Partnership II: Reconstruction By: Glymax and Anne Cologna Long intro here, or you may go to the beginning of part one for the short short version. Comments to: Glymax@aol.com - may be posted publicly on the fictalk list. Please do not comment on ATXC - we can't access the newsgroup! Rating: PG-13 for language Classification: S/X A Archivists: This is the second installment of a three-part serial entitled Partnership, currently archived on Stef's Serials at http://web.ukonline.co.uk/xfilesfanficarchive.d/feb97/partners.txt also archived at Michelle's Serials at http://www-personal.usyd.edu.au/~finge/stories/ partnership1dissolution.txt Please archive under Glymax and Anne Cologna. *Please send to ATXC* Spoilers/Time line: You *MUST* read Partnership I: Dissolution to know what we've done with our heroes. Essentially, just pretend that everything after Paper Hearts (US mid-season 4) never happened. If you need an e-mail copy of Dissolution, write Glymax@aol.com Relationship: Platonic We'd like to campaign for a category called MSP, for Mulder-Scully Partnership - see author notes in the final post of Dissolution for explanation. Writing Note: It is easier to destroy than to create. Yo dude, you remember that two-fer, man, the one with the boxcar, and the lots and lots of files? That was pretty cool, wasn't it? Yes, but there was a middle piece to the trilogy, one of some intense character exploration and explanation. This is very similar. This is not the action of Dissolution - we're getting to that in part three. This is the set-up to that, including something nearly as memorable as Skinner's kissy-kissy line to Cancer Man. This is our attempt to reconstruct what we rather gleefully tore apart in the first installment. They put this partnership together in four seasons (or five years, Mr. Carter - tsk, tsk, tsk), and we're trying to resolve it in 250 K. And, gee, didn't someone else have a similar idea about one supposedly betraying the other? We just know we saw that somewhere recently? Character Note: We have taken nearly the entire cast of XF characters at the time of Paper Hearts. This includes perhaps the most controversial character on the show, and we don't mean Queequeg. For some of you, seeing her name will result in the instantaneous striking of the delete button. Okay, we know how you feel. We didn't create her, we didn't cast her, and if we had, we sure would have given her much better writing and direction. We have personal thoughts on the character of Marita Covarrubias not necessarily reflected here, but best summed up as, "If you make her more than just set dressing, there's some potential there." Rather than just strike her from our memory, which blots out Herrenvolk, Tunguska, and Zero Sum, we have implemented her in ways we *think* are tolerable. May we beg you to stick with us for a while? You might like it :-) It's hard to use a character so controversial and make her an intricate and vital part of the story, but there she is. Our opinion? We're going to explain the conspiracy - and we're using as many people as possible to do it. Our goal is to make something CC should have thought of. The way to break Mulder and Scully up is from the inside - wait! Didn't we just see that a couple of weeks ago! just had to say it again. Summary: The search for Samantha continues and has serious implications for the future of Mulder and Scully's partnership. The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, nor do we intend to profit from this work. Acknowledgments - Still quoting the Bible and Anne's favorite singer. And a HUGE thumbs up and grateful bow to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, Mitch Pileggi, Melinda McGraw, Sheila Larken and others, who's wonderful portrayal of these characters helped us relieve our stress and work through our own angst, as well as give us a few chuckles. And to Elizabeth M., whose short story sent us off on a wonderful adventure. BIG THANKS to Jeannie, Emily, Je Nie, Grace and Miki, our incredible Beta Readers. It is amazing and humbling that you have encouraged us and challenged us with so much enthusiasm and sincerity, significantly impacting the final product. We Love You Guys! Author's Notes - our final installment to this is a further explanation of our collaboration and what we were trying to accomplish. If you're one that wants insight into the creation of such an animal or if you desire to give feedback, check out the last section. Finally, to Kathleen Lietz - "We're Back!" A Beta Reader's Circle collaboration ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction By: Glymax and Anne Cologna Comments to: Glymax@aol.com or fictalk list. *Please send to ATXC* Archivists: The Partnership II - Deb & Michelle's serial archives only Spoilers: US4 season - you must read Partnership I: Dissolution Rating: PG-13 for language Relationship: Platonic Classification: S/X A Summary: The search for Samantha continues and has serious implications for the future of Mulder and Scully's partnership. Partnership II: Reconstruction part 1/16 disclaimer in part 0 *** "It's time." "The date is near." "You know the importance of this work to our project." "It'll be taken care of." *** Friday, January 1, 1999 It had been a long time since she had encountered the familiar stomach-plummeting that accompanied descending into an airport. Not a long enough time, but in a perverse sense, she missed her old traveling days. Scully gripped the armrests once more, noting the location of the airsick bag just behind the SkyMall catalog. So good to be heading back, finally heading home after a long, lonely absence. Even if her assignment had been cut short unexpectedly - a lack of funding, the memo had said - she could not deny that she needed the security of her family. She had spoken with her mother during her layover in San Francisco, and knew that she would be greeted by that familiar smile and welcoming hug. It had been nearly two years, longer by far than any other time in her life without her mother. Or any family member. She had relegated herself to one monthly call supplemented by daily e-mailing, and her mother had picked up on the computer age faster than she had expected. But the differences weren't necessarily good ones. More intense, more suspicious, more wary of risks. Certainly more alone. She had been overseas in Moscow for twenty-one months, three months short of the original assignment to assist in instructing forensic investigative techniques. In the early months of 1997, the FBI had grown more and more nervous about the credibility of their pathology department after several very public gaffes were disclosed, including doubts about the work performed on the Oklahoma City bombing. Scully had served as a diplomat, a professor, a public relations specialist for post-Cold War collaboration, a poster girl for the FBI reputation back in the States, and a student - but not an agent. She hadn't carried a gun at all, much less a cellular phone, even thought she had been offered one. Too many memories. Despite her extensive travel in the United States, Scully had never been in another country. She discounted a long-ago trip to Norway, shoving that to a seldom-visited stash of mental images that she did not want to dredge up now. Her tourist instincts had been rusty, and her lack of travel companions combined with her reluctance to wander had left her in solitude for much of her time. She had visited some museums and historical sights, but had never mustered much enthusiasm for them. Her colleagues had regarded her as the consummate professional, but described her as aloof and private. She spent an inordinate amount of time at the hospital research library, using the computer to navigate the Web to keep up on the latest events. The flight attendant stopped by once again with a tray filled with cocktails, the final offering before landing. Scully had upgraded her ticket to first class, moreso to be among the first off the plane than for the fancier food and beverages. As she finally felt the wheels reach down to embrace the runway, she took a quick inventory of the packages she had stored under the seat, presents for her nephew and godson and, of course, for her mother. The announcement of the flight attendant reminded everyone to remain in their seats, despite the clicking noise of the passengers unfastening their seat belts. She stood up simultaneously with the bell signaling their arrival at the gate, and was the first in line when the door opened. Her walk down the red-carpeted runway was brisk. She wanted to see her mother, not murmur her thanks and 'Happy New Year's' to the flight crew. As she reached the waiting area, she was momentarily distracted by a crying little boy whose leg was stuck between two chairs, screaming loudly as a maintenance worker lowered a saw to the chair. Just behind the maintenance cart though, was Margaret Scully, holding her arms out to receive her daughter. "Oh Mom, I'm so happy to be home," she said, surprised to find her voice catching in her throat. She couldn't hear her mother's response, but clutched her tighter as she fought tears. Her mother's hug was strengthened by another arm, definitely male, accompanied by a small hand tangling in her hair. "Welcome back, sis," a deep voice said. Scully looked up to see her brother Charles nearly drop his armful of little boy. "Dana! Dana! Dana!" Her nephew was wriggling furiously in the grasp of his father, trying only to thrust himself in the arms of his aunt. She recognized his tear-streaked face as the mischief-maker who had required the demolition of two waiting room chairs. Scully laughed and leaned over to give the toddler a quick kiss on the head. "Did you get stuck in the chair Billy? You've changed so much I barely knew you." The little boy nodded. Now convinced that the spotlight was off him, he tucked his head under his father's chin with a yawn. Maggie Scully looked at her grandson with a knowing smile. "Too much excitement for him today. Let's go get your bags, honey, while Charlie goes and gets the car." They separated and moved to the escalator to the baggage claim. Scully did nothing to stop the satisfied grin on her face, feeling an overwhelming combination of relief, fatigue and a twinge of anxiety. So long. Too long. She remembered her certainty, her absolute belief on that April morning that leaving was the correct step, the only step, for her to take. She hadn't anticipated how much she was leaving behind, nor how much she would miss it. Her mother linked arms to maneuver through the crowds, keeping an eye out for the carousel with her daughter's airline logo above it. Maggie Scully had once been used to the long absences of her husband when he sailed with the Navy, but her daughter had never been gone more than a semester at a time. She noted the longer hair, a bit darker and curlier than she used to wear it, framing a face that showed traces of worry and fatigue. Her slight frame was swallowed in her customary bulky trench coat, but she suspected there was "less meat on her bones", as Bill Scully used to tease. Maggie sighed, wishing that her daughter's assignment had presented an opportunity for less stress, more relaxation. Perhaps her earlier difficulties had been replaced by different ones, no less bothersome, just different. Scully disengaged herself long enough to snag her two large bags that had luckily been among the first out of the chute. She quickly attached the long shoulder strap the garment bag and pulled on the handle of the other, wanting to get out of the crowd of people. Her mother reached over and took the handle from her, leading her to the exit and a shiny new Jeep Cherokee outside the door. "Nice car, bro! When did you invest in this one?" Scully handed over her bag to her brother for storage in the back of the vehicle. "Oh, a while back. It makes sense for us, now that the family is growing in number." He looked over at Scully, waiting for the comment to register. "Congratulations, Charlie! When is she due?" Scully reached up for a kiss on his cheek. Her brother blushed warmly, his grin as endearing as the match between his hair color and skin tone. "Sometime next month. We didn't tell you because we wanted it to be a surprise when you got back. Now that you're back early, well, you can get in on the big event. Emily is waiting for us back at the house. She wanted to come, but she was tired and I made her take a nap instead." He swung the back door open to allow Scully to climb inside. She looked at the now-sleeping child safely fastened in his car seat and tried not to jostle him as she reached for her own seat belt. She made quiet conversation with her brother and mother in the front seat as they traveled back to the Scully home. As her brother turned off the freeway and navigated the Jeep through the commercial district, Scully grew quiet, losing herself in her childhood remembrances. She took a deep breath and felt a gentle smile cross her face. So many thoughts jumbled her mind that she moved to the odd idea of issuing them tickets to wait in line for proper consideration. She had the weekend to recover from her impending jet lag, nurtured by her mother's cooking and the closeness of her family. She also wanted a long hot bath, the Sunday newspaper, and a good long session on her mother's couch with her grandmother's afghan wrapped around her. Maybe even a football game or two. She roused herself from her plans when the Jeep turned into the driveway to her mother's home. She turned to Billy, who had nearly swallowed his thumb and hand, it seemed, and shook him gently. "Don't worry about him, Sis," Charlie met her eyes in his rearview mirror. "I'd like him to sleep a bit longer if we can manage it. I'll get your bags. Mom can get him." Scully stepped onto the driveway and gazed at the house. A burst of energy propelled her to run up the steps and into the kitchen, taking in the smell of spicy chili and cornbread and the sight of a very pregnant Emily removing sugar cookies from the oven. "Welcome home, Dana!" Scully leaned in carefully to hug the woman, not wanting to jostle her too much or transfer the flour dust littering Emily's maternity top to her own clothes. "Congratulations on the little one. How are you feeling?" Scully replied, hanging her coat on the rack next to the door. "I'm doing okay. A little tired, and definitely ready for this guy to make his entrance. Want a cookie or something to drink?" "No thanks, I'm going to hold off for a bit." Scully sat down at the table, absorbing the myriad sounds and sights that represented contentment. Home. Finally. The weekend swiftly passed, filled with her mother's attempts to remind her stomach of the goodness of home cooking and her siblings' telling of current events. Scully related accounts of her experience in Moscow, while leaving out the nature of her work. Her nephew punctuated the stories with various gifts of welcome - a rock, his just-chewed piece of gum, a crayon drawing of his cats Jack and Jill, and a snapshot of him and his aunt on his second birthday, two years before. Through it all, Maggie watched her daughter with accumulating concern. She had grown noticeably thinner, and Maggie had waged war against her daughter's thin frame with Dana's favorite meals. Her appetite had grown a bit with each sitting, but she still was not satisfied. What worried her more was her restlessness. Dana was obviously glad to be home again. It wasn't that her experience in Moscow had been negative; Dana had repeatedly stated how fortunate she was to have been given the opportunity and how well her superiors had complemented her work there. She had not mentioned any close acquaintances