We were all bound by an oath of secrecy..." --- same day Skinner's office 8:00 a.m. "Agent Scully here to see you, sir." Jeannie Phelps, Skinner's administrative assistant, smiled gently at Scully, the type of smile one gives to a person headed for an execution. "He's not in the best of moods today," she whispered conspiratorially, one target to another. Scully was surprised at the rare comment from Jeannie - she had always been very composed regardless of Skinner's rampages. Her inclusion of Scully in the list of people on Skinner's current hit parade did nothing to reassure the agent, who possessed the unenviable but oft-rehearsed task of covering for her partner yet again. Skinner's first words left no doubt in Scully's mind that Jeannie was being generous in her assessment of Skinner's mood. "Agent Scully, I expressly asked both you and Agent Mulder to be present for this meeting. Where the hell is he?" Morning target practice had begun, she decided. "Sir, Agent Mulder contacted me early this morning and indicated he could not come in today. He had complained of not feeling well during our time in Arizona." If anything, her words seemed to infuriate him further. "I want an explanation, Agent Scully, about an incomplete and unauthorized travel voucher filed by Agent Mulder last month. Exactly what case were you investigating in New York City and when were you planning on informing me?" "Sir, I am not sure to which case you are referring, as I haven't been to New York City since last year." Scully mentally calculated how many days of paperwork Mulder would owe her for this cover-up. "February 20 and 21, Agent Scully, plane fare and one hotel room." His eyes shifted warily, and Scully recognized the implication that she and Mulder had shared that room. "Sir, if you recall, I was asked to consult with the Arlington medical examiner on those two days." Scully's thoughts ran from the more vindictive, 'You're on your own now, Mulder' to the safer, better-with-every-performance covering lie for Mulder. "When Mulder recovers from his 'illness', inform him that he is to meet with me immediately." His tone of voice propelled her to the safe choice. "Sir, I believe that Agent Mulder might have been following up a lead to the Shakespeare Stabber case." "That will be all, Agent Scully." --- later that evening 6:00 p.m. Mulder could barely keep his eyes open as he shuffled down the hall to his apartment. He knew if he got the chance, he could sleep for a week. This confusing mess had gotten a whole lot more complicated after meeting Randolph Foster. The man had claimed that he had worked on the same project with his father. They had gathered samples and data; for the sake of identification purposes in the case of a nuclear disaster. At least that's what they told those in government who were not part of the group. What group Foster had been referring to still remained a mystery. The true purpose of the project had a much more insidious undertone. Mulder rubbed his face as he made his way toward the couch. His head was hurting like he'd been on a three day drunken spree. It even hurt to breath. He detoured from the comfort of his sofa momentarily and headed for the bathroom, pleading to any deity that would listen that there was aspirin in the cabinet. His prayers were answered. He popped two white tablets into his mouth and swallowed them dry. On his way back to the living room, he saw a light blinking on his answering machine. Scully, he thought. Checking up on me. He rewound the tape and listened to the message. "Mulder. It's me. You must really be out of it. It's four in the afternoon and you're still not awake? Call me when you wake from your coma." There had been a couple more incoming calls, but no messages had been left. Probably tele-marketers. Mulder glanced at his watch. It was after six. He had better call Scully or she would be sending out the National Guard. As he was dialing her number, there was a rapping on his door. He hung up the phone and moved closer to the door. "Mulder?" Scully. To the rescue. Mulder opened the door to allow his partner to enter. "Hey. You're awake," she said cautiously. Then she took in his appearance. Suit, tie, shoes? Had he slept like that? That wasn't the outfit he was wearing last night. "How are you feeling?" He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "Like I've been hit by a truck," he said around a deep yawn. "It's the medication. The effects will abate soon." He glared at her impatiently. "Look, Scully, what I really would like to do right now is take a shower and sleep for another day or two. I've got a mother of a headache." She smiled at him sympathetically. "What you need to do is take a shower and get something to eat. You've already slept for fourteen hours today, that's enough." The mention of food was enough to turn his stomach. He took a deep breath and tried to think of a tactful way of getting her the hell out of his apartment. "Sounds great. Now if you don't mind...." He made a gesture toward the door. Scully did her best to hide the hurt. She understood. Maybe. "Okay, Mulder. See you tomorrow?" "Be there with bells on, Scully." "Goodnight, Mulder." "Night." He shut the door securely and made sure it was locked. --- Well, he hadn't totally lied to Scully this time. He had taken a shower. But eating was still out of the question. He stretched out on the sofa and tried to sort through the information. Foster said the purpose of the project was to record DNA samples and determine which were suitable for cloning. From cloning, the plan was to move on to hybridization. An alien/human mix. Mulder shook his head. He didn't know what to believe. The story sounded plausible, at least to him, but he knew there would be no way to verify it. That had been the problem all