The Partnership I: Dissolution (8/14) By: Glymax and Anne Cologna ****** Tuesday, April 15, 1997 basement office The next morning, Scully entered the office early, her fatigue and worry weighing her down as much as the five years of paperwork stuffed into her briefcase. She had not slept at all, instead printing out her field reports, reviewing the files, searching for some rationale for why he could have done this. She had tried calling him on his cellular phone, but hung up after the twentieth ring, fighting a combination of sadness and sickness the entire time. It was obvious to her he had left so that she could suffer this humiliation alone. Perhaps he knew that she would be harder on herself than any review board, and he wanted to inflict that self-recrimination without being around. She had not confided in her mother when she had called to invite her to dinner. The memories of her induced paranoia still haunted her - she clearly remembered pointing a gun at Mulder with her mother standing in the way. <'Scully, you are the *only* one I trust.'> She gathered up her materials and went to Skinner's office. --- Chicago, Illinois same time They had left the motel early in the morning, knowing that they had a long day ahead of them. Mulder took a sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup and waited as Marita showed Foster the map again. He was trying to be patient with the older man, but at this rate, they could be out here for months. "Okay, Mr. Foster, this is where we are now," Marita said pointing to a spot on the map. "Midway airport is here. This is Lake Shore Drive; the Chicago River runs here. Does any of this sound familiar?" Foster smiled. "Unfortunately, my dear, it all sounds familiar. My memory of the project is all that is missing; I don't suffer from total amnesia." Marita turned back to Mulder who was lightly thumping his hands on the steering wheel in time to a song in his head. The look in her eyes said that she was as frustrated as he was. "Any suggestions?" Mulder shrugged. "I guess we keep driving around the city. Hopefully something will jog his memory." He looked up to the rearview mirror, trying to catch Foster's attention. "Hey Foster, did you ever catch a ball game? Maybe we could swing by Wrigley Field." Foster sat up a little straighter in the back seat, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What did you say?" Mulder turned around to face him. "I asked if you'd seen a ball game at Wrigley Field." The older man's pupils dilated slightly. "Field...Oh, god. The facility is in the country. I remember that it was completely surrounded by corn fields." --- later that day Skinner's Office "Agent Scully?" Skinner's look was foreboding, and she experienced the latest in the series of doubts about this step. "Yes sir. I have the files you requested sir." She entered the office, briefcase in hand and crossed to stand in front of his desk. "Sit down, Agent Scully." She slid into the chair, hoping the maneuver was controlled enough to mask her uncertainty. She coughed slightly, looking up to find Skinner staring at her as if she were transparent. "Sir, after my sister died, when you spoke to me about coming back to work, you mentioned a possibility in a pathology unit. That I could work outside of the DC area." She attempted to keep her voice even, not realizing her hands had tightened their grip on each other. "Scully, that was over a year ago. I don't know if the assignment or the need still exists." He leaned back in the chair, measuring her response. "I understand that sir. I was hoping you would be able to check on the availability of such a position." She felt her body continue to tense, a physical response to what she had once considered an impossible action to take. "Agent Scully, are you officially requesting a transfer?" Again, Skinner cut through the shroud of the conversation to strike at the one word she had not found the courage to utter. She looked at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Is that what she meant? Is that what she wanted? "Sir, my effectiveness on the X-Files and as Agent Mulder's partner has diminished to the point where I believe the Bureau would be more ably served by assigning another agent in my place." An articulate sentence, filled with the precise grammar on which her English teachers had drilled her. She even delivered the line with dignity, almost with pride, although she was staring at the window behind Skinner's desk. "Agent Scully." His voice commanded her to look directly at him, her eyes fearing what he would say next, hoping he would leave any discussion of Mulder out of the conversation. "This course of action is one I encourage you to consider very thoroughly. Have you consulted Agent Mulder on this decision?" What was it about Skinner that enabled him to hear what she was thinking? "Sir, I believe that Agent Mulder's current dissatisfaction with my work will lead him to concur with my assessment." "Very well, Scully. I'll look into the matter." His eyes locked on hers, impressing upon her his disappointment with her decision. --- Thursday, April 17, 1997 Illinois It had taken the better part of three long and frustrating days, but they had finally succeeded. They had been driving down the back roads farther and farther from the city. Interstates had given way to two laned paved roads, which had eventually turned to one lane of gravel. Mulder carefully maneuvered around the near hairpin turn; the urge to become Mario Andretti and break up the monotony was almost overwhelming. They had crossed a set of railroad tracks near an abandoned farm, when Foster suddenly yelled from the backseat. "Stop! Stop the car!" Mulder jumped and quickly pulled over to the side of the road, fearful that his driving had made the man carsick. Foster opened the back door and was out of the vehicle before either Mulder or Marita could stop him. He limped through the grassy ditch and grabbed hold of the barbed wire fence for support. Mulder quickly followed and stood next to the other man. Foster was staring intently at the dilapidated buildings. "Foster? What's wrong? Do you remember something?" The older man turned his face toward Mulder, tears coursing freely from his eyes. He raised a shaky hand and pointed to the farm. "That's it," he said in a hoarse whisper. Mulder looked at the buildings, then back to Marita who was waiting in the car. Damn. Damn. Damn. There was no way this place used to be a research laboratory. Foster's memories were obviously skewed as well as screwed. Mulder laid a hand on Foster's back. "Come on. We'll take you home." Foster jerked away. "No! We have to get the tapes and papers! I hid them where no one would find them, they're still there. I know it!" The agent sighed. This was going to be tough. "Look, Foster. Look at this place. It's ready to collapse. You're telling me that highly sensitive genetic research went on in there?" He softened his tone. "We have all had a really long day. Let's go back to the hotel, maybe get some dinner. Okay?" Foster shook his head. "You disappoint me Fox. I have given you what you have been searching for and you're turning your back on it. I remember, damn it! I remember like it was yesterday. Yes, the house has fallen into a state of disrepair, but that's not where the facility was located. It's underground. Below the basement." Mulder glared at him intently. "Underground? You're sure this is the place?" Foster nodded. "As sure as I am of anything. I was here for three years." Mulder motioned for Marita to joined them. He met her half way, taking her arm and pulling her to the side. "He thinks this is the place." Marita raised her eyebrows. "Here?" Mulder shrugged. "I think it's pretty unlikely, but I should check it out to be sure. Why don't you take Foster and wait in the car. This shouldn't take too long." Mulder walked back to the car to the car to get a flashlight. He returned to where Foster and Marita were standing next to the fence. With a quick nod, he lifted his long legs and gingerly climbed over. When he started to walk away from them, Foster called out. "Wait. I'm coming with you." Mulder turned back toward the fence. "I don't think that's a good idea. This place is a rotting mess." Foster gave him a look of indignance. "I might not be as agile as I used to be, but I'm no invalid. Besides, you'll never find it without me. The door is very well disguised." Mulder grudgingly agreed and helped them both over the fence. The house was a disaster. Huge chunks of plaster had fallen from the walls and ceiling, exposing the lathe work behind. Every window was either missing or broken, causing the tattered remains of the curtains to flutter in the breeze. Thick dust coated everything in site. "Looks like the maid's taken the decade off," Mulder commented wryly. Foster stood in what had been the kitchen and just looked. His newly recovered memory supplying images from twenty years previous. "There was a family that lived up here," he said. "Not a real family, of course. They were all part of the project, but they took care of the children." "Children?" Mulder asked. "How many children?" The older man rubbed his hand across his chin as he thought. "It depended. Sometimes there were only a couple; sometimes as many as fifteen or so." Marita, who had been quiet up until now spoke up. "These children, who were they?" Foster shook his head. "I don't know. They were brought to us." "For use in the project?" Foster nodded. "But didn't the neighbors think it was odd, different children coming and going?" He shook his head. "This place isn't exactly in the suburbs. They were prepared to say that the family took in foster children if anyone asked. The kids would stay here until permanent homes could be found for them." Mulder rubbed his head. The web continued to get more tangled. "We should try to find the door," he said, tired of hearing how deep and ugly this conspiracy had been. Foster held up his hand. "Fox. Before we continue, there's something I need to tell you." Mulder gestured for him to continue. "I didn't want to say anything, until I knew for certain. But standing here, now, I know it's true." He laid a calming hand on the agent's arm. "Your sister was here." Mulder jerked as if he had been jolted with an electrical current. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open as if to scream, but no sound came out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "Let's find the door." End Part 8 The Partnership I: Dissolution (9/14) ****** same day She looked at the simple headstone surrounded by short blades of new grass. Her own name, Scully, in large capital letters, as if proclaiming to the world her role in her sister's death, this week two years ago. Her fresh bouquet of flowers lay at the base, a small gathering of daisies bound by a simple ribbon as her regular penance. She raised her hand to examine the faded roses her mother had brought the previous week, the leaves curled and crumbling, the petals nearly gone. She knew she had been responding to the symbolism more frequently in the last few weeks, and had reeled from the contradiction to her precise, methodical nature. The few remaining petals dropped as she lowered the bouquet to her side. Her eyes drifted to the tombstone behind Missy's. Engraved upon it were the beloved words from the 23rd Psalm. 