that she had developed, and Maggie was fairly certain her daughter had not found many chances for companionship. She also suspected that Dana would not have explored any avenues of friendship beyond the most casual. On a number of occasions, Maggie had seen Dana lost in thought, pretending to read a paper or listen to music. She had asked her once what she was contemplating, but her daughter had declined to tell her, blaming it on fatigue. Maggie had her own ideas of the thoughts in her child's head, but resolved to be patient. One habit she had never relinquished was her Sunday evening ironing, although she would have to forego her favorite television show, as the television was in the living room. Scully finished ironing her blouse and hung it carefully in the closet. She unwrapped the red suit, her favorite, from the dry cleaning plastic, deciding to wear it on her first day back to work teaching at Quantico. Unpacking and arranging her old room had taken all evening, as her mother had insisted on her staying here until the sublet agreement was up on her old apartment. She had been fortunate that her mother was able to arrange for a reliable young couple to take over the apartment, furnishings included, while she was gone, but her early return left her homeless for three months. Standing on tiptoe, Scully looked on the shelf in the closet for the small box that contained the shoe polish her heels desperately needed. In the back corner of the closet sat a box she remembered packing just before her departure. The dust accompanying the box's descent from the shelf caused her to sneeze twice, and as she pulled a tissue from the box on the dresser, she visualized packing up this specific box. This was her box of special mementos, photo albums and scrapbooks. It had been the last of her packing because it was the most difficult. They were Melissa's. Scully hesitated before pulling up the flaps of the box. She could see the scarf she had placed on the top, but she hadn't remembered putting the cassette tape on top of that. In fact, she had deliberately put the scarf on top to prevent dust from getting in the box. Oh well, must have forgotten. The cassette was a simple blank one, similar to the ones Missy had throughout her music collection, preferring to dub from friends' compact discs instead of buying them herself. This one wasn't marked, but the tape was spooled about halfway through. Scully debated for a moment, but decided that she could handle the emotion that listening to her sister's music would undoubtedly bring forth. She popped the tape into her old tape player and pressed the Play button. A soft piano marked the introduction of what seemed to be an acoustic piece. A woman's voice sang, her voice angelic... "Hold on. Hold on to yourself. For this is going to hurt like hell." Scully turned sharply as she heard the words, her body stiffening to an extent that was rigidly painful. Her breathing came in short gasps until it combined with a nausea that doubled her over. She sank to the floor and tried not to moan loud enough to draw attention from her mother. The song continued on, but she could only hear those first lyrics repeatedly, haunting her. Scully waited nervously until she felt her stomach ease enough to allow her to stand. She switched the tape recorder off and sat on the bed, knowing with resignation that the past would engulf her. Why this particular song had triggered them was a mystery, but she recognized that her weekend-long effort of denying what she would face the next day was now over. She would embark once again on the journey she had forced herself to forget, the memories she had determinedly shoved aside when she left twenty-one months ago. Though not the memories of Melissa. These would be memories of Mulder. She had always considered him a man of subtlety, one who never revealed emotions without a price. Some might even call him passive or wooden, but she had spent too much of her life learning the finer points of his expression and emotion. The skepticism - could that possibly be the right term for Mulder? - on his face when she had first entered the basement office nearly seven years ago. Excitement when he explained his theory that the catatonic Billy Myles could not only walk, but he could also kill. Disgust at finding bile on his fingers in Tooms' nest. Concern and kindness when her father died. Blinding intensity when he believed in the skillful lies Deep Throat had sown. Wavering self-doubt as he was forced onto meaningless and condescending assignments that insulted his abilities. Relief when he handed her a silly video. Painfully searching a riverbank for any clue of the whereabouts of the woman he thought was Samantha. Fevered grief amid his blood-covered shirt when his father died. Compassion and understanding kneeling next to her in a hospital. Fierce anger when demanding explanations and even apologies for atrocities she could not fathom. Sensitivity to a young woman who most of society would merely step over or ignore. Tortured, fatigued and wandering, as he sought approval from a man he once admired, even worshipped, before arresting him for murder. A pleading, lost man sobbing at his mother's bedside, blaming himself for failing at a task that had no hope of success. The devoted brother, holding a small plastic bag containing perhaps the only evidence of his sister, giving up the link to her to save another. And finally, the last time she had seen him, furious and lashing out, gouging wounds so deep that she had to run away to protect herself. A man of complex emotion, whose actions had once propelled her to decide that a continent and an ocean were necessary to effectively drive him from her life. But that effort had failed. Her final computer search in Moscow, the one she had conducted when she received the memorandum ordering her to report back to the States, revealed that their geographic separation was over. Agent Fox Mulder had been assigned to the FBI National Academy at Quantico. end part 1 ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction part 2/16 disclaimer in part 0 --- Monday, January 4, 1999 8:30 a.m. Scully moved through the halls of the pathology section at Quantico with an outward poise she did not feel. She was exhausted, having fallen into a fitful sleep just scant hours before. She had had a nightmare, her first in a while. Only one vision remained, a swirling pattern of letters set to the music she had heard on the tape. Her eyes followed the drab colored walls at Quantico, noticing the changes in various lab rooms and cubicles. She reflected on the early morning phone call ordering her to report to the pathology lab instead of to the teaching lab of the Academy. She had not been surprised at her assignment to supplement the full-time pathology staff, although she hoped that she would soon be able to report on her efforts in Moscow. So much for her wardrobe attempts - she would be in scrubs for the rest of the day. She had not seen anyone except the clerk when she had reported to the autopsy bay. A quick check of the faxed memo confirmed both her return to the States and her mandate to appear at Quantico almost immediately upon her return. "Staffing shortages" had been the cursory explanation, but she wished she could have also read the phrase "temporary relief" to allay her fear that the assignment would become permanent. The body on the gurney was male, a John Doe, approximately 60 to 70 years of age. The cause of death was obvious; the bullets had obliterated much of the man's head. Still, she heard a soft voice in her head reminding her that the obvious was not always the accurate. Scully grimaced softly as a dormant expectation grew inside her head. At one time, she would have had to marshal her arguments, prepare her counterpoint, and she had utilized that as a welcome relief to the routine of the autopsy procedures. Today, however, she was the only one making the conclusions, and the desired satisfaction from that point was substituted by disappointment. She switched the tape recorder on and slipped on her gloves, catching her fingernail on the latex and snapping it painfully. Another comment she did not want to remember stubbornly played in her ears. Enough of the reminiscing - there was a job to do. Two hours later, Scully was waiting for results from the labs she had ordered, including a set of X-rays to identify any remnants of ammunition in the body. She was sitting at an unclaimed desk in the clerk's office, not wanting to ask for an office that might invite a longer stay at Quantico. Newsletters from the past year were spread in an organized line, and she concentrated on reviewing the material she had not been able to obtain overseas. "Agent Scully?" a male voice interrupted her reading. It took her a moment to respond to the title, having long grown accustomed to the "Doctor Scully" by which she had been addressed for the past twenty months. She looked up to see a familiar face, still boyish and shyly offering admiration as always. "Agent Pendrell, it's good to see you." Scully stood and crossed the room to offer her hand in greeting. "What are you doing here at Quantico?" "I was reassigned here about a year ago. That sheep cloning breakthrough generated some interest in DNA research. No money, of course, just interest. I'm here now instead of in DC, which is fine by me. Less of a headache to get to work." "I hadn't realized you had returned until your lab request came through this morning. I thought I'd bring the results by and welcome you back." He handed her a manila folder and looked at her, seemingly hesitant about his next statement. "Agent Scully, would you like to have lunch?" She stopped for a moment, not sure how much she wanted to traipse down Memory Lane on her first day back. "Of course, I understand if you already have plans." She looked up at him, recognizing that the obvious crush that had once existed quite plainly had faded somewhat. Kurt Pendrell was just simply a very nice man, and at this moment, Scully decided against her plan of skipping lunch. "If we could stick to the cafeteria, Agent Pendrell, then I would like that." --- Well, the nutritional value of the staff cafeteria had not improved. It may be true, Scully mused, that it has declined about as rapidly as my appetite. She headed for the salad bar, comforted by the repeatedly-proven belief that not even the dingiest of food service providers could mess up a salad bar. She had been more interested in scanning the tables for familiar faces. Several agents and technicians nodded at her, but their names had not caught her attention. That was probably just as well, as she had not wanted to draw attention to herself at all. She had been tense since leaving her work area, hoping that she would not be recognized. Pendrell had engaged her in conversation about her work, proving to be not only a good listener, but also one who offered more insight into developments about techniques she had been passing along to the Russian scientists. He had recently been promoted to a supervisory position that had allowed him more flexibility in the research topics he was pursuing. "It's really quite fascinating. With the rapid advances made by using RFLP, we are much closer to understanding not only the function of individual genes at a specific loci, but also how these genes are linked and passed on during reproduction." A slight blush crossed Pendrell's features when he realized what he had said. He looked away for a moment, struggling to regain his composure, and nervously cleared his throat before continuing. "But we are attempting to take that idea one step further. We can already glean a multitude of information from a single DNA sample; gender, genetic abnormalities, et cetera. But what if we could actually match certain genes with absolute known characteristics? Take height or the predisposition for obesity, for example. Agents could bring a sample to the lab and within a matter of hours we could give them a complete description of the individual they are investigating." "The applications of the research are numerous. It's truly on the cutting edge." He then smiled nervously, hoping he hadn't been rambling on and boring her. "You're obviously well-suited for it," Scully offered a smile, then noted that she had relaxed for the first time since entering the cafeteria. She looked at Pendrell and decided to turn the conversation in a different direction. "I realize now that it seems like a mundane request for you, given all you've just described, but were you able to identify the John Doe from this morning?" "Not yet, but I requested that the information be forwarded to you as soon as possible. It should be available this afternoon." "Thank you for the quick turnaround on this. I hope that - " Her sentence dangled abruptly as she watched a tall man enter the cafeteria. His back was to her, but the resemblance was, for lack of a better term, spooky. "Agent Scully? Are you okay?" Pendrell leaned over and lightly touched her hand. The physical contact startled her from her trance, and she raised her napkin to her lips to conceal the shock she knew she had conveyed to Pendrell and anyone else looking her way. "I'm fine, just not quite used to the food yet." Had she looked, Scully would have seen a near-perfect imitation of her usual skepticism on Pendrell's face. "You were quite pale there for a moment." The man started to turn to pay the cashier, which would give Scully full view for confirmation. She looked around nervously and decided she needed a quick exit before she lost her lunch. "I'm okay now, but I would like to leave the lovely cafeteria odor. Would you excuse me?" She got up almost before she had finished the question. He rose as much as he could before his tray threatened to spill in his lap. "Of course, Agent Scully. Take care now." She smiled in response. "I will, and thanks for lunch." Pendrell watched her walk out of the cafeteria, then saw another man also watching her exit. Fox Mulder turned to look at him with a questioning look on his face, one of disbelief. Pendrell, usually finding his emotions on display as if he were a billboard, was careful to keep his expression studiously blank, hoping that he could transmit a "don't even go there" stare without causing laughter. Mulder apparently received the correct message, moving to a window table and staring absently at the clouds, all but ignoring his lunch. --- Mulder's Office at Quantico 1:12 pm Mulder closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, trying to shake the headache that had developed since lunch. So the rumor was true. Special Agent Dana Scully was back in town. Not only back in town, but right here at Quantico. He had been waiting for this day for a long time. Almost two years. And he had nearly convinced himself that they would be able to reconcile when she returned. Perhaps some of the wounds would have healed a bit and they could resolve the misunderstandings that drove her away. Misunderstandings. A pedestrian word that inadequately labeled the events that had divided them. Shattering. Life-altering. He had hung on after she left, collecting the remnants of his life as if swept into a dustpan. Very little dignity, even less self-respect. But he had his truth. His pursuit had run its course, leaving him in pieces. He had managed to glue the shards together again, with help. His home was now a place of light and peace, fewer and fewer nightmares punctuating the night. Still cluttered, he admitted, but he had always scoffed at those who said he was messy, bristled at the cracks about unfed fish. A sense of humor characterized as sarcastic and self-deprecating had shifted, no longer