along. He chuckled as he thought about what Scully's reaction would be. Complete denial. Without a doubt. He wished that he could have talked more with Foster, but the older man's strength had worn down quickly. Cancer, Marita had told him. She would contact him again and arrange another meeting. Mulder hoped it would be soon. End Part 4 The Partnership I: Dissolution (5/14) ****** March 27, 1997 basement office 8:30 a.m. I would like to linger here in silence if I choose to. This message, again from her own account, made less sense than the last one a month ago. Scully stared at the screen, more angry now than surprised. She entered her account maintenance file to see when she had last logged in. According to the record there, she had logged out at 5:30 the day before. Unfortunately, that was exactly when she had logged out the day before. So someone was accessing her account who understood how to cover it up. She decided against using more password protection - if the FBI's system wouldn't prevent it, than nothing she could do would stop the intrusion either. She reread the message another time. Very unsettling. The sender could indeed linger in her account silently, and she would never know. The office door opened, and her partner walked in, looking just as haggard as the day before. As the month before. Scully had debated for two weeks whether she should say anything more than her obtuse questions of concern. He turned his back to her without a greeting and opened a file cabinet drawer. "Good morning," she tried to keep her tone neutral, not overly cheerful or threatening. He slammed the drawer shut and sat down at his desk, shoving a set of research materials out of the way of his paper. "Mulder - " intending to offer a cup of coffee. "Not now, Scully. Okay?" He glanced at her in time to see her measuring stare transform into the resigned acceptance. He hadn't meant for his tone to be so brusque, but he was too tired to care. "I'll see you later, Mulder." She stood up with her briefcase and walked to the door, giving him one last look before her exit. --- same day basement office 4:00 p.m. Mulder shook his head as he reread his e-mail message from Marita. "The crow flies tonight." Oh yes. Very subtle. But if someone was keeping an eye on him, they probably understood the meaning of the message as well. Or not. He was "Spooky", after all. Maybe no one would think it was unusual for him to receive cryptic messages. They would be more suspicious if it had been encoded. Of course, to all other eyes, he had again sent this one to himself, meaning that Marita had accessed his account once again. He had received this message on his personal AOL account at home, the one with which he used a pseudonym and the corresponding credit card to register and the one he had accessed before coming to work that morning. It had put him in such a funk that he had barely been able to keep up the pretense of work that day. He knew he owed Scully an apology, as she had quietly left him to his own evils and retreated to her own office shortly after his arrival. Mulder let out a deep sigh. Maybe tonight he would have the answers he was seeking. He closed out of his mailbox and erased his messages. He looked down at his desk. A virtual sea of paper. The stack at the end even had a nice curve to it, like a wave about to crash on the beach. If he didn't do something about it soon, it would crash to the floor. He picked up the folders and headed for the file cabinet. The crow flies tonight. Not very informative, really. Undoubtedly he would be contacted again, in some surreptitious way. Then there would be a covert expedition worthy of the KGB. His musing was interrupted by Scully's return. "Mulder, I've got the autopsy..." She left the sentence unfinished as she watched her partner jump about three feet in the air. Again. "Mulder. Are you okay?" He turned to her trying to disguise the fact that his heart was beating a mile a minute. "Yeah, sure. Fine," he said with a pant. She frowned at him, unconvinced, but decided to push on. "As I was saying, I have the autopsy report from the Simmons case. Something strange is going on here, Mulder. We need to go over the autopsy reports of the other victims and from the old X-files. So, your place or mine?" Mulder grimaced. "Tonight?" She looked at him. At least he was saying something to her, so she decided to keep pushing. "Well, yes. We really need to find the connection between these cases." "Yeah, I know." Mulder's shoulders sagged. He was going to have to lie to her again. "But I can't. Not tonight." Scully settled into her chair and looked at him over the top of her glasses. "Okay. May I ask why?" He nervously ran his finger over the top of the file cabinet. "I've got plans." She cocked her head in disbelief. "Really?" Mulder turned to her, for some reason angered by her remark. "Yes. It's not totally inconceivable that I may have activities outside of the Bureau. I do have a life other than this one," he said gesturing at the office. Scully pursed her lips. He was up to something. She could tell. Still, he was communicating with her instead of shutting her out completely. That was a start. "No, Mulder. It's not at all inconceivable. In fact, I'm sure it's true." She sighed. "Just be careful, okay?" A slight smile crossed his face. "Always." --- Mulder found the envelope wrapped up in the evening paper. Marita had booked two rooms for herself and Mr. Foster at the Ritz-Carlton at Pentagon City. At least they were close this time. He didn't think he was going to get away with too many more overnight trips. Marita would meet him outside the tie shop in the mall next door at 8 o'clock. Again, discretion had been advised. --- Scully's apartment 6:00 p.m. She stared at the single page with the short message on it. I would like to linger here in silence if I choose to. She picked up the phone. --- Ritz-Carlton Hotel 8:00 p.m. Mulder was admiring the wild colored ties that had come into fashion when he felt a hand on his arm. "You should be more careful, Mr. Mulder. You never know who might be behind you." He smiled. "I saw your reflection in the glass. See, I was paying attention in spy class." She rubbed her fingers up and down his sleeve as they continued to look at the neckwear. "Room 506, in ten minutes. Don't be late. Oh, and I think the blue one would look gorgeous on you." Mulder turned around toward her quickly, but she was already walking away.. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. --- same time "I don't know Agent Scully. I'm not real sure what we can do with this," Byers was focused on the computer screen, examining the report from the account server at the FBI. Langly walked across the room and peered over Byers' shoulder. "You say this is the second message like this you've received?" Scully paused. She had placed a certain amount of trust in these men, as paranoid as they were, but she was reluctant to reveal too much. This was the first time she had contacted them without Mulder, and she felt almost as if she were treading on his territory. Still, he had been clearly unwilling to help her today, and she wanted this issue resolved as soon as possible. "Yes, I received one about a month ago. Same origin, just three short lines like this one. I deleted it at the time." Frohike came to the long table piled with various equipment and set a pitcher of iced tea down. "Let us do some investigating with this. Why don't you pull up a chair?" --- Ritz-Carlton, room 506 8:10 p.m. Foster looked much older than the had the last time they had met. He had definitely lost weight and his skin was ghastly pale. Mulder shook hands with the him, hopefully conveying that this meeting wouldn't be so...violent. Marita pulled her chair next to Mulder and once again they were all seated around a small circular table. Foster took a deep breath. "Now where was I?" Mulder held up his hand. "Mr. Foster, I'd like to ask you a few questions before we start." Foster nodded his approval. "You claim that your son was taken because you wanted out of the project. Is that correct?" "Yes. They threatened me. Said that they would never allow me to leave. I knew too much." Mulder sat back in his chair and templed his fingers. "Pardon me for being blunt, but why didn't they just kill you? Why abduct one of your children, then create an elaborate cover-up to hide that fact. Wouldn't that actually increase the risk of exposure?" Foster leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I'm sure you're right, but there's a couple of details I didn't tell you before. I believe I was selected for the project for two reasons. One, I was a research scientist intimately familiar with concept of gene manipulation. It was a new field back then, mostly unknown, but I had been conducting experiments on lab animals for years. Secondly, my wife carries a specific gene that, shall we say, makes the possibility of cloning...easier. Not everyone is a carrier." Mulder chewed on his bottom lip as he considered this. He was beginning to get a little out of his element here. "So you knew your wife was a carrier?" "No, not initially. I only discovered that fact after I joined the project. Then it was too late." Foster picked up the glass of water in front of him and took a long drink. Mulder stood and began pacing the room. Motion and thinking went hand in hand. "So your children are carriers too?" Foster shook his head. "No. Not all of them. The gene appears to have a loose sex linkage; all three of my girls are carriers, but only one of my boys." "Let me guess. Tommy. The son who was taken," Mulder said. Foster nodded his head slowly. Mulder rubbed his forehead, not at all happy about where this discussion was going. He took a deep breath, trying to remain emotionally unattached. "So you did experiments on your own son?" Foster sat up, clearly agitated by the implication. "No! No! I would never do that!" "But he was part of the project," Mulder shot back. The older man crumpled. "Yes. I agreed to stay. I knew that if I didn't they would take my children one by one. Then, with that accomplished, they would kill me. If I was dead, there was no hope of ever rescuing them." Marita leaned over and took the man's hand offering her support. She looked at Mulder. "Maybe we should break for a while." Mulder ran a hand through his hair. The man was obviously in distress and getting tired, but they were finally getting somewhere with this. He motioned for Marita to follow as he walked over to the other side of the room. "How much more of this can he handle? I don't want to wait any longer, we're so close. How much has he told you?" Marita shook her head. "I know as much as you. He insisted that you be present. But I have something else to tell you." Mulder bent down and leaned in closer as she lowered her voice to a soft whisper. "I think we are being watched. Mr. Foster was approached the other day in New York. Four men in black suits attempted to question him outside our office. I think *They* know." Mulder frowned. "Then it is even more important that we find out all we can tonight." She nodded, then turned back to the older man. "Mr. Foster? Do you think you can continue?" He gazed up at her, his eyes sad and tired. "Yes, there is much more to tell." Mulder and Marita returned to the table. Marita reached across and squeezed the other man's hand reassuringly. Foster sat back in his chair. "I knew that my son was being kept somewhere, but I didn't know where. Delicate inquiries were met with open hostility. Eventually, I was transferred from the main center of