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' --- same day The door to the facility was heavily disguised, hidden behind several false walls in the basement. Mulder realized that they never would have found it without help. The metal door groaned as the rusted hinges were used for the first time in at least a decade. What they saw behind the door made all but Foster gasp in surprise. The steps and the walls leading down to the lower level were made of shiny stainless steel. The beam from Mulder's flashlight nearly blinded them as it refracted and reflected. They cautiously made their way down the stairs and entered a large area, probably once a laboratory. Stainless steel counters ran the length of the two longest wall, matching cabinets hung above. In the middle of the room, there was a huge table, also made of the same material. Mulder shone his flashlight toward the back of the room, highlighting another door. "What's through there?" "More of the facility. My office was there." Mulder went to the door and pushed. It opened onto a long corridor. The whole right wall was made of glass, behind which were several smaller rooms; complete with hospital beds. There were two other doors, one at each end of the hallway. He held the door open for the others. "What are the hospital beds for, Foster?" Mulder asked, his voice carrying slight hostility. Foster stared at the floor. "Probably exactly what you're thinking. Sometimes the "patients" became ill from the procedures. I don't know everything that happened here. They had doctors to attend to the needs of the sick. I worked in the lab down there," he said pointing to the door behind them. "But you saw what they were doing to these children. You saw the end result," Mulder shot back. Marita grabbed his arm, tugging him down closer to her. "Mulder. He's on our side, remember?" Foster nodded. "Fox is right. I did see. That's why I stole those documents. I knew there was nothing I could do. But somebody needed to know." "Speaking of, where is this documentation hidden?" "Upstairs, in the basement. But I want to see my lab and office first." Mulder lit the way and they followed Foster to the other end of the corridor. The office looked like that of any other researcher, except that all the papers and equipment had been removed. A row of file cabinets stood empty, their drawers hanging open. Foster motioned for them to follow through yet another door. They entered Foster's personal lab. More stainless steel. There were marks on the tiled floor where heavy equipment had set and been moved. Quite some time ago. The back wall was lined with shelves, containing hundreds of small specimen jars. Mulder picked up one of the jars and held it up for Foster to see. "What are these?" Foster looked at Marita, as if hoping she would save him from all these questions. "They're DNA samples. Taken from project participants." "Participants?! These were people, Foster, little children," Mulder shouted unable to temper his anger. "You did experiments on helpless children. On my sister!" "Fox!" Marita shouted. "That's enough." Mulder started to say more, but she stopped him with her hand. "It's been a long day. We are all getting tired and irritable, but we still need to find Foster's documents, so let's stop playing judge and jury. We need to work together." Mulder pushed back through the door, leaving them in the dark. When the finally found the exit, Mulder was waiting for them in the hall. He had calmed down visibly. "I'm sorry. Okay? This is just a little overwhelming." Marita slid her hand up and down his back. "I know." Foster lead them back upstairs to the basement. He made his way behind the old furnace and pointed to some stones on the foundation. "Behind those rocks, that's where I hid everything. There should be a metal lockbox." Mulder crouched down and began removing the stones. He took the flashlight and shined it in the opening. About two feet back was the box. --- Friday, April 18, 1997 basement office The dial tone echoed ominously in her head, mirroring the progression of dread traveling throughout her body. While she knew that what her logical, reasoned intellect insisted upon was the truth, she could not escape the taste of denial that tinged the boundaries of her rationale. Scully pressed the End button on her cellular. The gesture held more symbolism that she wanted to admit. The end of her stubbornness. The end of her refusal to admit what had happened to her. Perhaps the end of the last bit of innocence she possessed. She looked again at the file in her hand, a file she hadn't known existed until she was alerted to its presence by her anonymous caller. She examined the cover, the red edging outweighed in familiarity only by the name on the jacket. Dana Scully. X73317 She flipped the file open to reveal the black and white photo, its border crimped from repeated handling. Her frightened eyes looking up at her abductor, the gag preventing her from audibly releasing the horror she felt at the trooper's senseless death. The feelings and images assaulted her mercilessly - the claustrophobia of the confined trunk, the sound of the song on the radio marked in time by the gunshot, the certainty of her impending death. The whirring of the helicopters drowning out the horrid cackle of Duane Barry's triumph - a successful exchange of specimens. The imaginary white lights blinded her so suddenly she swayed and grabbed the file cabinet for support. The thick stack of 302s, requests for research materials, incident reports of a murder at a tram, and Duane Barry's autopsy results. All reviewed by Fox Mulder. Her medical report. She had never wanted to see it, didn't want to know the extent of the experiments they had performed. Learning about Operation Paperclip had given her enough vision into the minds of the Axis powers that had set this unceasing chain of events in motion. She crossed the office floor, the clicking of her heels accentuating the thumping of her heart. The ingrained mental exercises began, strenuously testing each hypothesis against the evidence she had accumulated in the past six months. Her secret envy of Mulder's irrational theoretical leaps faded as she compiled the list, pro versus con, betrayal versus trust. She replayed the conversation in her head again. "Find Duane Barry's X-rays. You are linked more closely than you suspect. Your partner knows this." Click. She flipped again to the file, switching on a desk lamp to illuminate the film of his X-ray. She could clearly see three foreign objects, in his mandible, in his nasal cavity and in his abdomen. What was the link? There was nothing in his neck. She spread out the file, wrecking the precise piles she maintained as easily as Mulder maintained his disordered organization. She began sorting the sheets, separating into three sections the information on her, on Duane Barry and on the tram operator. Her medical report lay on top. Her breathing became more labored as she opened the medical documents, remembering Frohike's tale of smuggling them out of the hospital. There were no X-rays. Each paper had been worn like the earlier photograph, with Mulder's scribbling lining the margins. Branched DNA. Ideas of designer antibiotics and hormone therapy, reminding Scully of the retrovirus that nearly killed Mulder in the arctic. More sheets with bloodwork and cardiology reports. Her immune system had been compromised, doctors noted that isolation strategies had been dismissed so her family could be near her. They didn't believe she would live long enough to require isolation efforts. Another report, this time a post-ICU summary by her attending physician, Dr. Daley. Rehabilitation therapy and nutritional upgrading, occasional blood transfusions to remove more impurities from her system. Pain medication from her old appendectomy scar that had been lanced again. Dental work to repair damage from stress- induced teeth grinding. Frequent diagnostics to identify remaining areas of concern. A short procedure to relieve pressure in her sinuses. Mulder's notes indicated that he had reviewed this information after she had been released from the hospital. Her eyes riveted to his next scribble. "Implants." She skimmed the paragraph, metal fragments, perhaps shrapnel from gunfire, lodged in the neck and sinus passages. Earlier in the summary, dental work to repair damage from stress- induced teeth grinding. The dental work involved placing a cap on one of her lower front teeth. But grinding would involve the back teeth. The report indicated her lower front jaw, near the gumline. A procedure to relieve pressure in her sinuses. Her appendectomy scar, the one she had had since she was seven years old, had been lanced. Duane Barry's implants were in his nasal cavity, his gums, and his abdomen. The only one she had found was in her neck. The only one she had looked for. And Mulder's scribbling verified that he knew. He had known the whole time. And he had done nothing. In her battle between logic and emotion, Dana Scully finally succumbed to the mounting hysteria. The file flew across the room, fluttering to the floor piece by piece like the scattered remnants of her trust in him. Her living will remained on the desk. Her signature, crisp and concise, next to Mulder's scrawl, one she knew he'd come to regret so soon after affixing it to this document. His signature was yet another symbol of their trust, how they placed their lives in each other's hands. What was happening? How had this partnership, this friendship of reliance and trust on one person disintegrated into harsh personal attacks and petty jealousies? How did these events, easily believed for their perceived nobility and honesty, get so twisted into evil and lies? --- Friday, April 18, 1997 2:00 pm He was an FBI agent, not a safe cracker. To his two companions, that fact became fairly obvious in a short period of time. Although they had found the box yesterday, it still remained locked as tight as ever. Mulder grunted his frustration as he threw the lockpick set down on the table. "How the hell did you expect anybody to get into this thing in the event of your demise?" he asked the man sitting across the table. Foster shrugged and gave the agent his best apologetic look. "I guess I never really gave that aspect much thought. My only goal was to keep the contents safe from the elements and spying eyes." "Well, you did a great job," Mulder said with annoyance. "I can't believe this. Against incredible odds, we finally managed to find the place, retrieve a box that has been stashed away for over twenty years, and what is our stumbling block? We can't get the damn thing open. What's it made of anyway, kryptonite?" Foster chuckled. "I don't know. Periodically, supplies would come into the lab in these containers. They were durable and handy. I didn't want to raise any suspicions by buying a regular lockbox." Mulder closed his eyes and rested his chin on templed fingers. He had broken into facilities that boasted some of the highest level security systems, had picked locks on cars, doors, and file cabinets. Why the hell was he having so much trouble getting into a small metal box? "Maybe, I could shoot the lock," he said, thinking out loud. Foster sat up alarmed by this idea. "No, you can't. You might damaged the contents." "So what do you suggest? Finding someone with a laser in their garage and politely asking to use it for a couple of hours?" At that moment, Marita entered the room through the connecting door carrying a room service tray. "Why didn't I think of that before?" she asked pushing the box aside and setting the tray in its place. "You know someone who keeps a laser in their garage? Oooo. My kind of woman," Mulder said sarcastically. She gave him an unamused glare. "I know someone who might be able to help. Let me make a few calls." Two hours later they were on the road, bound for the Canadian border. --- same day outer corridor of Skinner's Office She sat on the couch, wondering if this might be the last time she waited in this particular location for news of the latest case, the latest lie or cover-up. His assistant, Jeannie, had phoned her and requested her presence for a brief meeting. Skinner opened the door and noticed her slight jump. "Agent Scully," he commanded. She rose unsteadily and moved past him into his office. She again stood in front of his desk, waiting for his permission to sit. His tone had softened somewhat. "Please have a seat, Scully." He moved to sit in the chair next to her, and the gesture made Scully even more nervous. He had always sat behind the desk, allowing the large piece of furniture to create barriers indicative of his position as her superior. "Scully, I have made inquiries at other field offices for a pathology position. There is one opening, but it would be a complicated assignment." He looked at her intently, noticing her averted eyes. "Sir - " "Scully, I don't know what's going on between you and Agent Mulder, but I recommend that you take some time to think about this. A rush to judgment on your part may cost you down the road." He leaned a bit closer to her, and she imitated the action, moving further away. But this time, she looked up at him. "Sir, you once told me that it would be okay for me to step away." "Scully, the circumstances here are very different - " "Sir, if I accepted a transfer, would it delay the review of my performance? Would it satisfy those who have always wanted me out of the way?" She went back to staring at the wall. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Scully, I don't know the answers to your questions. But I want you to think about this - very carefully." She started to rise from her chair, and he quickly moved to stand in front of her, forcing her to look at him again. "Very carefully, Agent Scully." End Part 9 The Partnership I: Dissolution (10/14) ****** Saturday 11:30 a.m. Marita glanced at the man beside her in the front seat; admiring, just for a moment, the long outline of his body. She had been surprised when he suggested that she drive at least part of the way on this trip. She had been even more surprised when he had dropped his defenses long enough to fall asleep. He was paranoid by nature, that much she did know about him; always checking over his shoulder for shadows. He was guarded, reserved, and unnaturally wary of his fellow man. But for some reason, he seemed to trust her. Most of it was probably an act. She wasn't naive enough to think otherwise. But still, the look he sometimes got said, he wanted to believe her. The sign on the highway indicated that they were four miles from Clinton, Michigan, where they were to switch drivers. She gently tapped him on the shoulder and watched as his eyes slowly drifted open. "Fox? We're at Clinton. Do you still want to drive?" Mulder shifted in his seat and cleared his throat trying to give his body a chance to wake. "What time is it?" he asked in a voice still thick with sleep. "It's 11:30." He rubbed at his blurry eyes. "I could use some coffee and a restroom break. See if there is a all night gas station in town. We'll change drivers there." Marita found a small convenient store and pulled up next to the gas pumps. Mulder went inside to pay for the gas and other necessities, as Marita woke Foster. Two men in a dark blue van watched. --- 2 hours later Mulder shook his head as he pulled into the driveway of a rundown building on the outskirts of Windsor, Ontario. The rusted sign above the door indicated that this had once been an auto mechanic shop. "Are you sure this is the place?" he asked Marita. "Yes. I'm sure." Mulder narrowed his eyes at her, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Just who is this mysterious contact?" Marita smiled at his blossoming paranoia. "It's okay. And as I told you earlier, a friend from long ago." That smile did nothing to alleviate Mulder's sense of uneasiness. "He keeps a laser here?" "Please, Fox. You have to trust me on this. I know it looks suspicious, but the man likes his privacy. He has agreed to help us, no questions asked. All right?" Mulder drew his bottom lip through his teeth as he considered their options. He was not happy about this situation, but thus far, he had no reason to doubt Marita's integrity. And he had been unsuccessful with his attempts at opening the container. Finally, he gestured for them all to get out of the car, but he pulled his gun from its holster and slipped it into his coat pocket. ********* Saturday 6:00 a.m. Hallelujah. The box was finally open. The first rays of early morning were beginning to light the sky as the three weary travelers emerged from the garage. Mulder glanced over his shoulder at Foster, who was carrying the box and grinning like a kid at Christmas. They had resisted the urge to inspect the contents too closely in front of Marita's laser-toting contact. No need involving someone else. But Foster insisted on a quick check. He grabbed the box and turned his back on the others in the room. When he turned back around, his face told them nothing. He nodded stiffly and motioned for the Marita and Mulder to proceed him through the door. But Mulder could now tell by the expression on Foster's face that they had succeeded. Mulder's curiosity had reached it's peak by the time they got settled into the car. He turned in his seat to face Foster, who had once again claimed the backseat for himself. "Well?" he asked impatiently. Foster grinned. "Everything appears to be in order, at least as far as I can remember." The agent waved his hands in frustration. "What's in the box, Foster? Let me see." The older man clutched the box to his chest possessively. "No. Not yet. I want to study it first." Mulder gaped at him in disbelief. "Study it? Look, we haven't gone through all this just so *you* could keep us in the dark. We all have a stake in this, remember?" Foster shook his head. "I have no intention of hiding anything from you or Marita. But we need to proceed carefully. The contents of this box may present some very damaging information. We need to take precautions." Mulder snorted, but Marita laid a hand on his shoulder. "He's right. We are still outside the country, if something were to happen, we may not be able to get protection. Let's drive back across the border. We can get some rooms in a motel and have a chance to look at the data more closely." With a deep sigh, Mulder started the vehicle and turned the car in the direction from which they had come. --- 7:00 a.m. She stood at her mother's back door, crying softly, returning once again to this place of safety. What she once considered sanctuary. She knocked on the door again and checked her pocket for the missing key just one more time. She knew that she couldn't talk to her mother the previous evening, after storming out of the office and dissolving into a sobbing huddle on her couch for hours. She spent the night pacing in her apartment, and finally changed into her running clothes and ran, leaving behind her phone and her gun, not caring where she ended her run, just trying to escape what her mind was telling her. They still had control over her. At any moment, they could inflict some poison, some disease, and she would always be susceptible. There was no place she could run to where she would be protected. Maggie Scully opened the door, wrapped tightly in her robe to defend against the morning chill. She pushed the door open just enough to catch her sobbing daughter as she stumbled over the threshold. "Dana? Dana, honey, what's wrong?" Scully didn't understand exactly why, but the one thing she wanted to hear most at that moment was that familiar male voice, not using her given name, but her family name. The person she had believed in, the person who had denied her the truth. Instead she looked at eyes so like her own, reflecting her pain. A woman she could always depend on, trust with all her heart. "Oh, Mom. I've done it again. I've made a terrible mistake. And it's all my fault." --- Saturday 1:00 p.m. Mulder paced his room nervously as he waited for Foster to awaken from his nap. They had all been exhausted by the time they had found a suitable motel and checked in. Marita had suggested that they try to get some rest and Foster had wearily agreed. Mulder's protests had fallen on deaf ears. His offer to inspect the information while they rested was also rejected. He was too wired to even think of sleeping. The contents of that box could hold the answers to all the questions that had been burning in him for so many years. Or it could hold no information at all. Either way, he had to know. Thoughts of his partner drifted into his conscience. If Scully were here, they would already have the data documented and thoroughly inspected. Hell, she would probably have already had the box itself analyzed. Moving at this snail's pace was making him crazy. He nearly jumped out of his skin when there was a knock on the door. After peering through the peep hole in the door, he quickly undid the safety chain and swung the door open for Marita and Foster to enter. "Now that we've had our beauty sleep, can we start?" he asked curtly. Marita eyed him questioningly. She could tell by his frazzled appearance that he had not slept at all. Foster also noticed that Mulder was in no mood for any more delays and headed for the table with the box. As they had done at almost every meeting, the three pulled up chairs around the small motel table. Mulder held his breath as Foster reverently opened the lid and lifted out the contents of the box. Two audio cassettes and several notebooks. The older man picked up the cassettes, running his finger over the top edge of the plastic case. "These are recordings of phone conversations made at the facility, both incoming and outgoing. Every call was monitored to prevent the leak of information. This is how I found out about the plans for erasing my memory." He put the cassettes back on the table and gestured to the stack of papers. "This is a collection of all types of information: logs, journals, lists. Everything I thought that would be important for future reference." Mulder reached to pick up one of the books, but Foster stopped him with a hand on his wrist. The agent looked at him sharply, daring the other man to try to get in his way. "Before we begin Fox, I want you to remember that all this happened a long time ago. We thought we were doing our part to protect this country from unwanted aggression. We were not evil people." Mulder's heart pounded in his chest, excitement and fear overwhelming him. He nodded and Foster removed his hand to let Mulder pick up the first book. --- 1:00 p.m. The Spirit is The Truth. She stared at the headstone, not quite believing that it was her name she read, carved in stone forever. In some ways, she was glad she had never known about this, but today the symbolism felt horrifically appropriate. The tombstone to go over the coffin in which she had been nailed. Her mother moved up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Dana, I'm so sorry. Please know that I didn't want to do this. I didn't know what else to do, and I needed to find some closure for you, and for me." Scully wiped her eyes again before pulling her mother into a tight hug. "Mom, I know it must have been so hard for you, so soon after Dad." Maggie pulled away from her daughter's embrace to look at her exhausted face. "Fox, he argued with me for so long about it, and he wouldn't stop fighting for you. Dana, please know that he couldn't just stop fighting for you now. He couldn't." Scully shook her head, moving away from her mother. "I wish I could tell you, Mom, but he's changed. He's lied to me, he doesn't trust me anymore, he's tried to get me kicked off the X-Files, out of the Bureau. I know it sounds like what I said before, but I have so much proof, so much evidence this time. He's lied to Skinner too. He knows what happened to me when I was taken." She leaned against the wall and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "Have you talked with him about it?" Maggie moved over to her daughter, but she shook her head and lowered herself to the floor, putting her head on her knees. Maggie remembered similar scenes from Dana's childhood, the long red hair obscuring her daughter's legs as she rocked herself back and forth to ward off the latest nightmare. She knelt down and ran her hand up and down Dana's back. Her voice was now muffled, mixed with large gulps of air. "I tried, and he just ended up lying to me again. He's shutting me out, just like he's always done." "In the past, Dana, you said he'd shut you out to protect you." Maggie wrapped her arms around her daughter and hugged her tightly. "Now he's just protecting himself, Mom." --- Saturday 8:30 p.m. Several hours later, Mulder rubbed at his tired eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind the bed where he had taken up residency. Most of this information meant nothing to him. Coded number sequences, lists of chemicals and procedures, documents of the success and failures of cellular experiments; all written in technical jargon that would rival any episode of Star Trek. He questioned Foster, but the answers were often just as confusing. Until he came to the last book. A listing of all the test subjects from 1972 through 1976. There were hundreds; each with a complete description of their condition upon arrival, medical history, procedures performed, and results. No names were listed, but each subject was assigned a test number. With shaking hands, he turned back to November 1973 and ran his finger down as he quickly scanned each page. His heart stopped when he came to an entry in May of 1974. Subject Number: 3456-JK544. Female, age 8, brown hair, brown eyes... Mulder tried to slow himself as he read through the entry, but his eyes drifted toward the bottom of the page. ...suffering from erythroplakia and other indicators. Terminal. Pituitary DNA sampling ordered immediately upon expiration.. He drew in a sharp breath which caught the attention of the others. He held the book up so that Foster could see. "What does this mean? This part at the end - pituitary DNA sampling?" he asked in a voice tight with apprehension. Marita got up and retrieved the book from Mulder, handing it to Foster with the page marked. The former researcher scanned the area of text to which Mulder had alluded, then set the book carefully on the table. He removed his glasses and looked the agent straight in the eye, rubbing his chin as he chose his next words. "When we were at the facility, you mentioned the hospital beds and questioned the reasons for their presence." He cleared his throat nervously before he continued. "As you suspected, the beds were reserved for patients who were suffering side effects from the various experiments. Sometimes a test would not have the expected results, so a patient's cells would be altered by exposing them to doses of radiation. The radiation would cause the cells to mutate or change structurally. We had discovered early on that some body cells responded better to radiation exposure than others. One part that did not respond well was the brain. Altering cells within the brain had devastating and catastrophic side effects - retardation, loss of motor control, and in severe cases death." Foster stopped when he saw the look that had appeared on Mulder's face. The held up his hands to stop him. "Before you say anything, let me finish. We were not trying to harm these people, Fox. We tried to be as careful as we could." Mulder swallowed his retort with difficulty. He closed his eyes and laid down on the bed, the sight of the man suddenly making him nauseous. Foster looked from Mulder to Marita, trying to gauge her reaction. She met his eyes with an understanding smile and nodded for him to go on. "As I said, exposing brain cells had a negative effect, so we would protect that area with a lead lined hood. Like the lead blankets or vests that are used to protect patients who must have x-rays. As a result, there was a part of every individual that remained unaltered. A backup supply of the original DNA. If a subject became seriously ill and the prognosis was...terminal, the doctor would write the order that the pituitary gland be removed immediately upon death." Mulder sat up quickly and shot the older man a look that could kill. "Those bottles...in your lab, were they...samples...taken from...." He shook his head, unable to finish the question. His breath was coming in quick pants and Marita feared he was on the verge of either hyperventilation or explosion. Foster stiffened in