masking the loneliness. He could almost describe himself as selfless now, not quite there yet, but he had found a sense of purpose in focusing his attention outside himself. At work he had almost achieved a point of no disdain; eighteen months of nearly infallible profiling had restored his credibility among his supervisors. He'd even earned a reassignment aimed at utilizing his talents, a welcome change from being shipped off to worthless posts just to get rid of him. A few agents had admired and respected him enough to earn the label 'colleagues'. But not 'partner'. No, never a partner. Only one person deserved that honor. And judging from her reaction in the cafeteria this afternoon, she couldn't stand to be in the same room with him. He had only caught a fleeting glimpse of her as she hurriedly walked out the door, his eyes still unconsciously scanning the crowd to focus on any red-headed female. It had been so strange right after she left. He thought he had seen her several times, standing at a bus stop or walking the halls of the Hoover Building. Deep down he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but it never failed to give him that quick rush of adrenaline. He had felt that again today and had almost dropped his dinner tray with the shock. But this time she was no illusion. She was real and she was here. Mulder rubbed his hands over his eyes. God. Why did this have to be so difficult? Why had he let himself be suckered into false hopes? It was obvious that Scully was not ready to deal with him yet. He wasn't too sure if he was ready himself. At first, he had thought maybe she hadn't seen him. But the warning he had read from Pendrell's eyes had told him differently. She had seen, and she chose to walk away. Mulder opened his eyes and looked around the tiny office that would become his new home away from home. Not as spacious as the basement had been, but certainly better than the desk in the middle of VC's bullpen. At least here he could find some peace and quiet. Could get his thoughts in order without having the added pressure of blocking out loud voices and ringing telephones. Not that he would be writing that many profiles anymore. His new assignment was to mold the minds of young, baby-faced, wanna-be agents. Teaching the innocent to think like monsters; to get inside the head of a maniac without losing sight of reality. The idea had been instantly appealing. He was getting burned out floating from one profile to the next without the luxury of a break. This position would offer him the opportunity to pursue other areas of interest. Just not the X-Files. That order had come from the Director himself. Mulder was free to delve into any other areas of psychology and criminology that would enhance his lectures. A sly grin crossed his face. Mulder rose from his chair and stared at the boxes lining the back wall. How could one person manage to accumulate so much stuff? At the rate he was going, it would take him a week just to weed through all this junk. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled a box from the top of the stack and opened it with his penknife. A familiar face greeted him from the confines of a picture frame. Mulder couldn't help but smile as he carefully placed the picture on his desk. With that simple gesture, he transformed four walls and a door into *his* office. --- Pathology office in Quantico 2:00 p.m. Strange how two years could simply dissolve in one instant. The moment she had seen him, she had been driven back into the basement office of the Hoover building, seeing him on the floor with her X-File spread around him. She could feel the anger, the bitterness of his betrayal. The sorrow at losing his friendship. She had wandered for twenty months, seeking a connection to her surroundings, to her co-workers, to her life. Yet she was missing an essential component. She knew it existed but she had directed all of her considerable powers of denial against reviewing it. The phone rang, its rather odd bell sounding like a beacon, ending her reverie. She picked up the phone and answered in her best professional voice, "Pathology." A female voice. "I'm looking for an Agent Scully." Scully tamped down on the relief and disappointment that the caller had not been male. "Speaking." "Agent Scully, this is Agent Davidson. Agent Pendrell referred some fingerprint work to me, and I wanted to discuss the results with you. Do you have a moment?" "Yes, I do." "I'd like to discuss the results with you in person. Would it be possible for you to come to my office? I'm located on the fourth floor." Scully looked around the lab to find the clerk that handled assignments. He was back from his lunch break and could reach her by pager. "I'll be right up." --- Scully was surprised to see Pendrell waiting with the woman she assumed to be Agent Davidson in the office. They were deep in conversation, stopping abruptly when Pendrell noticed her arrival. "Agent Scully, this is Agent Davidson. She did the work on the fingerprints. We have found something - well, something unusual." Pendrell led her over to the computer monitor showing readouts of personnel files. "Agent Davidson," he said, "why don't you explain what you found?" The young woman looked nervously from Pendrell to Scully, then focused on her keyboard. Scully could not pinpoint the exact emotion in the room, but she sensed that a significant event was approaching. "Agent Scully, I have been able to locate a match of eight points of the index finger with an old personnel file. As you know, according to Bureau standards, it takes ten points to confirm the identity satisfactorily. I am working with the other prints to establish a more definite match." Davidson stopped, looking at Pendrell anxiously. He remembered having the same doubt when presenting material to Scully, always double-checking and triple-checking his facts before calling her, not wanting to embarrass himself. He took a deep breath. "Agent Scully, I'm sure that Agent Davidson will be able to complete a ten-point match soon. However, it's the preliminary identification that is unusual. We thought you should know about it right away." Scully stared at the computer screen, looking for the file they were so worried about. "What exactly are you referring to?" He looked at her carefully, trying to anticipate her response. "The man's name is Randolph Foster." If he had expected a revelatory moment from Scully, he was mistaken. She looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. "I'm sorry, I don't recognize the name." He started for a moment, not realizing that she would not know the significance of the man. "Agent Scully, Randolph Foster was killed two years ago." "But you just told me that the fingerprints match the body I did an autopsy on this morning." "They do. We've almost confirmed that." Pendrell could feel his face begin to flush. "Then how could they match a man who died two years ago?" For Scully, this was beginning to feel very much like her previous investigations. Agent Davidson turned from her monitor to look squarely at Scully. "Don't you know the name Randolph Foster?" Scully looked at the woman almost defiantly. "No. I don't know the name or the man. Is there a reason I should?" Pendrell counted silently, measuring his words. "I thought you knew, Agent Scully. Your par-, Agent Mulder was accused of murdering Foster in April 1997." She stared at him intently, willing him to continue. "He was cleared of the charges eventually. I'm not sure why. But that was the reason they closed the X-Files." Scully closed her eyes and dropped her head. So much to comprehend. She needed explanations, clarity. She raised her head and brought a faint smile to her face. "Agent Pendrell, Agent Davidson, it's obvious I have some catching up to do. Thank you for your prompt work on this matter. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." She picked up the proffered file folder and headed out of the office. end part 2 ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction part 3/16 disclaimer in part 0 --- Scully maneuvered her car off the street, heading toward the Hoover Building parking lot. She had cleared her agenda for the afternoon, informing the clerk that she needed to gather her files and lecture notes from her old office. The clerk had not offered any objections. She walked down the hallways, feeling her tension mount as she neared her destination. The feeling of detachment that had tinged every minute of the day grew in intensity. This particular hallway was different, but she soon found the familiar name on the door. There was no assistant at the desk, and Scully found herself wondering if Jeannie had retained her position. She moved to the door and knocked quietly. A command from within. "Come in." She opened the door, greeted again by a picture of President Clinton across the room. This office was different, yet the aura was the same. Walter Skinner always commanded a room, and his serious presence was just as formidable now as it had ever been. He turned from his paperwork and addressed her evenly. "Welcome back, Agent Scully." She stepped inside, still unsure if she was invited into the room. "Thank you sir. I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I'd like a moment of your time." He looked at her for a moment, then nodded at the seat in front of his desk. Scully crossed the room and sat in the front of the chair. "Thank you for seeing me." "What seems to be the issue, Agent Scully?" So like Skinner to get right to business. "Sir, I don't know if you knew I had returned - " "I knew." She stopped for a moment, waiting for him to continue. His stare indicated that he wanted her to lead the conversation. "This morning I was assigned to do an autopsy on a John Doe." "I know." "And the results are, well, they're a bit troubling." She continued on, wishing he would elaborate on his two word responses. "In what way." Three words this time, but his voice didn't change its monotone to even register the statement as a question. She looked at him, trying to gauge his interest, the motivation for his behavior. "The fingerprints matched a person who has been deceased for two years. A Randolph Foster." He looked at her for a long pause, his expression unchanging. "You know this man," she challenged, willing him to give her more clues, more information. He did not respond to her statement, instead, pulling on a set of keys lying on the desk. The key opened a drawer in his desk, from which he extracted a large envelope. He held it out for her. She looked at him, waiting for him to say more. "That will be all, Agent Scully." She stared at him, then slowly stood and took the envelope. Her walk to the door was hesitant, and she looked back at him for any further sign. His attention was focused squarely on his writing. She sighed and left the office. --- Mulder's Office at Quantico 4:53 pm Mulder sighed as he looked around the trashed office. Stacks of precariously balanced folders and books had replaced the boxes on the floor. Loose sheets of paper and other unstackable objects covered every other flat surface. He had planned on taking the afternoon to get his things in order, but he found himself becoming engrossed in the contents of some of the files. Old cases from his past, but not the files he really wanted to see. The X-Files were off limits. He wasn't even sure what had become of them since the basement office at the Hoover Building had been cleaned out. Had they met their fate in the gnashing teeth of the paper shredder? Or were they tucked away somewhere, seen by only those who knew their true meaning? He rubbed his face and tried to push the thought from his mind. His first class was tomorrow and he still had little idea where he was going to start. Should he do the expected and dazzle them with his "spooky" ideas or really surprise them and come across as a normal instructor of behavioral science? He idly wondered if that phrase wasn't an oxymoron. A light rap on the door frame broke his reverie. He glanced up to see Agent Rhodes, a fellow instructor, poke his head around the corner. "Hey, Mulder. Just came by to see...whoa. Natural or man-made disaster?" he asked, gesturing toward the office. Mulder grinned as the other man's eyes stared in disbelief. "Completely man-made. No poltergeists or evil demons at work here." Agent Rhodes shook his head. "That's good. I guess. Wouldn't want to start any rumors on your first day." Mulder's grin widened. Taking a tentative step inside the office, Rhodes lowered his voice. "I suppose you've already heard." Mulder shook is head. "What? I'm not exactly in the inner circle." Rhodes cleared his throat. "That Agent Scully is back." The smile left Mulder's face immediately. "Yeah. I know," he whispered. Seeing that Mulder's good mood had been broken by what he thought would be good news, Rhodes shrugged his shoulders and carefully backed out of the office. "Well, uh, I thought you should know. Good luck with getting this mess cleaned up. The office, I mean." With that he turned and fled down the hall. Mulder stood and brushed the dust from his knees. He glanced once more around the office and knew that there was no way he could get this finished tonight. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and turned off the light. Maybe things would be better tomorrow. --- 5:00 p.m. Scully pulled her car into the driveway of her mother's house and shut off the engine. She stared at her briefcase, wondering about the contents of the files, what memories she would be confronting that night. But sitting in the driveway wasn't going to solve anything, and neither was speculating on wild hunches. The sidewalk had been shoveled clear of the latest snowfall, and Scully made a note to bring sneakers to change into before she walked outside tomorrow. She unlocked the front door and was greeted by the unexpected combination of a delicious odor of her favorite casserole and a sharp blow to her knees. "Dana! Dana! Dana!" Billy had decided to use her as a tackling dummy. "Billy, do you really think my name is Dana Dana Dana?" Scully looked down at the little boy. He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. Then he giggled mischievously and nodded. Scully laughed. "Well, then, I'll just have to call you Billy Billy Billy. Let's go see what Grandma has cooking." Her mother turned her attention from the salad preparations to give Scully a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hi, honey. How was your first day back?" Scully had prepared herself for that question. "It was fine, Mom. Nothing too interesting, but I brought home a lot of reading to get through tonight. I'm going to go change clothes, and then I'll come help you with dinner." "I wanna change clothes too!" Billy insisted. "How about helping me peel the eggs first?" Margaret Scully was a well-practiced grandmother. "Then you can tear up the spinach - you're good at ripping things." Scully moved into her bedroom and set down her briefcase. She quickly changed into oversized sweats - she had noticed her mother visually measuring her weight the day before - and heavy socks and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Scrubbing the makeup off her face completed the transformation, and she headed back to the kitchen. "So are we babysitting tonight, Mom?" Scully grabbed the bag of carrots and started peeling. "Charlie took Emily to her obstetrician for a check-up. They're coming by after dinner." Scully used Billy's presence to divert further maternal inquiries about her day. She had promised herself not to discuss Mulder, not wanting to give her mother any avenues of questioning. When her brother and sister-in-law