operations in DC to another facility outside Chicago. It was there that I learned what was in store for me." Mulder met his gaze and urged him to continue. "I discovered that they were going to attempt to erase my memory with a new experimental drug." Mulder stiffened as he remembered what had happened to him and others at Ellens Air Force Base. Selected memory wipe. He had seen something that they didn't want him to remember, and they took that memory from him. Foster and Marita both stared at him as a slight shiver ran down his spine. After taking another drink of water, Foster continued. "When I found out their plan, I began making preparations of my own. I started taking documents and tapes, hiding them at the facility outside Chicago. I realized that one way or another they would be successful; my memory would be wiped or they would kill me in the process. I wanted a record of what was happening. As it turned out, the drug worked. I forgot about everything I knew concerning the project." "But you remember now?" Mulder asked, intrigued. Foster chuckled. "Yes, in an ironic twist of fate. Four months ago, I found out that I had cancer. One of the side effects from the treatment is that my memory is beginning to return." Mulder's eyes lit up. "So you remember everything?" he asked, unable to contain his excitement. Foster shook his head and smiled "No not everything. But it is coming back to me. Sometimes in huge leaps, sometimes in little spurts; flashes if you will." Mulder hopped up again, adrenaline keeping him from remaining still for very long. "It's a start." He momentarily stopped his pacing and turned toward Foster, a gleam in his eye. "Is there anything else that you remember?" Foster's smile quickly faded. "Yes. There is something else I need to tell you." Mulder waited, but the older man remained silent. "What? What is it?" Foster cleared his throat and stared at the table top, unwilling to meet the agent's eyes. "Fox...your mother also carries the gene." Mulder froze. He stared at the other man, hoping that he had just become the butt of a practical joke. When the other man still refused to meet his eyes, he knew it was no joke. Mulder brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed them vigorously. He started to speak, but the words became lodged in his throat. After a second, he tried again. "You're saying that they did...experiments..." He stopped, fists clenching, fight for control. "They did experiments on my mother?" Foster could no longer control his tears. "Not your mother, Fox. Your sister." No! No! I don't want to hear this! Mulder's mind screamed. He cupped his hands over his ears and tried to block everything out. It didn't work. He could hear Foster's voice repeating it over and over again. His hands fluttered frantically. Searching for something, anything to hold on to. He stumbled to the wall and pounded it with his fists as hard as he could. "Damn it! That son of a bitch knew, didn't he?" He turned toward Foster, his eyes burning with fire. "Didn't he?!" Marita stood and put herself between Mulder and the other man. She put her hands out in front of her, uncertain of Mulder's next move. "Come on. Settle down. You're going to draw attention to us," she said quietly. Mulder glared at her, then acquiesced. He sank down to the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Moments passed, no one moved or said a word. Finally Mulder's soft whisper broke the silence. "Tell me." --- Scully rubbed her eyes and yawned. Staring at a computer for three hours was definitely not her idea of a fulfilling evening, yet that was about as much excitement as she'd had in a while. "Thanks very much for your help, but I need to get home. I'll work with this tomorrow." She hoped Frohike would not bring out more heavily caffeinated beverages. "Let us know if you get another one. We'll keep researching what information we've uncovered tonight." Byers turned toward her, a friendly smile on his face. Scully had always liked Byers, his demeanor made for an excellent professorial candidate, if he could get a degree in conspiracy history. She smiled and moved to the door. "I'll let you know." --- Marita helped Mr. Foster to his room. The whole ordeal had exhausted the man beyond comprehensible thought. She returned to her own room and opened the door. The interior was bathed in the eerie glow of city lights from five stories below. She had fully expected the agent to be gone. Although she knew little about him personally, she now knew a great deal about his past; a past that had been a mystery to Mulder himself just a few hours ago. She was sure he would have run from this emotional situation. But there he was, sitting on her bed staring out at the Arlington skyline. She sat next to him on the bed. He didn't acknowledge her presence. Carefully, she laid a hand on his back. When he didn't flinch, she began rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. Mulder turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "We need to go to Chicago." She nodded and continued to stroke his back. "We will. Soon. But Mr. Foster needs to rest and I need to make preparations to keep him safe." Mulder drew in a deep breath and exhaled. "I want to tell Scully." Marita stopped. "No. You can't do that. It's become too dangerous. They know, Fox. And now we know." Mulder shook his head. "She deserves to know too." Marita took his hand in hers, stroking the back with her thumb. "You have to protect her from this. The stakes are too high, only those directly affected should be involved." He gently tugged his hand from her. "Then why are you here? Why are you risking everything to help me?" Marita smiled. "Because I know how important it is to know the truth. For Mr. Foster, for you." She hesitated. "For myself." Mulder