his chair, bracing himself for Mulder's outburst. "Yes. Mostly. Some of them were taken from subjects before they became ill, but..." His sentence was cut short as Mulder sprang from the bed like a madman. "Shut up! Just shut up!" he screamed. "I don't want to hear any more about your experiments or tests or samples in bottles. The *person* in that book was my sister. You took her from me and exposed her to things that would kill her. Then you hacked her brain out and put it in a bottle for the sake of posterity? So you could do your little experiments on what was left?" He took a deep, shaky breath. "I should kill you right now, you son of bitch!" Marita, genuinely fearing for Foster's life, stood and approached Mulder as if he were a wounded animal. "It's okay. Calm down." she soothed softly. "We don't know for certain that the person in the book is your sister." Mulder turned his glare from Foster to her. "She was there! He said so himself!" he said pointing an accusing finger at the other man. She edged closer. "I know. But that may not be her." Foster stood, now fearing for Marita. "She's right. I know your sister was there, but I don't remember what happened to her." Mulder turned his attention back to Foster. "Well, that's a pretty convenient memory loss, isn't it? Nice try, but I've seen all the tricks." Foster shook his head vehemently as he moved to stand next to Marita. "No. It's true. There were so many, we didn't have personal contact." The agent chuckled, but there was no laughter in the action. "Oh, and that's supposed to make me feel better? To know that there were other children taken away and the people you left behind had their lives messed up too? Yeah, that's real comforting." Marita shot a horrified glance at Foster, afraid that Mulder's words had cut to the bone, but to his credit, Foster held steady. "Fox." He took a step closer. "That's the point. I know exactly how you feel. I don't know what happened to Tommy, the same as you don't know exactly what happened to your sister. Not every child that came to the facility died. Not all of them became ill. The only reason I remember your sister at all is that your father called and asked about her. I knew she was there, but I couldn't tell him; to do that would have certainly resulted in the death of my son." Mulder moved to sit on the bed and the others cleared a path for him. "So, I still don't know where Samantha is or what happened to her at the facility?" Foster sighed, not sure if what he was about to say would be a wise decision. "That's not necessarily true. If...if you truly believe that the entry in the book pertains to your sister and if you are absolutely certain that you want to know the truth, there might be a way to find out." Marita and Mulder both stared at him, but it was Mulder who asked first. "How?" The older man closed his eyes. "From the looks of things in my lab, it appears that all of the samples were left on the shelf. I don't know why. Perhaps there was no longer a need for them. But we could find the sample that corresponds to the subject number in the book and run a DNA text against a sample from your mother. It won't be an exact match, of course, but the indicators will show a relative match to within a few percentage points." It was Mulder's turn to close his eyes as he thought. It took only a few moments for him to reach a decision. "Let's go." End Part 10 The Partnership I: Dissolution (11/14) ****** Sunday 12:30 p.m. It had taken them several hours to travel from the motel back to the facility. Mulder had insisted on driving at a high rate of speed despite Marita's warning not to attract attention. Fortunately, there were no close encounters with the highway patrol. He had been nearly silent during the entire trip, reducing any forced communication to single syllable answers. And for some reason, that frightened her more than his uncontrolled outbreaks at the motel. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Foster had been equally uncommunicative. He had slept most of the time and Marita was afraid that he had finally reached his breaking point. It was becoming apparent that she would have to be the one to keep a level head. Her thoughts were interrupted as Mulder spoke for the first time in over an hour. "Did you find anything?" She frowned, confused by his question. "Excuse me?" "In the documents. Did you find any link to your father?" "No. Nothing." she said carefully, gauging his reaction. He nodded and returned his attention back to the road. --- As they crossed the railroad tracks about a half mile from the abandoned farmstead, Mulder tapped her arm lightly. She turned to him and saw the apprehension in his eyes. But that look quickly disappeared to be replaced by stony determination. "Wake him up," he said pointing toward the back seat. Marita unfastened her seatbelt and leaned over the back seat to gently shake the older man awake. "Foster. We're nearly there," she said softly, trying not to startle him. He nodded and slowly sat upright in his seat. As Mulder rounded the final curve, he had to fight to maintain his balance. The metal box, which he had insisted upon keeping by his side, slid to the other side of the vehicle. Mulder turned into the drive and braked just inches from the rusted chain that blocked the entrance to the lane. "Stay here," he said as he opened the car door. Marita grabbed his wrist before he had a chance to get out. "Fox. Wait. You shouldn't go in alone." "I'm a big boy. I'm not afraid of the dark," he said as he defiantly yanked his arm free from her grasp. She glared, rapidly becoming weary of his chameleon mood. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." She glanced back at Foster, who had almost returned to sleep. "I'll come with you. He needs his rest." Mulder nodded and began making his way up the lane, forcing Marita to jog to catch up. She stopped suddenly. "We left the book in the car." Mulder turned back toward her impatiently. "So?" "We need to know the number to find the correct sample." Mulder toed a small stone with his shoe. "I know it. By heart." As they neared the house, Mulder drew his gun and held his arm out to keep Marita behind him. She looked at him, her eyes wide with questions. He smiled slightly and shook his head. "Just in case." Mulder quietly mounted the back stairs and listened. The only sounds were birds in a nearby tree. He cautiously turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Everything looked as it had the other day; nothing had been disturbed. Marita followed him in to the kitchen and shut the door behind her. After listening intently for a few moments, Mulder dropped his arm to his side. He looked around the ruins of the large farm kitchen, allowing his mind to wander. He reached out his finger and ran it lightly over the back of the wooden chair, wondering if he could still feel her presence. Marita allowed him a few moments, then tugged at the sleeve of his coat. "We should get what we came for." He nodded and led the way to the basement lab. When they reached the metal door, Mulder took the other flashlight from Marita and lead the way down the stainless steel stairs, through the lab, and into the corridor. He paused at the windowed wall and looked in the hospital room. He closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. There would be time to think later. Marita continued on to Foster's lab, Mulder a few paces behind her. The silence of the lab was almost painful, quiet as death. They stood for a second and looked at all the shelves filled with small bottles. Not just samples and test subjects anymore. "What number are we looking for?" Marita asked in a hushed whisper. Mulder started slightly and let out the breath he had been holding. "3456-JK544," he answered with a shaky voice. She started at one end of the room, Mulder at the other. He walked up to the shelves and looked at the number on the first bottle, then the next. They appeared to be organized numerically by the first four digits. 3200. He moved down the shelves a little farther. 3300. A little more. 3400. Getting closer. 3450. Almost there. 3451, 52, 53, 54, 55. That was the last bottle on the shelf. 3456 was missing. "Damn it!" Mulder yelled, causing Marita to jump. "It's not here! Mulder slumped against the counter and let his head droop. Why? When he was so close. Suddenly, Marita gasped. "Fox. I believe I found it. 3456-JK544, is that correct?" Mulder's head jerked up in surprise and he quickly strode to stand beside her. She carefully handed him the bottle. "Is that it?" she asked softly. Mulder continued to stare at the bottle and she could see tears welling up in his eyes. Finally, he nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. As he held it up to the flashlight, his hands began to tremble. Quickly Marita placed her hand around his to keep the bottle from falling from his grasp. "We don't know anything for sure, Fox. We need to take this to the genetics lab in Baltimore. Foster gave me the name of a technician who can run the tests as soon as we get back. Okay?" Mulder took a deep breath and nodded his approval. She smiled at him sympathetically and ran her other hand across his cheek, wiping away the lone tear that had escaped. "Why don't you let me take that," she said pointing to the bottle. He looked at her. Hard. His eyes searching hers. She met his gaze and gently pried the sample from his grasp. "I'll take care of it. I promise." He sighed and loosened his grip. After taking one last look around, he quickly made his way up and out of the lab and outside. Mulder waited for Marita on the back porch. The fresh air and sunshine felt good after the gloom of the lab. Life versus death. As she started down the stairs, he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the car. "When do you think we will know something?" Marita shook her head. "Foster said we should know something by tomorrow night if we get this to the technician by morning. I'll contact him as soon as we are back in Baltimore." They waded through the tall grass, stepping carefully to avoid tripping over unseen objects. When they had almost reached the car, Mulder noticed that the rear door was standing open. He jogged the remainder of the distance, eager to tell Foster the news. He looked in the back seat. It was empty. When he looked up, Marita saw the panic creeping into his expression. "He's gone." "What?" Marita said with disbelief, bending down to check the back seat for herself. She stood up and looked around for any sign of the missing researcher. "He must be here somewhere. Maybe he went for a walk?" Mulder shook his head angrily. "No." He motioned for Marita to join him on the driver's side of the vehicle. As she approached, he stabbed his finger toward the interior of the car. There was a spot of blood on the seat. "The box is gone too. They got him." --- Monday, April 21, 1997 basement office Mulder entered the office halfheartedly, knowing that today may prove to be the turning point in his twenty-three year quest for his sister. He stopped short at the sight of papers all over the floor; it was very unusual for Scully to leave the office in disarray. He knelt down to pick up the nearest sheet and uncovered a photograph. The image was one he had stared at so many times - he knew it was permanently on display in his mind. Scully, bound and gagged, knowing she could die at any moment. He replayed the answering machine message, her cries for help mingling with the image of her blood and hair matted to the table, her smashed phone cutting off her final link to him. He saw her lying in the hospital, the memory of her covered with a blue sheet spliced with the imagined view of the tests they ran on her, the drill, the laser. Scully entered the office and found him kneeling on the floor, pieces of the file in her hand. "Enjoy visiting your mother, Mulder?" Her voice was as sharp as the laser he viewed in his mind. "When did she move to Chicago?" He looked up at her then, seeing not the fury in her eyes, but the vision of her smile when he woke in Alaska. The last time he thought he had found Samantha. "So Mulder, when will you be turning in your report to the OPC? Lack of collaboration on investigations? That's weak, Mulder. You and I both know you cut me out of this partnership whenever the mood suits you, depending upon me to cover your ass to Skinner, to whomever you pissed off this time." The anger surged through her body, and she balled her fists and planted them on her hips to keep them from visibly shaking. "Mulder, I knew from the start that you didn't want a partner, but believe me, you didn't have to go through all of this to get rid of me. I didn't want a partner either, Mulder. Did you ever think of that? What happened? Too much guilt to bear over me? What made you think you could just push me aside?" His mind was reeling from her tirade. She was furious, that much was clear, but he was too tired, too worn out, to understand her motives. He tried to find the words to respond, but failed. His lack of response infuriated her further. She walked toward him, towering over him as she had never done, making him look up to meet her eyes as she had always been forced to. "Mulder, I'm not some heartless robot pathologist only working on dead bodies. I see, I think, and I