arrived, the discussion moved to preparations for the baby, and Billy's unique suggestions of what he wanted to name the baby. Maggie saw through her best efforts to guide the conversation to safer topics, even though motherhood was a sensitive subject with her daughter. Something had happened at work today, but she decided to wait until the Irish stubbornness receded enough to let Dana talk with her. Scully grew more nervous as her mother announced the end of the evening. She realized that her efforts to subvert her mother's queries about her work had also delayed the moment she would have to read the files. Now she could no longer avoid it. (A hot bath first, then I'll be ready.) She dressed in her flannel pajamas and propped up the pillows on her bed. She had her reading glasses, a radio station playing soft music, and a light next to the bed, illuminating the briefcase. The briefcase tilted toward her as she sat down, and her fingers shook slightly as she unlatched the clasps. The envelope Skinner had given her was quite heavy, and the edge of the flap sliced into her finger as she opened it. She jerked her hand back and put her finger into her mouth quickly, surprised by both the pain of the cut and by what she saw. It had been a long time since she had seen an X-File, and there were two of them here. She pulled them out, musing why Skinner had kept these in his desk instead of with the hundreds of files Mulder had accumulated. The top folder listed the name "Foster, Randolph, file number 42170". She pulled on the edge of it to see the name on the file underneath. Her eyes widened with recognition and confusion. "Mulder, Samantha, file number 42053" "Case closed - May 6, 1997." --- Case #42170 and #42053 Final Report Submitted by: Agent Fox Mulder With the discovery of pituitary material confirming the identity of Patient 3456-JK544 as Samantha Mulder, I have come to understand the events leading to my sister's death. She was not an alien abductee as I maintained for so long, but rather a victim of heinous experiments in a scientific project so elaborate and widespread that I cannot fathom how it escaped detection. On November 27, 1973, my sister was kidnapped from our home in Chilmark, Massachusetts. I remembered little of the incident until I underwent regression hypnotherapy some twenty years later. Even then, my memories of the event were inconsistent. In one recollection, I was in the bedroom next to hers, and then I watched her suspended body move out the window. In a subsequent, stronger memory, she was taken from our living room while I stood, unable to move or to help her. For twenty-four years, I lived with the belief that my sister was alive. My work with the FBI and the X-Files served as a means to investigate her disappearance, as well as the larger forces of conspiracy surrounding it. In February 1997, I was given information describing a genetic laboratory near Chicago, Illinois, one that had been in operation in the early 1970's. I met one of the scientist's, Randolph Foster, and investigated further, an action that ultimately resulted in Foster's death. Foster led me to personal journals detailing the arrival of an eight year old girl matching the description of my sister. According to the entry, Samantha died on an unspecified day in May 1974. A sample of her brain tissue remained in the deserted laboratory. Genetic testing confirmed an 85% probability that the tissue sample was a child of my mother's. Like most of the cases in the X-Files, the evidence and testament of Randolph Foster disappeared on Sunday, April 20, 1997. He was found two days later in the Chicago River, dead of a bullet wound. A corroborating statement from the one witness to this account is attached. As of this writing, those responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Samantha Mulder remain at large. Submitted 5/6/97 Agent Fox Mulder Violent Crimes Unit --- Scully stared at the final sentence of the report, wondering how Mulder had felt when he wrote the definitive statement of his lifelong quest. Samantha had died, and he had been strung along for years, a mere puppet for the showman's amusement. Attached to his report was an official witness statement form, this one written in a woman's handwriting. Scully scanned the text, although it seemed to be nothing more than a restating of the previous account. She looked at the witness' name - Marita Covarrubias. One does not easily forget such a name, even more than two years later, although she had only heard it once. Scully had once been ordered to look up this woman's name in the government database, and she remembered her problems spelling it correctly. Marita Covarrubias lived in New York City, and she had worked for the United Nations. And she had enabled Mulder to travel to Tunguska. She wrote the name down on the sheet of notes she had compiled, intending to look her up the next day. Foster's file contained a similar report, with another corroborating statement from the woman. A brief history from a government employment database was included, although the information was scant. Scully looked for pathology reports from the autopsy, but could find only the fingerprint records, not even a picture of the man. A personnel form fell out of the jumble of papers, and she frowned as she picked it up, wondering what it was doing in an X-File. Skinner's signature leaped out at her, and the short paragraph stated the dates of Mulder's demotion and suspension. Another form was stapled to it, but this signature was illegible. Mulder had been forced to serve the suspension, then assigned to the Violent Crimes Unit under Tom Colton - Scully snorted as she imagined them trading barbs about Reticulans and liver-eating contortionists. Mulder had been lucky he wasn't arrested on the spot, once the accusation of Foster's murder came to light. Scully made a note to ask Skinner how that had been averted. The next sheet of paper was a scribbled outline of the events leading to Mulder's discovery of Samantha. He had included a brief timeline of events - trips to New York City and Chicago, a mention of Connecticut, and the address of a hotel in D.C. Scully looked around for a calendar, finally resorting to using the minuscule three-year calendar in her checkbook register. As she began reading dates and locations, she recognized the first date as one near her birthday. That was around the time of the Shakespeare Stabber case, one they had been uncermoniously dumped from once Mulder had provided the final clue that led to the killer. The agent in charge had blatantly ignored their protests, and Skinner had been of no help whatsoever. In retrospect, Mulder hadn't been all that insistent on pursuing the case; evidently, on the day before their participation was terminated, he had received extensive information about Samantha. They had encountered a string of unsolved cases after that. She flipped to a fresh sheet on her legal pad. She drew a line down the middle of the paper, writing an 'M' at the top of the right hand column and an 'X' at the top of the left. "Shakespeare Stabber" was the first entry on the left, corresponding to "first contact with Marita" on the right. After a few moments, the right hand column was full of dates, the itinerary Mulder had pursued for nearly two months. While the realization that she gained was not as instant as a thunderbolt, its impact was as resonant. He had been searching endlessly, blindingly, looking desperately for Samantha. And in the end, he found his sister, dead, a tiny sample of tissue in a bottle. His quest, twenty-four years of futility, ended in a whimper. Scully rose from the bed and quietly padded out to the bookshelves in the living room, searching for the shelf that her mother had designated for her special mementos. The red journal still rested where she had placed it before she had left. She retrieved it and resumed her position in the middle of the files. She began to fill in the left side of the paper, blinking back the tears that threatened to obscure her vision as she linked the path Mulder had followed with the divergent path she had embarked upon. He had forgotten her birthday - nothing terribly new there - but had been devouring the four pages of detailed information about a Chicago area lab. They had traveled to Connecticut, moreso to locate information about Randolph Foster than to investigate a case that could only loosely be described as an X-File. He had gone to Chicago - she vividly remembered seeing an airline ticket in his hand as she recognized the first lie she had caught him in - not for his mother but for his sister. Ultimately when the time to pursue Samantha had arrived, he shoved her aside, detached her from the chain of events. During their very first case in Oregon, he said that nothing else mattered to him. Undoubtedly. He had proven that repeatedly. Skinner had informed her of the request for her review while Mulder was in Chicago. She had discovered the information he possessed about her abduction. Those were the events that had driven her across the ocean to escape. She had undergone a full regimen of x-rays to find the implants in her teeth and abdomen, but to no avail. And while she could still feel the aftertaste of the bitter betrayal, she now had a greater intellectual understanding of what he had been pursuing. Once upon a time, Dana Scully had been a woman of steadfast conviction, with a clear sense of right and wrong. Working on the X-Files had expanded and deepened her involvement with the murky area in between, resulting in her cynical belief that the gray area was bigger than the right and wrong areas combined. Seeking her path through that would be daunting, something she was not convinced she could tolerate. In her youth, she had easily dismissed those who she felt had wronged her, no ifs, ands or buts. Certain people, Alex Krycek and the Cigarette Man leapt instantly to mind, fit into that category without much consideration. Fox Mulder? Of him she was not certain. end part 3 ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction part 4/16 disclaimer in part 0 --- Hoover Building Tuesday, January 5 8:00 a.m. Scully sat outside Skinner's office, her legs crossed and one foot suspended in mid-air, tapping rhythmically to help assuage her anxiety. After she finally fell asleep, she had experienced another nightmare. All she could remember was a pride of lions circling. She had combated her fatigue with three cups of jet-black coffee. The hallway door opened to reveal Jeannie Phelps, Skinner's administrative assistant for over four years. Jeannie endured most of Skinner's tirades with a calm tolerance, developing a protectiveness for some of Skinner's favorite targets - Mulder and Scully had been included in her safety circle. She saw the agent, and her face curved into a soft smile. "Welcome back, Agent Scully. I'm happy to see you." Scully set aside her frustration and sleepiness to offer a matching smile. "Thanks very much, Jeannie. It's good to be back. Do you expect him anytime soon?" Jeannie moved behind her desk and checked her telephone. "He's not on the phone right now, but I'll check if you'd like." She pressed a button on the console. Scully nodded and resumed her brooding. "Agent Scully? He said you can go in," Jeannie angled her head toward her boss' door. Scully stood quickly and nodded a quick thanks to Jeannie. She opened the office door and fixed her stare on Skinner, ready to extract all the answers to her questions. If Skinner was worried about the upcoming inquisition, he didn't show it. He leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on his fist, waiting for Scully to cross the room. When she didn't move, he waved his hand to the chair in front of his desk. Scully strode carefully to the chair, setting down her briefcase and lowering herself without breaking eye contact with Skinner. The emotions of the situation were volatile, and she had to be careful to present herself in a controlled manner. "What can I do for you, Agent Scully?" Skinner had resumed his relaxed pose, but his eyes were intent, watching her every move. "Sir, I have several questions about the chain of events in the information you gave me yesterday. Not only does it appear that - " "Scully, the answers to your questions lie elsewhere." Scully looked at him and chose her next words carefully. "I believe that I have not been given all of the information pertaining to Randolph Foster." "Nor will you find that information here." His response was delivered smoothly, almost as if it were rehearsed. She narrowed her eyes and studied him for a moment. Skinner had never been a man of subtlety, but perhaps he had developed that inclination since her departure. "Why was Agent Mulder not arrested for Foster's murder." "A witness confirmed that he could not have committed the crime." That didn't wash at all. "And you believed that? What about the evidence?" Skinner snorted. "Evidence has been planted before, Agent Scully." "And it has also disappeared before as well. Where are the autopsy results from Foster - the first Foster?" Skinner must have been rationing his words during each conversation, for he met her gaze steadily. How about a stab in the dark? "I was assigned to Pathology only yesterday morning. Were you aware of that?" Skinner was not that easily rattled. He simply looked back at her. "Did you know the body was Randolph Foster?" Again, no response. "You assigned me to this case. You knew to whom this could lead," she stated, not knowing what answer she desired. He shifted to lean forward on his desk and paused. "I know to whom it *should* lead, Agent Scully." Scully exhaled slowly and let her eyes drop to the desktop. She stared at the desk lamp, silently pleading for some other way, some other path to follow. She glanced up to find him looking at her. It seemed as if he already knew what her next step had to be and was patiently waiting for her to come to that same conclusion. She nodded slowly and picked up her briefcase, standing up reluctantly. Her exit was halted by a final word from Skinner. "Agent Scully." She stopped, facing the door, away from him. "Remember that not everything was as it appeared to be." Scully pulled the door open and stepped into the outer office. Jeannie looked up at her as she shut the door a bit too firmly and then paused, gathering her thoughts. "Agent Scully?" Scully looked at the woman, hoping that her face was not too forbidding. Jeannie had to take enough of that from Skinner. "When you see Agent Mulder, would you give him this file?" Scully was taken aback for a moment before she could respond. "Why would I see Agent Mulder?" Jeannie tilted her head in surprise. "Why, didn't Assistant Director Skinner transfer him to the Academy faculty?" "But why would I see him?" Scully replied, still not understanding. "I thought - well, he said that you - that maybe if..." Jeannie's voice faded as she realized that perhaps this was not a conversation she was to have with this particular agent. "Who said? Skinner?" Scully felt like an animal being led into a cage. "Never mind, Agent Scully, I must have gotten confused. I hope you have a good day." Scully was about to persist with the questioning when the intercom buzzed loudly. She stared at the assistant for a moment before leaving the office. Jeannie turned away, but not before exhaling a large sigh of relief at her exit. --- Scully's office at Quantico 2:00 p.m. The clicking of the keyboard punctuated her angry mental tirade, accentuated by the occasion "Damn" signaling a misspelled word. Tired and frustrated, assigned to a case she wanted to keep as remote as possible, Scully punched the keys harder than necessary. She pulled up the personnel database and entered the name she had recognized the night before. Covarrubias, Marita Special Assistant to the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations Department of State Washington, D.C. (202) 555-8723 Scully pushed another key to access the personal information screen. Her eyes locked on a more familiar name. Her emergency contact person was Fox Mulder, FBI. --- Mulder's office at Quantico 2:30 p.m. It wasn't quite the truth, what he and his fellow psych classmates had often remarked about their Oxford professors. 