looked at her, his eyes full of questions. She met his gaze. "I think my father was involved, as well." End Part 5 The Partnership I: Dissolution (6/14) ****** Wednesday, April 9, 1997 Richmond, Missouri Scully's personal journal Another night. Another case with tenuous leads and uncooperative local authorities. No clear motive. Suspects that seem as likely to be elected mayor as to orchestrate a cult-like series of murders. This one hits close to home. It's too much like the Pfaster case, young women murdered and defiled in their death. Just as that case affected me, this case seems to try on my soul. Another disagreement with Mulder, with him deciding that working alone suits him better. It has happened more and more frequently. Our relationship has been comprised of spurts of symmetry and long episodes of a tense rift I can't quite comprehend. We're in a rift now. I can feel it. My usually limitless tolerance of him has waned even further here in Missouri. Another hotel. A lumpy bed and orange curtains. My laptop. My medical bag. My always-packed suitcase. Yes, there was a hot shower. A halfway decent meal. But tonight I can only see what's not here - the comfort of my own bathrobe, the tea to sip while reading my latest fiction. No Queequeg to snuggle with on the couch. More evidence of how my life is not what I once dreamed. I wish I could focus tonight, work on the field notes. Skinner has let up on me a bit, stopped hounding me for the debunking reports, that's true, but I can't give them any reason to discipline me. Lord knows Mulder finds enough reasons for both of us, and lately, our ability to close the case has waned. Our success rate still exceeds the Bureau standard, but Skinner's words to me so long ago, "that is our only saving grace", still echo for me. I don't think Skinner holds us to that unrealistic level of performance, but I fear the repercussions if we fail to measure up in someone else's eyes. Who will suffer the next time? Why can't I just relax for a moment - not think about ritual murders, public health crises, government conspiracies? If I could just be in a place without worrying about eavesdroppers or looking over my shoulder or being watched every minute. I remember how the signal from the television affected me. I still feel that fear, that paranoia. You know, I've never asked Mulder how he deals with this. He's been at it longer than I have, and I've seen what he's had to endure. Constant ridicule to his face, little recognition or appreciation when he's proven himself right, and an overwhelming sense of frustration at knowing that others have what he wants and refuse to give it to him. Loss. Samantha. Melissa.. Mulder's father. Ahab. Myself. When did I start adding myself to this list? Was it when I had a gun on Cardinale? Or when I almost shot Mulder again? Be honest. I know when it was. It's okay if I say it, isn't it? I can feel myself falling. Each time it hurts deeper. Each time it is harder to pull myself back. But I can't stop the images. She told me she knew I wasn't a mother. That I could never understand what it felt like. Could she discern how much I wanted to know? Did she pity me for lacking this most basic of human capability? No, no kids. Not anymore. Mulder said he never saw me as a mother before. Why not? Every girl I went to high school with is a mother. Did my face reflect my heart crying out? Why not me? Did my body recoil with force I can only imagine I would require to give birth to a child? Giving birth. I had a nightmare earlier tonight. I was in the white room, the train car. I was watching myself from a distance. I lay on a table, white sheets draped over me. Except for my abdomen. It was distended, unnatural. I was pregnant. I don't recall much of what happened next, except that it was peaceful. They must have given me a sedative. I was floating. On a fishing boat. I heard my father speaking to me. A woman was whispering soft, comforting words into my ear. My mother and Melissa were nearby. Mulder. Standing close to me. Then I unwrapped the baby. And my child was bloody and dirty. Deformed unlike anything I had ever seen, had ever imagined. His scream fought with my scream. His terror at being born, at leaving the protective haven of my body, matched my terror at producing such hideousness. He was crying when I buried him. Leaving traces that the dirt was inhaled. No priest could ever absolve me. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou among women, and Blessed is the fruit of thy womb - No doctor could heal me. Mulder's words haunt me even more. Just find a guy with spotless genetics and a really high tolerance for being second guessed and start pumping out the little UberScullys. Doesn't Mulder know that some man's perfect genetic makeup will never conquer my own artificial deformity? Defeat this malignancy inflicted upon me by evil so intense that I can only relate it to the words I once repeated back to the priest? Women like me are dying from tumors generated by some minuscule implant these bastards put in ME! Am I fine? Will I ever be? I don't have the strength to find out. I can't take the risk to find out, only to have this fear exposed to the world. Loss. It was then that I started adding myself to the list. So why do I continue? Why not just quit before I lose what's left? --- Thursday, April 10, 1997 Richmond, Missouri 8:30 a.m. This day was cloudy and rainy, and the weather only increased the tension between the two agents. He had snapped at her when she offered to drive, not caring how little sleep he had gotten or how she had been unable to conceal the hurt from her face. She sat in the car, her face now a mask of stone, as he struggled with the directions to the latest crime scene. She decided to make one last attempt. "Mulder, please