feel too. You don't care if you never understand what I feel just as long as I understand what *you* feel. You didn't make me trust you. No I just played right into your hands, so you could wash them of me at the most opportune time. So let me make this easier for you, because of course, I can't stand it when you get on your pity parties." With that, Mulder felt a spark of anger grow among the doubts and confusion. He opened his mouth to speak. "No, Mulder, I do not want this. I do not want to feel this way. When I was in the hospital, I told you my worst nightmare was you betraying me. You know that, and still, you act less with honor and integrity than with egotism and deceit. You lied to me. I once told you I couldn't figure out your reasons, but now I understand why you kept the truth from me. It wasn't some noble, protective instinct toward me, but it was a selfish self-preserving attempt to deflect your own guilt because you knew you were responsible!" "Scully, what the hell - ?" "Look Mulder, to maintain this partnership has required an almost-total sacrifice of my own needs - I have to tolerate the questioning and the lies I've discovered to have a functional working relationship with you. And with your deflections and your half-truths and your insistence on keeping me in the dark, you have demonstrated that you truly offer nothing more than contempt and tolerance in return." She threw her medical report at him, the action offering little release from the torrent of emotion. "Can you try to imagine what defenses I put up whenever we go on a case, whenever we confront some unbelievable horror? Try to imagine what I thought when I read this. It tells me not only that you know what they did to me, but that you've known all along. It tells me that you were responsible for it just as if you were one of the doctors!" He stared at the report, still not comprehending what she was saying, but realizing he needed to try to defuse the situation. "Scully, please, calm down. Look, I don't know what's going on - " "No, you look. Look at me Mulder. Look at me. I'm so much like you, but you just ignore that whenever you need the pity. I've lost my father. I've lost my sister too, and she's never coming back Mulder. I'll never see her again, and I have no hope, no stupid abduction theory to explain away the bullet in her head." His eyes flared at the suggestion. While he knew he should try to reason with her, identify the cause of her anger, the intimation that his quest, both past and present, was not legitimate, was prompting a more impulsive reaction. "Scully, I know you're upset... "Oh, you know a lot of things, don't you? You know what I have that you don't? Or, more correctly, you know what you have that I don't? You've got three months, August 1994 to October 1994. You've got memories of the baseball strike, the cases you worked, your birthday party, how many fish you went through. I have nothing but some Navajo words describing me as merchandise for the goddamn Nazis. I have nothing to look forward to except some inoperable tumors that no doctor will hope to even diagnose, much less treat." "That's enough Scully! What the hell do you think you're saying? You think I made it up? You think I wanted this to happen to you?" "Mulder, I don't care what you want! You've made it very clear that my feelings don't matter one damn bit. So fine, I'll just move on and figure out what happened to me, since you haven't seen fit to tell me. But you sure as hell know, don't you? You know about the implants in my gums and my sinuses and my abdomen. You know about their ability to track me wherever I went. Is that how the alien traced me to the hotel room pretending to be you? Is that how they found us in New Mexico? You knew that it could inflict some illness on me whenever they decided we were too close to the truth. So was the television thing just a charade? What's next? Will I have some pathetic past life regression too?" Just as he could not understand why she was saying such hurtful things, he could not halt the words that would wound her just as much. "At least I know that I'm capable of more than just hovering over dead bodies. You know, I never understood why people called you the Ice Queen, but I guess I understand now." She had believed she had reached the height of her anger, but the old hated name propelled her further, removed the last shred of composure and discipline. "I'm leaving, Mulder. I'm leaving before giving you the opportunity to humiliate me professionally with the review board, as if the Senate didn't do a good enough job the last time." She stepped over the paper she had thrown and slammed the door of the office, leaving a stunned Mulder sitting on the floor surrounded by the evidence he had generated the last time she had left him. --- Skinner's office 1:30 p.m. He wasn't surprised to see her in his waiting room, but he had expected her to wait until later in the day. He opened the door to allow her in, nodding at her to combat her hesitation. "Agent Scully." He looked at her closely again, seeing the circles under her eyes and the set of her jaw. She was determined, but had evidently spent many hours on her decision. "Thank you for seeing me on short notice, sir. I'm sorry to be disturbing you." She looked around the room, seeking an object or item to focus on and settled on the closed door. "I take it you have made a decision?" Skinner had never been one to make small talk. Scully looked at the doorknob as if gaining strength for her speech. "Yes, sir. I've decided to take the transfer." Only after she said the words could she look up at Skinner. He exhaled slowly. "Scully, sit down for a moment, will you?" Staying to discuss this with him was the last thing she wanted to do at this point. Scully felt the same trepidation she had when she had informed her parents of her decision to enter the FBI, a decision her father had bitterly protested. She imagined he still held the same contempt for her decision today, just another form of running away. "Sir, I've taken up enough of your time - " "Yes, you have, but I want to make sure this is a decision you have thought through." He knew by the spark of anger on her face that he had hit a nerve, which was better than the passivity he had been witness to for the past week. She paused for a moment, the weariness beginning to show. "Sir, it seems black and white to me. I transfer, no review. No review, the X-Files stay open." "Scully, it's not that simple." "It is." She wasn't sure she could say much more than that. "Scully - Dana. You need to stop for a moment, talk with Mulder on this." Which saddened her more? His use of her first name or his advice to talk with her partner? She looked down, unable to stop the single tear. She angrily wiped her hand across her face, and the sting on her cheek gave her the resolve she needed. She looked up. "Mulder has already made his opinions known. This is my decision, and it is final. I would appreciate it, if you would please not inform him of my whereabouts. "Scully, there won't be any way to hide that information." "He doesn't have access to my personnel file, not if I'm no longer assigned to him. Skinner saw the fire flash in her eyes, although the motive for it still seemed fragile. "I'll process the paperwork tomorrow." End Part 11 The Partnership I: Dissolution (12/14) ****** Monday night Mulder checked the time on his watch. It was now 8:58. A whole three minutes had elapsed since the last time he had looked. Marita had called this morning (no cryptic message this time?) to inform him that the parcel had been delivered and he was to meet her outside the Baltimore lab at nine tonight. He checked his watch again. 9:01. So where was she? He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Why was everyone making this so difficult? Foster was missing. Marita was late. Scully...he had no clue about what had gotten into her. She had been, for lack of a better term, bitchy lately. Questioning his motives, inquiring into his whereabouts. Okay. Be fair. She always did that. It was her job as his partner and his friend. But this afternoon she had been hostile, even brutal. She'd said something or another about leaving. Maybe she just needed a little vacation, some time away from him and the office. He had intended on telling her everything today, needing her guidance with this matter. It was just way too close to the heart for him to think rationally. He was so tired and so confused. But when she had stormed into the office and nailed him to the wall with her words, he lost his nerve. Maybe he should call her right now. Explain the situation. Marita would probably hit the roof, but he didn't care. Scully would know what to do. As he reached into his coat pocket for his cellular, he was blinded by the headlights from an approaching car. He dropped the phone and went for his gun instead. Suddenly, Marita appeared at his window. "Come on. We have to hurry. I think I'm being followed." Mulder grabbed a folder from the front seat and followed her as she ran to the side entrance of the building. When he rounded the corner, she was knocking furiously on the door. "Are you okay?" he asked with concern. She glared at him coolly. "Yes. I'm fine, but I will feel better when we are inside." At that moment the door swung open and a hand motioned for the to come in. They entered hastily and Mulder slammed the door behind him. He pulled on the door again to make sure that the automatic locking mechanism was working. By the time he had turned back around, Marita and another man in a white lab coat were half way down the corridor. He had to jog to catch up. When he was even with them, he looked from Marita to the man at her side. The technician caught Mulder's stare and reached a hand out to him. "Mr. Mulder?" he said shaking the agent's hand without breaking stride. Mulder nodded, waiting for an introduction, but none was offered. "Is that the comparative sample?" the man in the lab coat asked gesturing toward the folder in Mulder's hand. "May I see it?" Mulder hesitated momentarily, then handed the folder him. The technician pulled the PCR sheet from its covering and held it up to the light. "Yes, this is good. It will work just fine." Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. It had been difficult to obtain a DNA sample from his mother without her knowledge. He couldn't come right out and ask; not without scaring her. When Foster had alluded to the fact that his mother was a carrier of the gene that made cloning easier, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted to see for himself. As he stood in his mother's house, searching for a way to delicately broach the subject, an idea struck. In many of his investigations, DNA tests had been run on small amounts of trace evidence found at the crime scene. Trace evidence, including hair follicles. He nonchalantly excused himself from his mother's presence and went into her bathroom. He had felt like a voyeur and a spy rummaging through his mother's personal toiletries until he found her comb. Agent Pendrell assumed the sample was from a current investigation and had run the DNA test, no questions asked. They reached the door at the end of the hall and the man held the door for Marita and Mulder to enter. "Excuse me. This will take a few minutes to set up," he said over his shoulder as he made his way to the bank of computers along the far wall. Mulder gazed around the room at all the technical equipment. Complicated machines with complicated functions. He shook his head in amazement. Fearful of touching anything, he took a seat in a hard plastic chair in the corner. His body was coiled tight with both nervous energy and fatigue. It had been weeks since he had been calm enough to get any useful amount of sleep. Leaning forward in the chair, he hid his face behind his hands, silently willing the technician to hurry. Sometimes the waiting was the hardest part. Marita watched him out of the corner of her eye. She could almost see the waves of anxiety radiating from him, he twitched with every sound. But she could also sense that any attention would be unwanted, so she let him have his space. Mulder jumped when the technician finally announced that he was finished. He walked over to stand behind the technician seated in front of one of the computer monitors. "Very interesting results," he said pointing to the computer screen. "This is the PCR from the tissue sample that you brought me this morning. The other is from the sheet Mr. Mulder brought tonight. Computer analysis shows about an 85 percent correlation. Very high. If I had to guess, I would say that these two individuals are closely related. Probably mother and daughter." Marita turned to watch as Mulder took a staggering step back. His eyes were dilated with a look of shock and disbelief. He looked as if he wanted to speak, but the only sound was his breath coming out in ragged puffs. Slowly he shook his head as he continued to back toward the door. Mother and daughter. Mother and daughter, the voice said over and over in his head. NO! When his back hit the door, he quickly turned and fled from the room. He was running. Running as fast as he could. Away from the man and his correlated percentages. Away from the building that housed the complicated equipment. Away