'Cush job with office hours from 10:00 to 10:10.' No, his preparation for lectures was nearly as obsessive as his pursuit of an X-File. There was a comfort, though, in knowing that each presentation would result in a definitive ending, nothing unresolved or questioned. The phone call had drawn his focus away from lesson plans. A surprise at first, but he should have expected it. Skinner had not minced words. Four thirty, his office, don't be late. And it was painfully easy to slip back into the persona he had tried vigorously to shed. Skinner's voice recalled the despondency, the shame he now associated with Dana Scully. And his former supervisor had made damn sure he would never forget it. "She's gone, Mulder. She transferred." After two weeks worth of interminably empty days coupled with fourteen nights of raging insomnia, Mulder had scheduled an appointment with Skinner, hoping to determine his post-suspension assignment and find out where his partner was. "Sir, all I want to know is where she transferred to. It's not classified, and you approved it." He stared at Skinner's desk, sensing Skinner's unspoken accusation and its cumulative effect on his already suffocating guilt. "I need to know," he insisted. "Agent Mulder, I have acted in what I believe are the best interests of my agents." Skinner's tone left no doubt of his opinion of Mulder. "You deliberately cut her off on several investigations and submitted a request for an official review of her performance. For her sake, this transfer was necessary." Mulder gaped at the man in front of him, stunned by his comment. "What do you mean, I submitted a review request?" "Knock it off, Mulder!" Skinner flung the paper across the desk. "This is what I mean. Your signature, your request. You forced her to make a choice, and she chose to save your ass. In my opinion, it damn well wasn't worth it." He stared at the form, feeling the shock reverberating through his body. Was this how Scully had felt when she read this, looking at the signature, the sterile phrases? Had she truly believed this? Obviously she had. And a phrase she had thrown at him echoed in his head. 'Lack of collaboration.' Right before she had stalked out of the office and left him, surrounded by the evidence of how much she had sacrificed for him. "I didn't write this," he whispered. "What?" Skinner was in no mood for games. "I...I didn't write this. I've never seen this. This isn't my signature." Bile rose in his throat as he fought to retain the sudden urge to yell. "The hell it isn't, Mulder. Don't play games here." Skinner rose from his chair, hands planted firmly on the desk so he could lean closer to the younger man, a definite threat. "For Christ's sake, I would remember doing something like this!" He stood, slamming his hand on the chair and nearly knocking it over. "I'm telling you, I didn't do this!" The two men squared off, a test of wills. One long endless moment. And the doubt, the fear, and the shame proved to be his undoing. He flinched and looked away, feeling the last of his self- respect slither out of his reach. "Tell me where she is." A whispery, broken plea. Skinner measured the man in front of him and remembered the similar picture he had witnessed nearly three weeks prior. Same emotion, different agent. A decision, a choice to be made. "Agent Scully has asked me to keep her whereabouts confidential." The head rose and the eyes transmitted hope and hesitancy. "And I'm going to honor that request." Skinner had held to his word. It had been a solid month before he had pestered, cajoled and finally angered a personnel clerk enough to confirm that she had gone overseas. His initial response had been sarcastic - 'couldn't just head west, she had to leave the frigging country.' Then the anger at her unwillingness to confront him head on. The memory curse he had endured since childhood quickly eradicated the thought that she had avoided him; he clearly remembered each and every one of her challenges on that horrible day in the office. It had taken him months to extinguish the feeling of abandonment, to think of her without an acidic reply from his stomach. Dana Scully represented a failure. No. His partnership with Dana Scully represented a failure. No, that wasn't accurate either. His participation in their partnership was a failure. With all of that baggage, it's a wonder she could have handled their one-minute encounter in the cafeteria the day before. Was there a way to go forward? Probably not. He sighed and looked at his watch. T-minus two hours. --- Skinner's Office 4:30 p.m. Scully walked into his office yet again, determined to separate herself from this case once and for all. Skinner followed her in, and she took the seat in front of his desk. "Thank you for coming on short notice, Agent Scully." "Yes, sir, I was hoping to speak with you about this case - " but the rest of her comment was then interrupted by the buzz of Skinner's phone. He picked up the phone and silently waited for the information to be relayed to him from Jeannie. "Send him in." With those words, Scully let her composure slip enough to direct her most defiant glare at Skinner, letting him know her fury in one glance. The door opened, and Fox Mulder stepped inside, stopping short when he saw the redheaded woman seated in front of Skinner's desk. He hadn't known that Scully would be present also. She did not look over at him; rather, she seemed to be shooting a blue-eyed laser beam at Skinner. Skinner glanced over at him, unperturbed by Scully's demeanor. "Agent Mulder, please have a seat." Mulder approached the desk cautiously, knowing that Scully was targeting her anger at an undeserving source. Skinner was simply the most convenient bullseye. The chair next to her was where he had been directed to sit, and he was grateful that it was out of her line of fire. Skinner ignored the energy Scully was aiming in his direction. "Agent Scully, would you inform Agent Mulder of your most recent discovery?" Scully decided to focus her gaze solely on Skinner, knowing that a glance at the man next to her would prove too difficult. Her anger at the situation only increased in intensity as she began to speak. "I have performed an autopsy on a man identified as Randolph Foster, the same man mistakenly identified to be the victim of a homicide in 1997." She stopped herself from adding any further comment, sarcastic or otherwise, knowing they would serve no purpose. Mulder looked from Skinner to Scully in disbelief, wondering how many more surprises he would hear today. Skinner waited for Scully to continue her explanation, but she gave no indication of wanting to offer further details. "Agent Scully, I am assigning you to fully pursue the death of Randolph Foster." Her anger instantly converted to shock, and she was quick to hide that response to his directive. "Sir, I am positive there are other agents more suitable for this investigation." "I disagree." She decided to try another tactic. "My temporary assignment to Quantico - " "Has been suspended." Scully concentrated for a moment on her next objection, not willing to give Mulder an opening. "I do not have access to the records - " Skinner continued on as if he expected her to follow that line of reasoning. "You will have full Bureau resources, including access to all materials pertinent to the case." Mulder had been unsuccessfully attempting to hide his astonishment, but this last statement caught his attention. He leaned forward, barely daring to voice this hope. "Even the X-Files, sir?" Skinner shifted his focus to the other agent. "Yes, including the X-Files. And you, Agent Mulder, will provide her with any and all information you can." Mulder sat back in his chair slowly, not willing to trust this fortuitous turn of events. He looked at Scully hesitantly, wanting to meet her gaze, but she stared resolutely at the window behind Skinner. "Any questions?" Skinner regained his attention rather abruptly. Mulder shook his head slowly, still in a daze from the unexpected news. "That's all, Agent Mulder." Mulder vaguely noted that the statement implied that he was to exit the room. He stood robotically and looked for Scully to follow him. She remained in her chair, still contemplating the view out of Skinner's window. "Agent Scully, I'd like to speak with you." Skinner looked over at Mulder, expecting him to catch the hint. Mulder waited a moment for Scully to acknowledge his departure. He opened his mouth to say goodbye, wanting to make some sort of communication with her. But he had underestimated her apparent desire to ignore him, and he silently walked out of the office. At the sound of the door shutting, Scully moved her eyes from the window to Skinner. "Why?" "Agent Scully, two years ago, I acted on what I believed was valid information and approved your transfer and the elimination of the X-Files." "Are you saying that some of the information was...invalid?" "Yes, that's what I'm saying?" Scully weighed this information. "You're saying that you've received evidence that proves otherwise?" "He didn't write it." Far be it from Skinner to elaborate, but she knew to what he was referring. "Are you sure?" An answering nod. "You spoke with him about it?" "At the time, yes. I did." "And you believe him?" "We had the handwriting tested. Close." Disbelieving, yet hoping he was telling the truth, she replied, "But not a match." With his confirming nod, she closed her eyes and felt the import of this information sap her already-depleted strength. Her defiance and coldness had been the only protective measures she could muster up to withstand the two minute encounter with Mulder. Now that anger transformed to a sad resignation of acceptance. Her voice registered defeat. "Sir, I cannot be objective on this case." Skinner looked at her, noting the change in her demeanor. He had known that he would have to force her to search for the evidence. And he had not miscalculated the effect it would have on her - he realized that he may have been the only one who understood the impact of her transfer two years prior. He leaned forward in his chair. "I know that, Scully." She looked at him, unable to keep the surprise from her face. "Sir?" "Scully, it is obvious that there were many issues unknown to you. Unknown to Mulder. Things that did not come to light then and remain hidden now." He waited for her to form her next question. "But you know what those things are. Why not just expose them yourself? Why put me through this?" She tried to keep her voice even, to not sound like she was pleading. "I don't have all the answers and I don't have access to them." "But I do?" This was not making sense at all. "Agent Scully, currently you have maximum potential to understand the larger forces at work here. This is the most opportune time." Why Skinner was making this offer to *her* still didn't make sense. "What about Mulder? Why not just let him pursue it?" Skinner hesitated before answering her question, not knowing exactly what information she possessed at this point. "Agent Mulder right now is in a delicate position." "But he's just teaching at the academy. He's not even profiling or working at VCS anymore." A random comment she had heard that morning clicked into place. "You transferred him to the academy, right? You're protecting him." He moved his hand to his cheek, resting it there. "Why?" At this moment, Scully wanted nothing more than a teleprompter for the thoughts running through his head. She stared at the desk in front of her before rising from her chair. "Scully." She stopped, waiting. "You were assigned to the X-Files to keep an eye on Agent Mulder. He doesn't know it, but it's more important now than it has ever been." end part 4 ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction part 5/16 disclaimer in part 0 --- Scully's office in Quantico Wednesday, January 6 10:30 a.m. "Latte for me, double espresso, for you, Dana." Another pathologist, Agent Akimoto, had been dispatched to the coffee stand for this morning's run. She needed the extra caffeine, finding that her addiction to it was growing every hour. Her latest nightmare had her standing in the path of a train, and her sudden awakening left her too keyed up to sleep. The phone rang, but even that wasn't enough to spark any energy. She picked up the receiver after the second ring, closing her eyes and resting her chin on her hand. "Scully." There was a long pause before a male voice. "Hey Scully, it's me." That was enough to jolt her wide awake. She pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it in amazement. "Scully?" She could still hear him and put the receiver back to her head. "Yes." That was all she could think of for a response. "I - I was wondering if you wanted to talk. About the case, I mean. I'm sure you have a lot of questions." His voice grew more uncertain. "If you're busy, then..." "No. I suppose I should start with your version of the events." She knew she sounded abrupt, but she didn't care. "I can come to your office if that's more convenient." "No." She had crossed the line from abrupt to rude. "I'll come to your office in fifteen minutes." "Fine." Click. She hung up the phone and rested her head in her hands. She was not ready for this, but no amount of time would adequately prepare her. --- Mulder's office fifteen minutes later "Let's get started, Mulder. I have to leave in an hour." Scully clamped down on the sadness that had sprung, trying to forge a clear path through the emotion. Set a time limit, keep the boundaries narrow. Mulder decided to try just once to establish that connection, the one she seemed to be searching for. "Scully, I just want to say - " "Let's just stick to the case, okay?" Focus, focus, focus. No emotion, not today, just a straightforward investigation. Stick to the wheres and whats. He winced, his cursed photographic memory kicking in yet again. He had once uttered those very words to a person who had caused him intense pain. Stated them twice for good measure. And he hadn't noted then how cutting the words were, since they were used as a self- defense measure. He had wanted to make sure that Phoebe had no inroads to his emotions, no chance to drive a stake through him yet again. The fact that Scully had to erect the same barriers to protect herself from him only intensified his desire to knock them down. But he also recognized that he now had frightening potential to cause her more pain, perhaps more severe than anything previous. He had finally learned - too late - but he had learned to navigate his oftentimes blinding passion. Now he needed to demonstrate that to Scully. He looked at her face, resolute in its cold mask, and he realized that perhaps he could not understand her as well as he once could. For the time being, he would give her what she was asking for, the facts, plain and simple. "Where do you want to begin?" --- later that evening 11:49 p.m. Mulder put down the book he was reading and sighed with frustration. It was no use. He couldn't concentrate. He had read the words on the page, but his mind was recalling different words from earlier today. Removing his glasses, he rubbed a hand