let me help." "Scully, what is with you? I'm not some stubborn idiot who can't read a map! I don't need you hovering over me, so just sit there and leave me alone!" She stared at him for what seemed to be an hour-long second, then focused her glare out the window. "Fine." --- 3:15 p.m. "Scully, there is no point in pursuing the damn fingerprint. By the time the lab figures it out and begins a trace, the suspect will be long gone. And we're just wasting time sitting here and arguing about it." Mulder ran his hand through his hair for what seemed to be the fiftieth time that day. "Mulder - " Scully could feel the anger rise just as quickly as the reliably cool professional demeanor quickly slipped away. "Scully, you just don't get it - " That was enough. "What, Mulder? What don't I get? I don't get why he's killed three women? I don't get why he defiles them after they are dead? I don't get how anyone could possibly do this to another human being? Well, let me tell you something, Mulder. I don't _have_ to get it, I just have to get _him_. You can stay wrapped up in your self-centered psychological profiler mode on why killers kill for all I care, but I'm going to find him, whether you are there with me or not." With that, she whirled around and headed for the rental car, leaving a stunned Mulder and a very confused sheriff looking at her departure. End Part 6 The Partnership I: Dissolution (7/14) ****** Monday, April 14, 1997 Arlington, VA noon She locked the door of her car, squinting in the sun as it reflected off the windshield. As she walked by the rows of cars toward the mall entrance, she wished she could blend in as easily as her car did. Anonymity. Obscurity. What was it that set her apart from others her age? Mulder's comment that he never saw her as a mother was another grain of salt in the festering wound she had nurtured since medical school. She had entered the FBI to distinguish herself, yet that very action had resulted in the disappearance of her hopes, her desires, her belief in the goodness of humankind and her ability to combat it. With all she had lost, though, Scully was still able to focus on her accomplishments. She had earned respect from many - comments about Mrs. Spooky were nonexistent now, even Skinner seemed to value her opinion, particularly when it came to Mulder's state of mind. She was often called to consult with pathologists assigned to various divisions or to assist in the evidence labs on occasion. Those who had initially gossiped about her partnership with Mulder had cowered under her intense glare and now seemed to admire her professionalism, her poise. She hoped that Mulder would recover that same respect he had once held for her. His typical late-night and weekend visits had ceased, along with the phone calls. He had even taken a four day weekend without medical cause, although he had lied to Skinner to do it. Earlier in the year, during their case investigations, he had remained solicitous toward her, but he continued to pursue avenues of investigation alone, a trait he had always possessed. It had never been as frustrating before. She found herself asking him what he was thinking more and more often, feeling like a spectator at a lecture. A witness to the investigation, but not a participant. Not a partner. This last case had been the worst. They had been unable to prove the guilt of the main suspect, and after three days of vainly looking for the evidence they needed, Skinner ordered them back to Washington. The fact that it was their fifth consecutive case without a successful resolution was not what troubled Scully. It was that she might as well have conducted the investigation by herself. Mulder had been more than just distracted, he was now near the definition of uncooperative. She hadn't even bothered to carry her cellular phone with her, as she knew he had turned it off. It didn't surprise her when she learned from the sheriff that Mulder had returned to Washington on an earlier flight. They had gone through a similar pattern before, after Melissa's death and the murder of Mulder's father. The complementary nature of their investigative styles had become almost competitive, marked by attacking arguments that contained the bitterness of the grief each were feeling. Without talking about it, as was customary, they regained their rhythm and began functioning as a unit again. Why was this time so different? Scully ended her train of thought as she entered the noisy mall and aimed for her favorite shoe store. Just replacing another pair of pumps ruined in the latest nighttime stroll through a sewer. No matter what the state of their partnership, she always seemed to be around when the dirty work had to be done. Shoes were a woman's luxury, and she allowed herself the secret joy of purchasing them frequently. One of her few positives in her life was the revolving wardrobe of shoes subsidized by the FBI expense account. Scully smiled at the vision of Skinner getting an expense report that included The Body Shop and Victoria's Secret receipts. As she walked along the mall's upper deck, she found herself abandoning her traditional routine of window-shopping. Young couples hand in hand walked by, a salesperson was assisting a well-dressed man in a jewelry store. The Disney store was overwhelmed by families buying stuffed animals and singing the "Heigh Ho" song from Snow White. Three girls, perhaps junior high age, were giggling loudly at a group of boys dressed in jerseys and $100 sneakers. Two women were sitting at a nearby table, their lunch spread out before them. Each had a variety of shopping bags set next to them, indicating their status as friends out for a day of shopping at the mall. Alone. Lost. Scared. How had she gotten to this point so quickly? How had she withdrawn so