from Marita, her eyes filled with sympathy. Away from the truth that Samantha was dead. He kept running until he burst through the door and into the cold night air. As he drew in a shaky breath, his first thought was of Scully. She would know. She could tell him that there must be a mistake. He had felt, deep down, that he had found all that remained of Samantha. But to actually hear the words took his breath away and made his mind scream with pure agony. He fumbled in his coat pocket for his cell phone, his constant link to the one person who would always tell him the truth. With shaking hands he dialed her number. The recording said that the number was out of service. No. That was wrong. He must have mis-dialed. He tried again with the same result. he screamed in his head. In frustration, he threw the phone as hard and as far as he could. Marita exited the building in time to witness his act of anger. She went to him as he stood at the end of the parking lot, his head bowed in defeat. She laid a hand on his back and waited as he flinched. "Fox, I'm so sorry." She ran her hand up and down his back for a few seconds, her eyes constantly scanning the area. "Fox. It's not safe here. We need to leave." She tugged on his arm, willing him to follow her. "I'll take you back to my hotel. You're in no condition to drive." After a moment, he turned and shuffled to her car, his feet dragging on the pavement as if it took too much effort to lift them. The ride to the hotel was silent. Mulder was lost somewhere deep in his thoughts and she didn't want to intrude. She wished he would say something or do something. It was if he had shut himself down. Marita guided him down the hall to her room and unlocked the door. With a gentle hand on his arm, she lead him to the bed and sat him on the edge. "You need to rest. You're exhausted," she said quietly. She knelt on the floor to remove his shoes and when she looked up she saw tears silently running down his cheeks. A wave of sympathy washed over her and she leaned forward to wrap her arms around his waist. She laid his head on her shoulder and rubbed his neck. Warm drops fell into her hair, bathing her with his grief. She sat up and cupped his face in her hands. "Fox, it won't always hurt this bad." Her thumbs wiped the tears from his face and she placed a gentle kiss on each check. "I promise." She looked at him intently, sending a message not so much with her words as with her eyes. --- Tuesday, April 22 8:30 a.m. Skinner's administrative assistant, Jeannie, picked up the telephone receiver as soon as Mulder came through the door. Glancing up quickly, she caught his attention by holding up one finger; a signal for him to wait. "Agent Mulder is here," she said into the mouthpiece. There was a moment of silence as she nodded her head in response to her boss's directions. "Yes, sir. I will." She hung up the phone and turned in her chair to face the waiting agent. "Assistant Director Skinner is in an important meeting at the moment. I was told to tell you to wait here." Mulder closed his eyes and threw back his head in an outward display of frustration. "Did he say how long?" Jeannie shook her head. "No. He didn't." He was powerless to stop the tiny snort that came from his mouth, content with having stopped the snide retort that was burning for release. When Jeannie looked up at him, he gave a slight smile and sat down on the vinyl sofa next to the door. He rubbed his hands over his eyes before slumping back in the seat. It had been a long night. Hell, it had been a long week. He was emotionally and physically exhausted. He thought it would be different, finally knowing the truth about Samantha. Thought it would give him a sense of closure, but in fact the opposite was true. Last night, he had felt naked and raw and had fallen into a deep sleep on Marita's hotel bed. Now, he just felt numb. He wished he could talk to Scully. She, more than anyone else, would understand his feelings and know how to put them into perspective. He had tried to call her again this morning, but found that her cell phone was still out of service and her answering machine wasn't picking up. She hadn't come into the office, either. Maybe she had decided to take a few days, cool off, work through whatever it was that had made her direct her frustrations at him. As the moments passed, Jeannie watched him as he sat with his head tipped back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling tiles. "Agent Mulder?" she asked finally. "Have you heard from Agent Scully?" He sat up quickly. "No. Why?" Jeannie shrugged. "I thought maybe...." Her sentence was cut short by the insistent buzz of the intercom. She picked up the receiver. "Yes, sir." Mulder was still staring at her when she turned toward him. "The Assistant Director will see you now." He rose and stood in front of her desk. "Ms. Phelps? You thought maybe what?" Jeannie shook her head and pointed toward the door. "You had better go in," she said curtly. Skinner was intently studying the file in front of him when Mulder entered. "Sit down, Agent Mulder," he said without looking up. Mulder settled himself in the chair in front of the desk and waited for Skinner to continue. After a long moment, the AD sat back and pinned the younger man with an icy stare. "Would you care to tell me what you have been up to for the past two months?" Mulder cocked his head in confusion. "Sir?" Skinner's tone took on more exasperation. "Let's start with an unauthorized trip to New York City on February 20." The agent shook his head, wondering why that particular event had caught Skinner's attention. It was not unusual for him and Scully to take off on an investigation at a moment's notice. Sometimes it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. "Sir, I was following up on a potential lead in connection with the stabbing case in Virginia." Skinner nodded his head slightly. "And what did you find?" Mulder shrugged. "Nothing. There was no connection to our investigation." "Where is the 302 and other paperwork for this...follow up?" Mulder broke eye contact for the first time since Skinner had initiated it. He looked at his hands folded in his lap, a slight grimace crossing his face. "I haven't filed it yet, sir. Scully and I got involved in another investigation and the stabbing case wasn't ours. We were only called in for a consult. I'll work on it right away." "See that you do," Skinner said with an air of authority. Mulder nodded and silently breathed a sigh of relief as he started to stand. "Is that all, sir?" Skinner held up his hand. "Sit down, Mulder. I'm not finished." The AD rose from his chair and turned his back to the younger man, directing his attention to the scene outside his window. "Where were you last week?" Mulder tensed and sat up straighter in his seat, unclear where this line of questioning was headed. "Sir, I took some personal time. We discussed this before I left." Skinner removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling to stay in control. "Where did you go? What did you do?" Mulder shook his head in disbelief. "The term personal time implies that I attended to some *personal* affairs. With all due respect, sir, it's none of your business what I do on my own time." Skinner whirled to face the man seated in front of him. "It becomes my business when one of my agents is being accused of murder." Mulder's next breath caught in his throat. "What? What are you talking about?" The AD picked up the file from his desk and tossed at Mulder. "Randolph Foster. Found yesterday morning, floating in the Chicago River, a single bullet to the head. A bullet that matches a ballistics record on file with the ATF. Your gun, Mulder. According to statement taken from Foster's wife, he met with you in Chicago last week." The agent shook his head. "Sir, I did meet with him, but he disappeared Saturday..." Skinner held up his hand. "Save it for the review committee, Agent Mulder. You are in too deep for me to protect you this time. I suggest you get your affairs in order. Full documentation of your whereabouts and activities since April 14." Mulder ground his jaw and tried to keep from screaming. The bastards had set him up. Let him know the truth, but had stripped him of the proof of their dirty work. Skinner gave him a minute, then continued. "In the meantime, you have been suspended. The X-Files are to be closed and any current investigations have been transferred to other units." "Sir, Agent Scully is perfectly capable of carrying on with our cases until this mess has been cleared up. Transferring these cases to other units will certainly result with them being classified unsolved." Skinner looked at Mulder, suddenly realizing that Mulder had not been told of Scully's reassignment. He remembered her face the previous day, her loss of composure in front of him, and felt the anger swell up in her defense. He placed both hands on the desk and leaned across it, staring straight into Mulder's confused eyes. "Oh really? So she can ride in and save your ass again? Not anymore, Mulder. Agent Scully has been transferred from the X-Files, effective as of last Friday." Mulder looked as though he'd been punched in the gut. Hard. "What do you mean, she was transferred?" "Look Mulder, while you've been basically screwing off for the past two months, Agent Scully has been covering your every move. And it cost her. She had a choice, transfer out of the division or risk the closing of the division, a closing I might add, that your actions have effectively initiated. She chose to leave - one last effort to save you and the X-Files." "Sir - " He looked up at Skinner, trying to get his mind to work again. "She cited that irreconcilable differences in investigative procedures and in your working relationship had left her with no alternative but to seek reassignment.." "Irreconcilable differences?" Skinner stood up abruptly and held out his hands. "Her words, not mine. Considering that you submitted - " He stopped, deciding not to continue. "Did she go back to Quantico?" Skinner turned back to face the window "That will be all, Agent Mulder." Mulder stood up, the pent up anger fighting for some sort of release. "Damn it, Skinner, where did she go?" Skinner turned once again to look at Mulder. It was obvious that he was exhausted, overworked and on the edge of the breakdown he had always just avoided. And many times the difference between Mulder's crossing that line had been Agent Scully, a fact her disappearance had driven home. Whatever lessons Mulder had learned during that time seemed to be forgotten. Skinner hesitated for a moment, weighing the potential damage of breaking his promise to Scully and losing the most effective agent he supervised. "Agent Scully has been reassigned. As you are no longer her supervisor, her file is now off-limits." "But sir - " "Close the door on your way out, Agent Mulder." --- Tuesday, April 22, 1997 7:30 p.m. He stood at the entrance to her building, seeing the light on through the drawn shades. He hadn't been able to spot her shadow moving in the apartment, but he knew she was there, knew she was avoiding him. He'd called her countless times, both on her home number and on her cellular, and the realization had finally been absorbed that she had deliberately cut off her phone number. He had been reviewing everything she had yelled to him the previous day and combined that with what he'd gleaned from Skinner. He knew now he had been wrong. Problem was - he wasn't sure if he could right it. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, and fumbled through them awkwardly. It wasn't often that he came to Scully's apartment. In fact, it had been a long time since he had visited, whether work related or just to ease the loneliness. But he'd never had occasion to enter without her. She, of course, had to search his apartment three or four times a month, it seemed, to find some clue as to his whereabouts. Still, when they had first discussed sharing keys, she had made it clear that she was willing to trust him as far as he trusted her. He had never offered access to his apartment to any of his previous partners before, and he remembered the odd feeling that struck him as he had handed her the key. He hadn't been nervous or unwilling. He had almost felt - relieved. Someone to share his burden. Someone to support him, someone who would question his theories without questioning him, a quality he had not recognized he needed until she presented it to him. She had always disagreed with him, countered his leaps in fantasy with her precise logic. But she had never mocked him. Had she realized then how much influence she exercised over him? Would she be willing to extend that to him again? He knocked on the door and bent slightly to detect any sounds of movement. Her stereo was usually playing at a low volume, whatever the latest female singer she had taken a liking to. He could almost see her inside, curled up on her couch reading a book or snacking on her cookie dough ice cream. The vision did little to improve his mood. He knocked again, this time, louder and longer. He'd give her another minute to reconcile herself to his presence before keying in. After the difficult cases, which numbered many more than the easier ones, he usually left her alone for a while. He knew he was truly a pain in the ass to work with, despite her diplomacy in avoiding the comment when they first began working together, and that a little recovery time was necessary for her. Perhaps he was underestimating how long she would need. He grasped the door knob and extended the key, then paused and stared at the door. The lock was different that what he had remembered. And by the look of the sawdust on the floor, the locksmith had visited today. In the past, he had had motive and justification for kicking her door in to find her. Tooms. Pfaster. He had burst into her hotel room to find out exactly who was shooting at the hotel manager. Each time he had possessed a valid reason - her safety. Tonight he considered his options. His wish to pour out his soul to her. Her wish to isolate herself from him, sent by messenger through Skinner. Well, he'd give her what she wanted tonight. He walked away. End Part 12 The Partnership I: Dissolution (13/14) ****** Wednesday, April 23 Scully's apartment 7:00 a.m. She swung her knapsack over her shoulder, looking all the more like a young college student instead of the established career woman headed out for a new chapter of her life. She picked up her keys and airline tickets from the table and walked into her living room. This apartment had served her well in the six years she had occupied it. She remembered moving in, lugging the pathetic collection of plastic milk crates and cardboard underbed boxes, symbols of her poor college student existence for so long. Her first major purchase had been the striped couch, with big cushions perfect for curling up against with her latest novel. That would be a novel, not a textbook. Next came the armoire, the small kitchen table, and the stereo. She hadn't had time to put things in storage, and her mother had mentioned a young couple at church who were looking for an apartment. She would take care of the sublet agreement, and Scully knew this offer was really just another task she could keep herself busy doing while her daughter went off on assignment. Maggie Scully walked out of the kitchen, satisfied that all electrical appliances were unplugged and that all traces of food and crumbs were removed. After long hours of conversation the previous weekend, Maggie had privately come to the decision that nothing she could say would persuade her daughter to stay. She reconciled herself to be supportive, knowing the time for regrets for her Dana would come soon enough. She slid an arm around her daughter's waist. "Ready to go, honey?" A look at Dana's face told her that the regrets had begun sooner than she had anticipated. Scully paused for another moment, looking at her hand on the new doorknob. She had heard Mulder's knocking the previous night, had been packing up her books in her bedroom. For a few moments, she had traveled back and forth between forgiving him and forgetting him, and she had decided between the two just as she heard Mulder's car engine sputter in the street. She hadn't moved to the window to look, instead busying herself with old medical textbooks she probably would wish she had brought with her on her trip. "Dana?" Maggie bent forward to look more closely at her daughter's face, and was met with a small smile. Most definitely, the introverted nature her daughter had developed would allow for many regrets on the long plane ride. "Mom, I know you want to take me to the airport, but I'd rather take the shuttle this time. Like I did in college. This is an adventure, just like those others." Maggie considered the request for a moment. She remembered her daughter's excitement at going back to school, pursuing her degree with a zealousness of which her father had been very proud. She also knew of her daughter's fierce need of privacy, and suspected this was more an opportunity for her daughter to cry in solitude. She wavered back and forth for a moment and looked at her daughter's blue eyes, so much like her own. "Mom. I'll be fine. Trust me." Maggie nodded a quick agreement before clutching her daughter into a tight hug. "I love you, Dana." "I love you too, Mom." --- Wednesday, April 23 Skinner's office 6:00 p.m. For the first time in a long time, the smell of smoke permeated the corridor to Skinner's office. Mulder almost didn't catch the odor, but the whiff he finally identified put him even more on edge. Jeannie was not at her desk, having been allowed the sanctity of a contract enforcing an eight-hour day, so he knocked on the outer door. "Come in." Mulder stepped through the door and stopped, looking down at the floor in dejection. Cancer Man sat in the corner couch, puffing on the latest Morley, defying once again the "Thank you for not smoking" sign on Skinner's desk. "Agent Mulder, have a seat." Skinner turned to face him fully, but his expression was unreadable. Mulder quietly placed his report on Skinner's desk and sat down. Skinner picked up a piece of Bureau letterhead and began reading. "Agent Mulder, due to your involvement in the death of Randolph Foster, I am placing you on suspension until May 7, 1997. You will not receive compensation for this time, nor will you be allowed to use any Bureau services. At the conclusion of your suspension, you will be temporarily assigned to the Violent Crimes Unit, at a pay grade two steps below your current position. Your supervisor will be Special Agent Thomas Colton. Any further misconduct will result in your immediate termination from the Bureau." Skinner paused and looked at Mulder. The agent looked at the desktop with the gaze of a death row prisoner hearing his last rights. Skinner gritted his teeth and continued. "The X-Files division has been permanently closed. All case logs and related material will be removed to Central Files for storage effective Friday, April 25." Skinner waited for some reaction from the agent in front of him. Indignance, fury, even a mild anger. What he saw was resignation. Mulder stood slowly, pulling his badge and service weapon and laying them on Skinner's desk. Skinner watched him closely, waiting for him to spring. He turned toward the couch, staring at the personification of Evil. "You took everything from me." The words were soft, almost inaudible. "If you only knew what I've given you, Agent Mulder. It will be more valuable than you imagine. More important than anything you've known." The voice crackled with smug omniscience. With a last glance at his former supervisor, Mulder left the office. --- He walked into his apartment and looked around for the ringing cordless phone. His survey caught the answering machine light, and he resented its insisting blinking, knowing another message waited for him that would draw him further into the darkness. How much more could it cost him? He let the machine pick up the call, wishing it were Scully on the line. He was startled by the sound of her voice. "Fox, this is Margaret Scully." He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. "I was hoping you would call me when you get home. I'd like to speak with you." He picked up the phone. "I'm here." But he only heard the sound of the dial tone. --- He had stood on this porch once before, looking in the window, waiting impatiently for her to answer the doorbell. He didn't know the end result then, and he felt the same uncertainty now. His only consolation was that he didn't have to tell Mrs. Scully that her daughter was dead. He only had to tell her that her daughter hated him. A twelve year old voice echoed quietly, What could he tell Mrs. Scully that would make her understand? What words could he use to describe his regret, his shame? How could he atone for this sin? I have betrayed your daughter, Mrs. Scully, one last time. And she will never forgive me. He heard her footsteps nearing the door and steeled himself for her condemnation. He felt his neck muscles tense and ground his teeth together, an oft-practiced response from his youth. The door swung open, revealing Maggie Scully, her face reflecting fatigue and worry. She smiled wanly at him, and stepped aside to invite him in. His initial response was to flinch, although she had made no move toward him. Her face turned quizzical, and he quickly coughed to try and cover his nervousness. As he entered the home, he half expected Scully to plant herself in the entryway, a gun aimed at his head. He turned to Mrs. Scully and, mindful of his last encounter in this very place, asked quietly, "Is she here?" She winced at his words, and he quickly regretted reminding her of that event too. "Fox, I'm glad you came." He hadn't realized he was holding his breath, but her simple words of welcome caused the air to rush out of him before he could disguise it. She continued to look at him, and brought him into her living room to sit on the couch. "Would you like some coffee? You look like you could use some." "Uh, thank you, Mrs. Scully, but, uh, no thank you. I haven't been sleeping well, so..." He looked down at his hands, waiting for the expected reproach, knowing that what she was going to say would only cut him into smaller shreds. "I'm sorry to hear that." Was she lying to him? Setting him up for a long tirade about abusing her daughter? Preparing for a rampage about bringing more sorrow and pain into her life? He didn't dare look at her, just in case her Scully-blue eyes held the same contempt her daughter's had earlier that week. The tone of her voice was calm, soothing. "Fox, I know that you and Dana, well, that Dana has ended your partnership." He nodded just a bit, continuing the motion unconsciously, the rocking comforting him as it did when he was a child. "Fox." Her tone held the maternal 'Look at me' quality he had been trained never to ignore. He breathed in deeply one last time before raising his head to meet her eyes. Where he saw compassion. Understanding. Even forgiveness. The same qualities Scully had bestowed upon him so many times, before he had exhausted her supply. A look he had never expected to see again. "For her last birthday, I gave Dana a journal to write in. I knew that she was having a difficult time, and I thought keeping a diary might be good for her. She used to do that when she was a little girl, but stopped writing when she started studying so much." He smiled faintly, glancing at the picture of a pig-tailed Dana on the shoulders of her older brother. "She gave me the journal and asked me to keep it while she was away. It had a letter for you in it." He watched her rise and cross to the mantel, pulling a slender crimson volume from the shelf. She turned and came to stand in front of him. "Fox, I know that you respect my daughter. I know you trust her. I don't know what happened or why she left, but I know she's hurting. And you are too." He could not hold her gaze any longer, the guilt and sorrow washing over him. He looked at the book in her hands, watching with amazement as she extended it toward him. "Perhaps you should be the one to keep this." He took the envelope and shoved it in his coat, not wanting to see his name in her handwriting. His fingers traced the journal, feeling its fabric cover. Again, the last thing of hers he would have. Scully. I need your help. Scully. She was gone. Now when he realized how deeply he truly needed her, she had left him. <'You don't care if you never understand how I feel, just as long as I understand how you feel.'