over his weary eyes, willing the conversation running in his head to stop. Scully had been relentless in her questioning. Sticking strictly to the facts; the who, what, when, where, why, and how. But she had asked nothing personal. Nothing that would let him tell her how he was feeling at the time of the incident or how he felt now. And that's what he wanted most to convey. He had watched her closely as he told his story, searching for any signs of emotion. How did she feel about this? What did she think? Did she believe he was telling the truth? He didn't know. Her face had remained frozen in the neutral expression of a well-trained investigator. The look she had given to many a suspect in the past had been used against him. And while she slowly gathered information, he still knew nothing. Mulder closed his eyes and tipped his head back to rest on the top of the couch. Maybe if he just let the entire conversation run its course, he could get some relief from his memory. --- "Where do you want to begin?" She glanced up at him quickly, and made eye contact for the first time since she had come into the office. But the connection was all too brief. She looked around the office for a moment until her eyes settled on the chair in front of the desk. "May I sit down?" she asked, searching for permission. Standard operating procedure when questioning a suspect in their personal space. He nodded and gestured toward the chair, waiting until she was seated before settling himself in his own seat, pulling the chair out from behind the desk so there would be no barrier. She bent down and pulled the case file from her briefcase. Slow, deliberate movements. Gathering her strength and resolve before beginning. She flipped open the cover and scanned the page quickly. "How well did you know Randolph Foster?" "I met Mr. Foster through a contact. I was told he had new information on an old abduction case." "So you had no knowledge of him before this time?" "No." "The abduction case you mentioned, was it that of his son... Thomas Foster, abducted from his home in Connecticut in 1972?" He nodded, forcing her to look up to see his response. "And what information did he have pertaining to the case?" "Foster was working in a hush-hush government funded project at the time of Tommy's abduction. When he began to realize the potential consequences of this work, he asked to be released. His superiors said no, and threatened him with a personal attack if he refused to cooperate. The attack came in the form of the abduction of his youngest child." Scully frowned. "So he already knew what had happened to his son?" "More or less," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "But he said he had new information. What was that?" He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, to make sure he could tell this story as carefully as possible. "Foster suspected that his son had been taken by the same people for whom he was working. Unfortunately, that tidbit of information had been conveniently removed by drugs that have the ability to selectively erase targeted memories. He simply forgot. And didn't begin to remember until he underwent treatment for cancer twenty-five years later." He had to wait patiently as Scully scribbled a few notes in the margin and flipped through a few pages in the file. "The police report indicates that you accompanied Mr. Foster to Chicago for the purpose of continuing the investigation. It also states that a Marita Covarrubias was with you. Is that correct?" He tried to hide it, but a faint smile slid across his face. "Yes. Basically. Actually I met up with Foster in Chicago. It was Marita that brought him to me." Scully's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Marita? Your informant?" "At the time. Yes." Scully nodded, but did not acknowledge that piece of information, continuing to read from the file as she spoke. "Your investigation led you to an abandoned farm site just outside the city. Foster led you here?" "Yes." Even after two years, the events at the laboratory still haunted his subconscious vision. When he closed his eyes, he could see the bottle, feel it in his hands, like it was yesterday. "And you found the laboratory sample that corresponded to the description of Samantha?" She had to know, was able to imagine just a shred of the emotion he had felt as he stared at the one remnant of his beloved sister. The bottle he had smashed so many times in his dreams since then, reliving the words of the technician. Mother and daughter. Mother and daughter. Brother and sister. He nodded. "Do you have the sample now?" He shook his head, holding her gaze for a longer moment. "It was here that you claimed Mr. Foster was abducted from the back seat of the rental car by unknown assailants?" Scully gave him a second before continuing. "You didn't see or hear anything? No indications that the abduction was to take place? Strange vehicles? Anything?" "No. When we got back to the car, he was gone." "A second report was filed three days later confirming that the body found on the banks of the Chicago River was that of Randolph Foster. Positively identified by his wife. The autopsy showed that Mr. Foster was killed on April 20; death resulting from a bullet to the head. A bullet that matched your service weapon." He looked at her, willing her to believe in him as she had the last time he had been linked to a murder through the weapon used. She had gone to extraordinary lengths to prove him innocent then, but he was unable to see if she held the same faith in him now. Her eyes reflected an inscrutable gaze. "Why were the charges dismissed?" "The ballistics report disappeared." This time he could read her face perfectly. Skepticism, as strong as it had ever been, transmitted as if it were mounted on a marquee. "I didn't do it, Scully." Scully picked up her briefcase and stashed the file inside. "I didn't imply that you had." She rose quickly and turned toward the door. "Thank you for your cooperation, Agent Mulder. If I have any further questions, I will contact you." He stood as she made her way to the door. "Scully, wait. I - " She turned slightly, giving him the tolerant look once reserved for slide presentations and alien abduction diatribes. He fumbled for words. "Look. I know you probably don't want to be talking with me." "You're right." The words and the tone in which they were delivered nearly stopped him cold, but he finally gained his opportunity to speak freely. "I didn't set you up in front of the review board." "I know." He stared at her, his mouth hanging open in preparation to handle the expected response of surprise. She knew. And she didn't care. "Scully, wait - " --- And now the vision of her walking out the door, ignoring his request, was playing over and over in his head. She had resorted back to the formal, almost pretentious "Agent Mulder" before continuing on her merry way. No, that wasn't fair. She was doing her job, assigned to a case she clearly did not want. It was not something she relished, and even if he had not had a chance to explain his thoughts, both past and present, he knew she was experiencing similar turmoil. He would, for the time being, curb his almost overwhelming curiosity and anxiety, allowing her to pursue this investigation in her own way. She was certainly a competent investigator, and perhaps her two years removed from the situation would be an asset. His watch reflected the witching hour, and he moved toward the bed that would begin another night's slumber. --- 2:42 a.m. Another night, another nightmare. They were almost like clockwork, waking her regularly yet leaving no solid images to relive. Maggie Scully's bedroom was at the other end of the house, which prevented any noise from traveling to her mother's ears. And she had attempted to stay up as late as possible, in the hope that extreme fatigue would send her into a deep enough sleep to ward off the dreams. That effort had failed again. She had tried several remedies in the previous evenings to regain her sleepiness. Tonight she would try music, selecting the cassette of Melissa's that had foreshadowed the resumption of this web in which she was ensnared. The poignant melody began, and she recognized it as something she had heard in her dream. But it was not the same song she remembered from the previous week. A frown that had begun to form on her face shifted to puzzlement as she heard the lyric. "I would like to linger here in silence if I choose to." She reached out and angrily punched the Stop button, the rewound the cassette to its beginning. She was surprised when the tape stopped quickly, indicating that the song was at the beginning of the cassette. Scully then began searching the individual songs, finally finding the first song approximately halfway through the tape. But if she hadn't touched the tape in three days, how did it suddenly rewind to another song? She ejected the cassette and threw it across the room, angered that sleep would elude her yet again. --- FBI Academy at Quantico Thursday, January 7 3:00 p.m. "Today's topic - serial killers," Mulder said with a barely contained smile. This was one of his favorite topics. Not because of the crimes themselves nor the sick individuals who committed them. But the slides that went with this presentation were guaranteed to hit ten on the shock factor scale. It was good for these young people to see what working in Violent Crimes was all about. There was no glamour, no glory; this wasn't the set of some Hollywood movie. These crimes were real and the monsters who did the heinous acts were real. Very real. And some day, it would be their job to stop them. Just as it had been his. "I'm sure you are all familiar with Charles Manson," he said as a slide popped up on the screen behind him. "Jeffery Dahmer." Another slide. "And Ted Bundy." Another slide. "He would lure in young women, sexually assault them, strangle them." Another slide. "Then dismember the corpse." Mulder focused his attention on the student in the third row who began to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Another slide. "Often Bundy would return, several days or weeks later, to the place where he had dumped his victim's body." Another slide. "And continue the sexual assault on the dismembered body parts." Another slide. The young man in the third row bolted for the door. When the buzz in the room had again grown quiet, he continued. "Blood seems to hold a particular fascination with some serial murderers. Take the case of the Sacramento Vampire Killer, Richard Trenton Chase." Another slide. "Using an ordinary household blender, he would prepare human blood and organs for ingestion. Supposedly to stop his blood from turning to powder." Another slide. More students began to shift nervously in their seats. "Or maybe a more recent case?" Another slide. "The Shakespeare Stabber would use the victim's blood to write obscure lines from Shakespeare as clues for the investigators." When Mulder turned to glance at the slide behind him, it was his turn to feel a nervous twitch in the pit of his stomach. He had worked on this case. Correction. He and Scully *should* have worked on this case, and they shouldn't have been pulled so some hotshot could claim the glory. But he had been sidetracked by Randolph Foster, or someone who said he was Foster, and he hadn't cared as much as he could have. The unstoppable images flowed into his brain. The lab in Chicago. The jar in his hand. The last remnants of his sister. The look on Scully's face when she saw him with her file. Her anger, his inability to answer her charges. Scully's face as she questioned him about Foster two years later. Did she believe he had killed the man? Did she think he was capable of committing that act? Mulder closed his eyes and reached out for the desk in front of him for support. His breath caught in his throat. He couldn't breathe. The scratching of chair legs on linoleum, the rustling of paper, and the quiet murmur of the other people in the room snapped his focus back to the present. He cleared his throat and advanced to a new slide. "The case of John Wayne Gacy is..." --- Hoover Building Friday, January 8 4:00 p.m. Scully walked down the corridors of Central Storage, looking for the tiny numbers specifying the individual file cabinets. Her brow was wrinkled, from both a resistance to sneezing from the musty smell and the worry brought about by her search. Finally, she found the cabinet corresponding to the piece of paper in her hand. She tugged on the top drawer, relieved that it pulled open. The red and white rimmed folders sat in their chaotic disorganization that she had never truly figured out. The last time she had hunted through the files of individual victims, though, they had been in alphabetical order. The R - Z drawer was at the bottom, and Scully knelt down to the chorus of popping in her knees. She flipped through the files rapidly, scanning methodically for her name. When she didn't find it the first time through, she started again at the beginning. Slower, taking more care to read names. But hers was not among them. A third and final time through, with the fading hope that perhaps it had been mis-filed. This time she found a piece of paper where her file should have been. She pulled it out, finally relenting to the sneeze that had been building up. "Scully, Dana, X-File #73317 - checked out April 24, 1997." Scully slammed the drawer shut and stood up, swaying a bit from anger and the head rush. She wished that Skinner had thought to pull her file when he had retained Samantha's and Foster's. After the week she had just finished, there was no way she could face Fox Mulder tonight. end part 5 ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction part 6/16 disclaimer in part 0 --- Margaret Scully's home that same evening 6:30 p.m. Scully curled up on her favorite reading spot in the living room, warmed by the old crocheted afghan she used to have to fight with Melissa for. Her attention centered on the research report Pendrell had completed the previous year. "Dana?" Margaret Scully entered the living room, bearing two cups of hot chocolate with rapidly melting whipped cream. Scully looked up and smiled gratefully, reaching to take the nearest cup from her mother's outstretched hand. She took a sip, letting the heat sear its path down her throat. "Thanks, Mom. It's just what I needed." "I noticed you didn't eat much dinner tonight." The unspoken comment was that she hadn't been eating much that entire week. Scully paused, trying to find the reassuring words she needed. "I know, Mom. It's been a slow adjustment and it's taking longer than I thought it would. But I'm fine, Mom." Maggie smiled and laughed softly. "Dana, you should know better than to resort to that old cliche. I certainly heard it enough from you to know that it means the exact opposite." The whipped cream continued to dissolve before her eyes, although she couldn't tell if it was from the steam or from her intense concentration. All week Scully had sensed that this conversation was going to be difficult to avoid, as her mother could be more persistent than any investigator she'd known. She pursed her lips in resignation and looked up at a worried face so like her own. "I've been assigned to a case, a murder investigation, and it's - well, it's very sensitive." She ducked her head forward to let the curtain of hair hide her face. "Sensitive in what way, Dana?" "Um, Mom, I'd really rather not talk about it. Please." Scully stopped just short of telling her mother it was confidential, as that would have constituted a lie. "Dana, honey, look at me..." She slowly raised her head to look at her mother. Margaret reached out her