completely from the outside world, isolated herself so totally that she could count the number of significant people in her life on one hand? Her mother, her brothers, her nephew. Mulder. She exited the mall entrance, sidestepping a couple with a toddler and baby in a backpack. The toddler had been asking his mother for gum, and Scully decided to indulge herself as well. As she threw the wrapper in a nearby receptacle, a slender black man approached her, holding out a piece of paper. He was dressed simply, and did not resemble the many homeless persons she saw every day on the streets. Scully tried to stick with her usual routine of ignoring strangers, a practice she had perfected during her time in Washington, but this man's smile exuded warmth and friendliness. She felt her resolve ease just enough to extend her hand and take the paper from him. His eyes lit up, and her stern "street face" broke slightly and offered a small tight-lipped grin as she passed him. His hearty "Thank you" revealed a thick accent. He seemed too friendly to have lived in the country for long. Scully walked to her car, digging in her coat for her key ring. As she settled into the driver's seat, she stared at the paper in her hand, intending to throw it out the window, litter laws be damned. The image of the man's smile made her pause, and she unfolded the paper to reveal an address and a short statement. "I am looking for friend. Please write me." And just as quickly as her defenses had deserted her when she initially took the paper, they failed her again. She felt the tears on her cheeks, the tightness of her throat, the ache her muscles produced whenever she was overcome with sadness. Such a simple request, made by a man with a lightness in his heart that she begged to possess. He wanted a friend, someone with whom to share his thoughts, to find a common hobby, to learn more about himself and about a new world he had entered. Scully bent her head forward to rest it on the steering wheel and let the sobs echo in her car. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into the skin, the pain a minor physical accompaniment to the emotional sorrow. She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating only on getting enough air to sustain her, wishing that she could curl up and disappear into the hole she felt in her heart. As her head dropped further forward, her gold cross dangled away from where it had been caught on her blouse to droop against her chin. She reached up to run the chain between her fingers, feeling a small thread of the love her mother had extended to her. For eighteen years, she had worn this necklace, save one exception. She had not worn it when she believed Mulder died in a boxcar fire. Scully looked up at her reflection. Her eyes regained a bit of their usual resolve. She took a deep breath and started the car. Her bath could wait, she decided, as she headed back to the office. --- As Scully exited the elevator, she could hear Mulder rustling in the office. The door was open, which only happened when he was preparing to leave. She knew he would hear her approach, and she quickened her pace, intending to speak with him before he left. He nearly ran her into the wall in his haste. She tried to cover her disappointment with a one-liner, searching his face in a futile attempt to make eye contact. "Fire in the office, Mulder? He jostled the folders and papers in his hand in what she considered a weak ploy to divert her attention. "What? Oh, no, uh, I've just got some reports I've got to get up to, uh, Skinner before he decides to dock my pay." He turned up his mouth in a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, which darted around nervously in an effort she recognized from her own attempts to conceal the truth from him. She realized then how transparent she had been then, and her determination to talk with him, to reason with him, to have it out with him, faded. She trained her eyes on his face, willing him to look at her just once, ready to display the compassion and concern she felt. He continued to look at her forehead, her coat, the poster on the wall. "Look Scully, I've got to head out for a couple of days. I think I'm going to go see my mom, see how she's doing." He jostled the papers again, distracting her enough to drop her gaze and focus on his hands. To focus on the plane ticket to Chicago. She looked back at his face, feeling her eyes boring into him, targeting her anger on him. She steeled her voice, not wanting to give him any hint of her discovery. "Oh, well then, you'd better get going. Have a safe trip." "Yeah." His smile faltered again. "See you later, Mulder?" "Yeah. See you." She went into the office and shut the door firmly. --- Mulder had decided to use BWI airport in Baltimore when he made his travel arrangements for this trip. It was not used as much by government types as National and Dulles, yet was large enough to inconspicuously blend in with the crowd. He also thought the drive would be good; give him a chance to think, prepare for what he hoped was the last leg of this quest. Now, he was not so sure. He had hoped against all hope to be out of the office before Scully returned. He had been wondering all morning how to explain his sudden interest in seeing his mother. When she had said that she had errands to run, his heart almost jumped with a shameless joy. It wouldn't be the first time he had left her behind, but at least he could leave without telling another lie to her face. He hated lying to her, keeping her in the dark. In the beginning it had been easier, meeting Deep Throat secretly, signaling X with the masking tape. But as their partnership and their friendship developed, a dependency also formed, slowly, piece by piece. He remembered her lying on the bed in the hotel room