> He stared at the journal. Here were her private thoughts, her feelings. Here he could understand what he had done to her. "Mrs. Scully, I can't." "Fox - " He stood up, pushing the book back into her hand. "No, please, Mrs. Scully. I can't do that. She believes I betrayed her, and...she's right. Taking this would just be one more betrayal, and I can't do that to her again. Please, thank you, but I can't take this. I'm sorry. I'm so sor - " His voice broke, and he lowered his eyes, walking quickly to open the door. "Fox, please don't go." Mrs. Scully followed him to the door, catching it before it could close. He turned to look at her one final time. "Mrs. Scully, please. Just know that I'm sorry." --- He sat in his car, the security light of his building's parking lot giving him enough illumination to read the letter he had been handed. Mulder - I wish that you had trustworthy people in your life like my mother, older people with valuable life experience and the caring and compassion toward you, who could advise you, support you, console you when you grieve, listen when you need to yell. Perhaps that is one of those needs you looked to people like Deep Throat to fill. At one time, I thought I filled that need for you. I stand on my own, Mulder. I choose to do so. It is not my most ideal way of living my life, but I will follow my instincts because they are now the only thing I can rely upon. I'm taking a different path in my life than I ever dreamed of walking. I have to depend upon myself and no one else to assuage the needs I have. There are but few confidantes in my life. My mother, my sister. You once were a confidante. You were the only person whose opinion I sought about so many issues, perhaps because you were the only one who could possibly understand. I gave you the most precious of possessions I have - my respect, my loyalty, my trust. Our partnership has always seemed just a bit fictional, fantasy-like. With us there were just too many similarities in two people with such opposite experiences. Too many complementary differences and too many idealistic parallels. Based on respect, on trust. Trust No One, Mulder. That's your mantra. Who is more trustworthy than someone who trusts no one else, someone who understands its paramount importance so thoroughly that he offers it to no one? That's why I trusted you. I see now I was wrong, so terribly, terribly wrong. And I have no one to blame but myself. I leave you now, heading on to a new assignment, a second chance to distinguish myself. Few are so lucky as to receive a second chance, and I must maximize this opportunity. You will continue your search for answers. Without me. But your search was always yours - it was never ours. Don't write. Don't call. Don't try to find me. Grant me the security of not having to look over my shoulder for you. Allow me the peace of mind that I need, that I deserve. I need to be away from you. End Part 13 The Partnership I: Dissolution (14/14) ****** 9:21 pm His footsteps on the walk to his apartment were those of an old man, shuffling with the dejection of knowing his best days were behind him, that all the lie ahead was the waiting. Waiting for the end. He reached into his pocket for his keys and felt the leather holster at his side. His gun. Not his standard issue weapon, but his spare. He usually kept it by his ankle, but now he only carried one. Loaded. Ready. The key slid into the lock, the deadbolt sounding more like a thunderbolt in the hallway. Mulder pushed the door open and threw his keys on the table. He caught his reflection in the picture frame - disheveled, defeated. His eyes were unfocused, almost dead. He was almost dead too. His apartment was pitch black. Appropriate. He sat on his couch, and moved his hand to his weapon. He had given thought to this before, wondered how it would feel to put the gun to his head of his own volition. His hand shook and his breathing became wildly erratic. He was exhausted. It wasn't just one night, or even the last few days. It was the knowledge of twenty-three years, searching, believing, enduring the sarcastic comments, hitting walls everywhere he turned. The culmination of his life's work resulting in one small bottle of human tissue, the last relic of his baby sister. The guilt of knowing he was to have ended up in that bottle, were it not for some fateful decision to take Samantha instead. The relief that it hadn't been him, compounded by the self-recrimination at the fleeting thought of wishing his sister dead. The anger at being played for a fool for so long, following the lure of Samantha like a bear to honey, not realizing the manipulation. The sorrow of never seeing his sister again. And the disorientation as to what he should do next. He was finished with the X-Files. If Samantha determined his life's course, then the X-Files were his livelihood. Day after day he retained the same fascination he had experienced when he first found the archives. Like a mathematical genius relegated to adding single digit numbers, he had merely been waiting for these cases to come along, the true test of his abilities. He flourished, and with Scully's help, he finally felt the satisfaction he craved. He hadn't found Samantha, but he could make a difference for the families in a way no one had been able to offer him. As Scully kept reminding him, his involvement saved lives. Just not Samantha's. Not his. Not Scully's. She was gone, beyond his reach. Furthermore, she had said she didn't want him in her life anymore. She had reached her limit, or more correctly, he had pushed her over her limit. His best friend - hell, his only friend - and he had driven her away from him. Not just from him, but from her family, her job. She had given up everything she had. Not the act of a reckless woman, but one considered carefully - Scully never did anything without measuring the pros and cons. She was precise, methodical, logical, and he knew without invoking a god that he had needed that scientific method of hers now more than ever. He held the gun in his hands, the sweat gathering on his palms making it slippery and warm. Could he do this? What stopped him from just finishing it, right here on the couch where he'd spent so many terror-filled nights anyway? He was scared. "Mulder." A woman's voice. "Scul..." he started, his voice giving out before the last syllable. He stood slowly, swaying as if intoxicated, and she turned his body toward her. She stepped closer and placed her hand on his neck, gently bending his head down to her shoulder, rubbing his neck soothingly, reaching to put her chin on his shoulder. One of his hands clutched her shoulder, and the other moved up to her waist for balance. His eyes squeezed tightly shut to fight his tears. At first he thought he would rest a minute here, taking a small measure of comfort before talking to her. But he would rest just a minute first. He pulled his head away from her shoulder, wishing he had some privacy to compose himself instead of facing her. He looked over her shoulder and waited for his head to empty itself of the jumbled visions... a picture of Samantha on a jungle gym his bloodied partner held hostage by the morphing alien a newspaper-covered lair his father's lifeless body on the bathroom floor a gold cross necklace in the trunk of a car a computer printer furiously spitting out the evidence of contact Alex Krycek extending his hand, looking for all the world like a paper doll G-man Scully aiming a gun at him the black cancer entering his body as he struggled with the wire mesh his mother hooked up to the life-sustaining machines, unconscious a letter written on simple white paper, the last contact with the most important person in his life He looked at her suddenly, dazed. Her eyes were dark. "Let me help you." He stared into her eyes. How her blue eyes reminded him of deep pools of water, like the sea, swirling endlessly, drawing him in... She leaned toward him, brushing her lips softly against his. He straightened abruptly, his breath escaping him as sharply as if he had been struck. He stared into her eyes again, looking for a message. Again, she met his stare without flinching, without doubt. She placed one hand on his cheek and moved her other hand around his waist. She met his gaze evenly. He tightened his grip around her waist and pulled her close. The heat from her body both comforting and electrifying him. As he drew a deep breath, the soft scent of her perfume filled him with desire. She pulled away slightly and whispered softly in his ear. "I'm here." Mulder's pulse raced at the sound of her voice. She really was here for him. Body and soul. When he opened his eyes, he was mesmerized by the sight of his hand tangled in her silky blond hair. Delicate strands of spun gold. Just for tonight, when he had lost everything else, he would not let *her* go. He closed his eyes and urgently sought her lips. Finis - The Partnership I: Dissolution ************ Author's Notes For those of you that may be interested, we wanted to provide some background into our journey in composing this little ditty. Obviously, the Roman numeral used in the series title implies that more is coming, so we'll try not to tease while exploring our motivations as authors. This is one of the purposes of the fictalk list, so we'd like to start some of that conversation here. First, you have to understand the collaboration, which originated in the Beta Readers Circle moderated by Kathleen Lietz. Glymax had the initial vignette and Anne was the editor. Then we switched roles for the second vignette, and put both under the series title Perspectives. One fateful October day, Glymax mentioned another work she had been composing, but was tired of the story. She offered it to Anne, who suggested a character change. That character was initially named Marissa, who transformed into the just-introduced Marita Covarrubias. From there, off we went. Dissolution is actually the prequel to Glymax's original story. Second, our individual perspectives. Glymax writes from Mulder's perspective, and Anne is a diehard Scully-ite. If you can discern each individual writing style and have suggestions for smoothing that out, let us know. Both of us have now put forth the term "Partnershipper" to describe the ideal Mulder-Scully interaction. It's not just a friendship and it's not a romantic relationship - it delves much deeper than that and involves many complex layers of trust, respect, faith, and fear of betrayal. It is an integral component of the show, one that an episode such as TFWID contradicts, IMHO. But as characterized on the show, the silent communication and link between Mulder and Scully, beautifully played by David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, can be a downfall. That's where we come in - heh, heh, heh Third - how to break up the duo? This story is a classic example of the lack of *verbal* communication, desperately needed, and compounded by serious misinterpretation on both character's parts. The silent communication between them is almost always evident, but what happens when they lose that link? Because the emphasis of the show is on the cases and not the characters (with the exception of some brilliantly written gems by Darin Morgan, Morgan and Wong, and Vince Gilligan), we rarely see the conversations that take place. We know of the conversations in the car and on the rock and the bench and of the entire episodes of Pusher and Paper Hearts and now of Memento Mori. Yes, Mulder and Scully trust only each other, but the most precious of gifts they could offer - their feelings - is rarely exchanged honestly (Anne insists that Scully lied about regrets in TFWID and Anne also insists that Mulder assumed what Scully believed regarding Samantha's abduction in Paper Hearts and then the entire episode of Never Again is about two people who just can't SAY what they are really feeling). Read Scully's second journal entry again for our opinion about that topic. Well, the underlying postulate for this story is the one way the Consortium and Cancer Man have not attempted thus far in the show. Yes, they've kidnapped each of them, erased memory, provided implants, killed sisters, killed fathers, sent bounty hunters and sister-clones, but it hasn't worked. They should have asked us. Here's our theory... To effectively separate Mulder and Scully, They, meaning Mulder and Scully and *not* the nefarious MIB, have to lose that faith, that trust in each other. And this has been tried by doping Mulder's water and using the cable television signal, but it succeeded only temporarily. This time, each shuts the other out willingly, severing their link and proving, as one reviewer constantly berates after each episode, NOTHING good happens when Mulder ditches Scully. Here, nothing good happens when she's on her own either. Fourth - what happens next? Nice try, but we're not going to spoil this one. Fifth - it doesn't match the show's timeline! Yeah, we know. We wrote this as quickly as we could and then the current Leonard Betts/Never Again/Memento Mori blows us out of the water. But it was too good a plot to drop at the time and fanfic is not limited to those of us fortunate enough to be on season four. Please though, enjoy our story regardless of the timeline. CC and Co. have given us many a plunge by introducing another blonde in Tunguska/Terma (ask Glymax what she said when she first saw Dr. Bonita Cairn-Sayer), giving Marita a Victoria's Secret robe in the same episode, and hinting at lots of things that would really destroy this. It's an alternate universe, one we hope you've found remotely plausible. If the rest of fourth season doesn't drastically alter this too much, we can make adjustments if possible. But we're on this bus now and we're going all the way to the last stop. All aboard! Sixth - what about the inside jokes? You mean the comment about Mulder's unfamiliarity with literature or Scully wishing her salary could be higher in comparison to Mulder's? There are some tidbits thrown in for the avid X-Phile, some more obvious than others. They were meant really as a tribute to those of us who have watched episodes repeatedly, reel off dates of character's birthdays and deaths easier than our own family's, or bought three copies of the Hot/Cold TV Guide, two to save and one to read. For those that believe there was a third season rift - yup, we agree with you. In fact, a lot of what you read here is based on the interaction in Oubliette, Revelations, Syzygy, WOTC, Nisei/731 and Piper Maru/Apocrypha. Seventh - when's the sequel? There is more coming, just give our fingers a chance to rest and our minds a moment to rev up again. We would love to hear feedback on the story or on what you've read here - preferably privately instead of posted (Anne can't access newsgroups). The creative process is somewhat new to us, so constructive critique on the dialogue, characterization and writing techniques is avidly sought and appreciated. If you are _really_ interested, we composed a list of questions our beloved Beta Readers and editors Jeannie, Emily, and Je Nie answered (character motivation, effectiveness of certain plot devices, etc.) and we would love to have more input. Thanks for sharing your time with us! Glymax - glymax@aol.com Anne Cologna