hand to smooth back the hair that blocked her daughter's face from plain view. At the feel of her mother's touch, Scully leaned her cheek into the palm of Margaret's hand, closing her eyes to block the sudden spurt of tears. "Dana." A soft loving command. Scully opened her eyes and felt two tears seek a path down her cheek. The week had been a terrible, volatile mixture of emotion without release, and she suddenly felt defenseless and vulnerable. Her fear rested not with her mother's presence, but with the realization that the pain she had shunted aside so long ago was back. And it had multiplied. "I saw Mulder." The tears came in earnest. Margaret's face crinkled with the maternal knowledge of the sorrow her daughter felt. She quickly set the two cups on the table and gathered her painfully thin child in her arms. She settled into a soothing rocking motion that she had not been able to give to her stubborn baby girl since her infancy. After a few moments, Scully cleared her throat and sat up, looking for the nearby tissue box. She debated how much she wanted to reveal. Perhaps it would be good to pour it all out. "Mom, I've been investigating a case that Mul - that he was involved in after I - *before* I left. He was accused of murdering a man, and he lost the X-Files. The Bureau closed the division and he was suspended. And now I have to keep meeting with him, to find out what happened." "And you're scared." Margaret gripped her daughter's hand tightly. Scully nodded, fighting back another current of tears. "I asked them to assign another agent, but my boss...he...Skinner wouldn't let me transfer." "Dana." Margaret squeezed the hand to gain her daughter's gaze. "What is it that you're afraid of?" Scully hesitated, not sure how to describe her feelings, not wanting to confirm what she feared. "I'm afraid I'll...that I'll forget what it felt like when I found out...when I left...that I won't be true to myself. He hurt me, Mom, and - " her voice broke and she leaned back into her mother's embrace. "I know, honey, I know." The rocking motion resumed, both women pursuing their own thoughts privately. Margaret remembered the sight of her daughter's partner, defeated and repentant. A shattered man, broken not so much by his partner's actions as by his responsibility in her fleeing. Lost and bereft, blaming no one except himself. "Dana, I want to tell you something." Margaret waited for her daughter to look up again. Scully blew her nose one last time and balled the tissue in her fist as she looked at her mother. "The night that you left, Fox came to see me. He was looking for you - he didn't know you had gone. Honey, he was...he was so ashamed of himself, so devastated by what he thought he had done to you." The red head tilted forward again to consider this perspective. Mulder had learned about Samantha's death. He had been accused of murder. And then he had come to find her. To apologize. "You have to try to forgive him." At her child's astonished look, Margaret grew more confident in her belief that this was the only course of action. "You need to talk with him. The pain you feel will only continue to grow until you confront it. You need to heal, my daughter. You've already lost too much time." Three months. Twenty months. They seem to rush by in a blur, no accounting for the moments she had relinquished - once by force and once voluntarily. "Mom, I don't think..." Scully looked out the window, her hand coming up to touch the gold cross around her neck. Sensations of shame welled inside her, and she clutched the cross tightly. "You don't think you can?" Margaret finished the sentence. She passed her hand over the red hair one last time and sighed, resigned to addressing the issue one piece at a time. "Dana, you can't go on carrying this inside you. You are a good person. So is Fox. You need to go to him, talk with him." --- Saturday, January 9 9:00 a.m. Scully checked the address from the printout again, positive that she was in the wrong location. She pulled her car to the side of the road and stopped, looking at the simple homes with large snow-covered yards, swing sets and basketball hoops in the driveway. A suburb. Not an apartment building. A place for families. A place for homes. Not a place for Mulder. But the address corresponded to the directions, and she looked again for the correct house. Up there, three houses away. Far enough away that she could gather her thoughts before going to meet him. She inhaled deeply, feeling her chest swell with a courage she did not feel. Her reflection in the rearview mirror was one of disapproval - she was not the type to shrink away from what she knew she must do. Now was the time to meet with him, face to face, without others around to soften the edges. Scully let out the breath abruptly and unbuckled her seat belt. The "open door" chimes of the car sounded the mission's commencement. She could hear children playing in different lots, enjoying the latest snowfall. A few strides forward brought her to the best vantage point of Mulder's backyard. And there she saw him. The tall, dark haired man, whose form she had come to mistakenly recognize in a thousand strangers in Russia, stood next to a fence, laughing at a scene near his feet. His face was relaxed and he looked years younger than he had in the office earlier that week. He bent down, out of Scully's view for a moment. She wondered what prompted his easy laughter, something she had rarely witnessed. He rose, a bundle of bright blue and red in his arms. A child. A little boy, dark haired and smiling broadly. Propelling himself backwards in Mulder's arms, knowing with little boy confidence that he would not be dropped. Enjoying his adventure so much that his laugh was contagious. Mulder's grin widened, and he dipped the boy back even further, starting them both on another cycle of laughter. Scully stared for a long moment. She had not been prepared for this. A girlfriend or even a wife, perhaps. But never a child. And she was positive, with an innate certainty that left no need for proof, that the little boy was Mulder's son. Mulder's son. A phrase she had never considered. <'I never saw you as a mother'.> And I never saw you as a father. She looked at the house again, and a comment of his from long ago came back to her. <'You don't know me as well as you think you do.'> He had done what he had said he would. When he settled down, he chose a place reminiscent of his childhood on the Vineyard, close to his work, but far enough away that he would be home. Scully watched as Mulder and the child moved to the front of the house, evidently preparing to build a snowman. She stayed out of sight behind a tree in a neighbor's yard. From this distance she could see the child more clearly. His hair was very much like his father's, and although she could not see their exact color, she was willing to bet that his eyes were the same chameleon-hazel shade as Mulder's. Skinner was right. Not everything was as it appeared to be. And now things were as she never imagined they could be. She had to reorganize her thoughts, assimilate this new information and evaluate its impact carefully. Samantha dead, the X-Files taken away, accused of murder, a child approaching. How must he have felt? Overwhelmed. Defeated. Alone. With that realization, could she begin to understand what had happened to him then? Why he had shoved her away? Perhaps. But what about today? She looked again at the first snowball in progress. Mulder looked...he looked happy. Content. The little boy laughed loudly as he dumped snow on his father's head. A lazy Saturday playing with his daddy. Soon they would go inside for hot chocolate and probably a basketball game on television to fall asleep by. But not a day for confrontations, for questioning. She stood up and walked back to her car. --- Sunday, January 10 Mulder's Home 2:03 a.m. The room was thrown into total darkness as soon as Mulder switched off the television. He sat back in his recliner and relished the quiet and solitude. Once, this act would have thrown him into a state of despair; reminding him of his loneliness, his failures, his inability to cope. Now it wrapped him in a blanket of comfort. It was nighttime, and the house was quiet, just as it should be. Marita had turned in earlier, succumbing to exhaustion from her busy schedule. But not before she had coerced him into revealing the cause of his moodiness. He had told her of the discovery of Foster's body. Again. The pathology department still working fervently to confirm the identity. The confusion he felt at this startling news. And he told her about Scully and her assignment to find the answers to this unsettling mystery. He had to admit, he felt instantly better. The novelty of having a human barometer for his emotional state had not grown tiresome. Marita was a vital, almost invaluable facet of his last two years. At his lowest point, he had turned to her. But she hadn't pushed him away, weathering the violent, volatile impact of the consequences of his search for Samantha. And what had begun as a selfish taking slowly changed into an opportunity for him to give again as a person, as he had rarely done in his life. His evening routine always included a pause at the living room bookcase, a nightly meditation of sorts. The few pictures he had of Samantha, sitting on a jungle gym, playing at the beach, swinging in the old birch tree in the backyard at Quonochotaug. He picked up the nearest frame and ran a finger down the printed face. He hadn't been ready for sleep yet, but he found he could finally lose himself in the late night movie without these thoughts tickling at his subconscious. Now the movie was over and he felt the sirens of weariness beckoning him to his bed. He made his way to the stairs, running his hands along the wall until he found the light switch. He mounted the stairs quietly, fearful of making a noise that would dissipate the peace. Walking down the hall on tiptoe, he stopped in front of the door to the nursery. Carefully he turned the knob and pushed the door open. A smile came to his face as he saw the child sleeping soundly in the crib. His child. He had never in his wildest imagination believed that this would be possible. He was not the type of settle down, raise a family. He was "Spooky" Mulder, investigator of the macabre, profiler of psychos. But that was before, that was another Fox Mulder, a man he had left behind. He had gained respect from others and from himself. For the first time in a very long time, he was happy and he let himself revel in that feeling. And his failures and imperfections never seemed to matter when he was in this room. Mulder eased up to the crib, still marveling in the wonder of this tiny life. He didn't think he would ever cease to be amazed at the complexity that allowed this to happen. He reached out at took one of the little hands in his own. The perfectly formed fingers instinctively curled around his father's. Mulder closed his eyes and remembered the day his child had been born. Marita's calm voice on the phone, informing him that her water had broke. His initial rush of euphoria, followed quickly by a rising sense of panic. He had nearly run down an elderly lady crossing the street in his haste to reach the hospital. The hours and hours of labor, walking the halls of the delivery wing with his overburdened wife, ice chips, backrubs. He remembered how his hand had ached from Marita's tight grip as he tried his best to coach her through the contractions, urging and encouraging her to push. And finally, the moment when his son's head had poked through, followed quickly by the rest of his tiny body. His heart had soared with joy as his son yelled with powerful lungs to voice his displeasure at leaving the womb. And in nearly a year's time, the tiny helpless infant had transformed into a person. A small individual with a mind of his own, full of curiosity and mischief. Mulder brushed a light kiss on the top of his son's head and gently smoothed his dark hair. As he walked back into the hall, he turned around and stole another quick glance. Everything would be okay. It had to be. --- Sunday, January 10 Immaculate Conception Church 11:00 a.m. Scully walked gingerly into the church, finding the blessed water at the entrance to the chapel and making the familiar sign. She knelt briefly and bent her head in homage to the crucifix adorning the altar. Families with small children - the Catholic Church never had much use for during-Mass nurseries - lined the aisles, dressed far more casually than she had ever been allowed to as a young girl. She slipped her coat and purse next to her on the pew and reached for the kneeler. As she leaned forward and folded her hands, the guitarist began the music signaling the processional. The congregation stood and joined the musician, the voices of the young and the young- at-heart lifted in song, proclaiming their faith to all who would hear. Scully had avoided Mass the previous week, as jet lag and anxiety took its toll on her energy level. She had gone occasionally during her time in Russia, repeating the creeds and prayers in English that, next to the parishioners' hushed Russian, marked her as a visitor, a foreigner. Today's Mass, with its' psalms, readings of the stories of lions and martyrs and lepers, seemed to echo that sense of an interloper, one who did not belong, one who did not believe. Her mother came to Mass regularly, always lighting a candle for both her father and Melissa. Scully had always regarded her mother's faith as the source of her strength; the ability to withstand the loss of her husband and daughter stemmed from her belief that a higher good would be achieved. Margaret Scully had an infinite capacity to accept, to forgive and to forget. She lived with love and grace, the embodiment of the acceptance, courage and wisdom found in the serenity prayer. The group of teenagers next to her stood, marking the end of the collection and presentation of the gifts. A teenage girl, probably about fourteen years old, held out her hand to Scully, a shy smile on her face. Scully stared for a moment, not knowing what the girl intended, then seeing other members of the congregation grasping hands across aisles. She looked back at the girl and reached out her hand. "Our Father, who art in heaven..." Scully joined in the familiar prayer, saying the words automatically, not attending to their meaning. Her belief in the Church had been whittled away by the rehearsed, monotone prayers that so many joined in without thinking, almost without realization of what they were saying. "...and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us..." Forgiveness. To forgive and forget. Many times in her life, she had encountered tremendous difficulty in forgiving, and, next to forgiving, forgetting seemed an almost impossible task. Yet that was the counterpart of faith. The oft-cited examples seemed almost superhuman - the Pope forgiving his would-be assassin, the story of Jesus forgiving his devoted apostle and traitor Judas. Was it possible, as her mother encouraged, to be able to look past what she believed had been committed against her? It seemed easier to handle her disappearance, as she could shove it to the recesses of her mind headlined by the neon sign "Denial". The evidence did not substantiate a full explanation - the implant and vault of medical files were simply small puzzle pieces that did not give any hint of the full picture. Now she had to confront all of it yet again. She had hoped that she had returned from Russia a different person, and in many ways she had. She had found a release from the spectre of the X-Files hanging over her, not worrying about