on their first case, imploring him to trust her. He had silently envied her ability to place her faith in him so easily, without hesitation. By lying, he felt as if he was pulling out the cornerstone of their partnership and it was only a matter of time before the whole thing would come crashing down. I should have told her, he thought as he changed lanes to pass another car. She knows how to take care of herself, and her insight would help me clear the murkiness. I need her objectivity on this. But then he thought of Marita's warning - "You have to protect her from this" and he knew deep down she was right. This was his quest, had been from the very beginning. He could rehash the guilt trips and the angst-filled evenings staring at the blank television screen all he wanted, but it came back to one simple point. It was his responsibility to find his sister. Scully definitely had her own motivations for joining with him, and he never wanted to make her feel as though her reasons were less important to him. In the end, though, Scully had been an unwitting participant in this journey; believing wholeheartedly that she followed him with open eyes. In reality, she had instead been pummeled by the intensity of his passion to know the truth, a passion that she had once warned him about. Despite her prescriptive dose of skepticism on each case, she had come to believe just as passionately, just as blindingly. And what had it gotten her? Nothing but pain and heartache. They had used her to get to him. Taken her away and covered it up in a blanket of deceit. Three months. Three long and lonely months, full of self-doubt and despair for him and who knows what for her? In a weird twist of logic, he had been glad that she remembered nothing of her experience. He, the man who valued knowledge of the truth above all other, was relieved she had been spared the agony of memories. But it hadn't stopped there. He knew all too well the guilt she carried concerning Melissa's death. She had never really mentioned it since that night in the hospital room, but he saw the look she sometimes got when she was thinking about her sister. Memories, regrets, and if only's. Scully did need to be protected this time. This time, it wasn't about her. She had nothing to gain, but everything to lose. --- later that day Scully always sat a little straighter in Skinner's office, trying to add a few inches that her high heels could not offer while sitting down. Skinner had kept her waiting, which he only did when he was furious with them, but rarely was that anger aimed at her alone. "Agent Scully, do you know that Agent Mulder has requested a one-week vacation for the purposes of visiting his mother?" Skinner's voice took on the tone he must have learned from his drill sergeant in the Army, while he shifted files from one side of his desk to the other. "I was unaware of the length of his request, sir, but I do know he wanted to see her." Scully relaxed a bit, the smoothness with which she delivered the ambiguous response helping her maintain her poise. "I have approved his request. He will return on Monday." "I'm sure he will appreciate your concern, sir." She felt the back of the chair against her back as she took a quiet, calming breath. Skinner's hands stilled, his eyes raised up to meet hers. Suddenly, she could feel the shift in his demeanor, knowing that she was to be interrogated. "Have you and Agent Mulder experienced any tensions recently?" She allowed her face to reflect mild surprise. "I'm unsure of what you mean." "Let me stop beating around the bush, Agent Scully. Are you aware that Agent Mulder has requested a formal review of your performance?" This time she could not contain the flurry of emotion reflected on her face. "Excuse me, sir?" "I have here a request from Agent Mulder to conduct a formal appraisal on your performance on the X-Files. His statement cites a lack of collaboration on investigations and disparaging comments made by you in the presence of cooperating law enforcement officers on a recent case." Skinner's stare at her and not the paper revealed that he had read this statement many times before confronting her. Her mind raced over the last case in Missouri, the argument in front of the local sheriff, her insistence on pursuing the fingerprint with the lab in Kansas City instead of staying with him in the little town. "Agent Scully?" She swallowed audibly and tried to regain her composure. "Sir, not only am I unaware of any disapproval Agent Mulder may have toward my performance, but I am also unsure of why you are informing me instead of Agent Mulder doing so." "Agent Scully, you are aware of the sensitive nature of this request and the delicacy with which it must be handled. Your position is tenuous, and any hint of ineffectiveness between you and Agent Mulder will result in the closing of the X-Files and your reassignment." "May I see the request, sir?" As he extended the piece of paper toward her, she remembered the similar action of the man at the mall. 'I am looking for friend.' She looked down at the typewritten memo, his signature approving what could be the destruction of their partnership. Skinner's voice interrupted her thoughts. "I am surprised that Agent Mulder filed this report, but I have to initiate a formal review of your work. I have to respond to a notice like this, Agent Scully, otherwise others will question why it was not addressed. I want all field journals and pertinent data relating to this case on my desk by tomorrow noon." His words thundered in her head. Reassignment. A formal review. Her career advancement had not been a serious consideration for over four years now, but that she may receive a reprimand at Mulder's request was too much to comprehend. "Is that all, sir?" "Yes, that is all." End Part 7