risking her life or drawing her gun or having her phone tapped. Those fears had returned tenfold. Once she had been able to confront the danger head-on, confident in her quest and the comfort that her search was noble and just. The journey lay ahead of her again, commanding her not only because of a supervisor's assignment but also because her sense of duty would not let her rest. This was a time of maximum potential. Yet this time she was on her own. end part 6 ********** Partnership II: Reconstruction part 7/16 disclaimer in part 0 --- Monday, January 11 Mulder's office at Quantico 9:00 a.m. Scully knocked on the open door, pushing it slightly. Mulder was not in his office, though he knew she was coming. She had found the impetus to call him when she had arrived at work that morning, although she had had to fight off a sudden bout of nausea. Once she had identified herself, he had agreed to meet her to review the case. She walked into the office, struck by the brightness of the morning light shining through the window. His desk was that same ocean of paper, and she noticed the picture frame on his desk, which was facing away from her. Before Saturday, she would have guessed that this was the picture of Samantha, a fixture on Mulder's desk for several years. Now, she would not be assuming anything about the details of Mulder's life. She reached out tentatively and picked up the frame. A little boy, maybe nine months old, grinned at her, delighted at some unseen toy the photographer held up to coerce a smile. He was dressed in a bright red outfit, clutching a small, green stuffed animal in his hands. Scully pulled the frame a bit closer and smiled softly when she recognized the toy - Marvin the Martian. Of course. His hair was the same brown shade, straight like his father's. And his eyes, in this photo, had taken on a slightly bluish hue. But there was no doubt that some furious squalling at a dirty diaper or a late feeding would turn those eyes a blazing green or a deep brown. Just like his father's. She didn't have an opportunity to put the picture down before Mulder walked in the office, and he noticed instantly what she was looking at. She turned to face him, measuring the in-person Mulder with the Kodak'd version she held in her hand. He watched her cautiously, wanting to acknowledge this new transformation of his life with the appropriate sensitivity. As he had watched the child grow from a simple heartbeat heard through a stethoscope to a laughing, smiling little person, he had often wondered if Scully would be able to experience the same joy, the infinite wonder he could only have found by creating this life. She deserved to feel the unconditional love of her child. "Scully?" He was unsure yet of how to convey his thoughts. She looked at the photo one last time. "He's beautiful, Mulder." She wasn't quite ready to meet his eyes as she handed him the photo. A smile came to his face as he heard her say his name. A small sliver of hope strengthened just a bit at the sound of her voice. He tried to make contact with her hand as they exchanged the frame, but was unsuccessful. He waited, searching for signs of regret or sadness or pain. Her face was drawn in the familiar portrait of concealment, reflecting nothing to the untrained eye. There had been many times when he could read her mind as if she had handed him the manuscript. He hadn't lost that ability, especially not when he put his mind to it. In her phone call that morning, she had seemed to want to find a connection again, but had been unsure how to establish it. "His name is Daniel." Daniel? She had been expecting to hear the name Samuel. Or William. Or something that didn't remotely resemble any person in his life. But he named his child Daniel. Or perhaps he had not chosen the name. Maybe the child's mother had done so. He watched her identify that piece of information, comparing to the mental scrapbook of the important people she knew in his life. It was true she would find only one possible reference to the name of his son. He hoped to have the opportunity to explain, but right now, he wasn't going to push her. "How old is he?" Vital statistics. Courteous yet impersonal. To inquire about too much would be to allow him entrance. But her assignment here was the interviewer, and she stubbornly reminded herself of the Kiss rule - Keep it simple, stupid. "His first birthday is later this month." He tried to convey to her the pride he held for his son, for his role as a father. His two worlds suddenly joining together as he looked at the picture. He had never expected fatherhood, never thought to hope for it, especially after Samantha's death was confirmed. Yet in his most despairing moments, the arrival of his child affirmed his life in ways he never dreamed possible. Scully felt a twinge of envy at the emotion in his voice. Those opportunities seemed distant now. She needed to center herself on the task at hand. "I came to ask you for one of the files." "One of the X-Files?" He carefully placed the frame on his desk. "My X-File." He didn't hesitate before responding, "I don't have it, Scully." "Where is it?" He gestured to the boxes lining the walls. "It's not here. They took them all away from me two years ago." He hadn't realized there was a full spectrum of Scully's skeptical expressions. This one registered off the scale. "Why do you want it?" "There's information in there about the possibility of more implants. In my medical records from the hospital." "Are you sure?" She shook her head impatiently. "You should know, Mulder. You wrote about it." "Scully," waiting for her to look him square in the eye. "If they had forged one document, isn't it plausible they would forge another?" A long moment of challenging gazes, unspoken thoughts exchanged, until one relented and nodded. "And why would they do that?" she challenged. Very quietly, he answered. "I don't know." She coughed, clearing her throat. "I'm going to Connecticut." He looked up sharply, surprise registered on his face. "You're investigating Foster?" "Yes." "Why, Scully? There's nothing there any more. All the evidence is gone." "I'm going over all the avenues of investigation, in case something was missed." A spark of anger flared without warning. "You mean, in case *I* missed something?" She took a deep breath. "Mulder, there are lots of questions here that don't track. I'm not implying that you missed something - " "I know, Scully," he interrupted. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just a bit of a sensitive area for me." The man was a master of understatement. "I just thought you should know," she offered, then turned and walked out of his office. --- Bridgeport, Connecticut same afternoon 2:30 p.m. Scully stepped out of the car and breathed deeply. The weather was colder than she had expected, and the heater in the rental had not worked properly during the half hour drive from New Haven. She yawned, partly from the cold, but mostly from the hours of rest she had missed out on the last few nights. Scully had tried to fall asleep as quickly as possible, hoping to stave off another dream. Unfortunately, she remembered this one clearly and it was not from her imagination, but from an earlier case. She had seen the pit of bodies, suffering from the experiments, buried in lime like pictures she had seen of the victims of the Holocaust. Her brief conversation with Mulder had added to the frustration. A quick call to Skinner confirmed that he did not have her file either, nor any clue as to where it had gone. Another tour of the friendly skies did not help her mood, especially considering she had hoped that her most recent cross-Pacific flight was her last for a while. The broken heater was the final straw. Strangely enough, however, she had not been assigned a partner, contrary to standard Bureau procedure. Once she had realized that fact, she had been tempted to call Skinner, but held off, anticipating his noncommittal response. If she was truly the only agent he had chosen for this assignment, despite her conflict of interest, then she knew he would not assign anyone else to work with her. And fortunately, he did not assign Mulder. She walked around the car to get her briefcase, which contained the file she would need to review before she interviewed Grace Foster about her child's disappearance in 1972. Grace Foster, aged 63, housewife, widow - although she had not been notified that her husband had really died sometime within the last ten days. The origin of that particular order remained unknown, and Scully suspected that someone in the Bureau acted with more sensitivity toward the woman than was the norm. Finding that your husband had been alive but not in contact with you for nearly two years would be cause for divorce for most women. Having that brief hope dashed with news of his death would only increase the pain for Mrs. Foster. Until the body had been confirmed as truly being Randolph Foster, she would not be informed. The police report for Tommy Foster listed nothing unusual - kidnapped from his bedroom, no evidence, no fingerprints, mother home but asleep, father away on business, sisters at a slumber party. His one brother had been interviewed, and he remembered nothing out of the ordinary about the evening. Mrs. Foster had not identified anyone with motive against her family. The Foster home was a small cottage, suitable for an older woman living by herself. Scully moved up the sidewalk to the porch and rang the doorbell, staring at the swing that drifted softly in the breeze, wondering yet again what it would be like to have a real home and family. The door opened, revealing Grace Foster to be a woman who had aged gracefully, a pleasant smile on her face. Scully held up her badge, a smooth gesture even though it had been months since she had been required to identify herself. "Mrs. Grace Foster?" The woman's smile faded as she recognized the badge. "Yes. I'm Grace Foster." "Mrs.. Foster, my name is Dana Scully. I'm here to ask you a few questions, and I'm hoping you can spare a few moments to talk with me." Mrs. Foster hesitated a bit, scrutinizing the visitor. "What do you want to talk to me about?" Scully concentrated on setting her earlier frustration aside. Regardless of how poorly her day had gone, this woman deserved her utmost attention and sympathy. "Mrs. Foster, I'm sorry to be asking this, but I would like to ask you some questions about your son Tommy." The older woman's eyes became instantly wary. "What kind of questions?" Scully looked at the woman, hoping to convey the sentiment that she was trustworthy and honest. "Ma'am, I'm investigating a similar kidnapping that occurred around the same time as your son's. Some new information has arisen about that crime, and you may be able to shed some light on the situation." The door swung open, an indication of the woman's decision. Scully walked into the house and instantly saw the gallery of family photos lining the staircase in the foyer. Beautiful children and, guessing from the recent pictures of babies, grandchildren. Scully felt a fleeting twinge of envy of this woman. Mrs. Foster crossed the entryway to the couch in a bright living room. "Please have a seat, Ms. Scully." "Thank you. I know that this may be difficult for you, and I appreciate any information you can give me." Almost in spite of the suspicion she had displayed on the porch, tears came to the older woman's eyes, and her shoulders slumped. "Tommy was just a little boy, and it happened so long ago." Scully had never pinpointed why interviewing and counseling witnesses had always been difficult. She had been quite adept at comforting others in their grief, but had always felt uncomfortable. She sensed that with this woman, her difficulties would increase. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Foster." "Some people say it should get easier, but it doesn't. And when I feel a little better, then I feel more guilty that it shouldn't feel better. Does that make any sense?" Scully blinked rapidly for a moment, not wanting to reveal how accurately Mrs. Foster's statement reflected her own feelings about so many things. Just when the grief eased, guilt stepped in to remind her that she could not ease the mourning. A cycle from which she would never escape. "Yes, Mrs. Foster. It makes perfect sense." --- Mulder's home same day 6:00 p.m. Mulder winced and cursed under his breath as he ran his hand under the cold water in the sink. He gingerly patted his hand dry with a dish towel. Satisfied that the injury was only minor, he went in search of Marita. He had come home, after picking up Daniel from daycare, to find her dozing on the sofa. Apparently, another severe headache had forced her home from work to seek relief in the quiet of the house. That was the third time this month. Mulder padded quietly up to the sofa and knelt down beside her. "Hey," he said as he gently brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. She opened her eyes enough to let him know she was awake. "I made dinner." "I heard," she said sarcastically. He shrugged his shoulders in apology. "Are you ready to eat?" She just shook her head. "Come on," he urged. "It's only fish sticks. Not even I can mess them up too badly." A grimace crossed her face upon hearing his culinary choice for the evening meal. "I think I'll pass." He ran a sympathetic hand across her cheek. "Let me know if you change your mind." Suddenly, he stood and looked around the room. "Where's Daniel?" Marita sighed and laid an arm across her eyes. "He wouldn't leave me alone, so I put him in the playpen." He turned toward the playpen in the corner of the room, surprised that he had not heard a protest from his son at this unexpected incarceration. It was usually at this time, before supper, that Daniel would make his daily prowl of the baby-proof section of the house. He would inspect everything within his reach; the toys that were too big to be put in the playpen, the magazines in the basket next to the recliner, the fish in the tank that he could just barely see if he stood on tiptoe. There would be games of peek-a-boo and catch-me-if- you-can, much to the delight of both parent and child. As Mulder walked toward the playpen, Daniel stood and held his arms out, whining a little to make sure that he had his father's attention. "Ready to break out of the slammer, big guy?" he asked as he leaned over and picked up the boy. He carried Daniel back into the kitchen and sat him in the high chair. After tying a bib around the toddler's neck, Mulder placed the baby plate with fish sticks, green beans, and pieces of banana on the tray. "Here you are, Monsieur. Fish sticks a la Mulder. Bon appetit." Daniel expressed his approval by offering him the first taste. He smiled and took a tiny bite. "Thank you. Now it's your turn." As Daniel ate, Mulder pushed the green beans around on his plate with a fork. He was worried about Marita. Her headaches had been coming more frequently and with more severity. Whatever medicine she was taking didn't seem to be working as well as it had in the past. She had been to see several doctors, but no one could pinpoint an exact cause. Just stress-induced migraines, they said. An aftereffect of the pregnancy. No one seemed to know for sure. In the meantime, he tried to keep his overactive imagination from conjuring up worst-case scenarios. When Daniel had finished his meal, Mulder picked him up out of the high chair. Definitely time for a bath. As he walked through the living room to the stairs, he noticed that Marita had left the sofa and the door to her office was shut. He didn't know exactly what she did behind the closed door, and he respected her privacy enough not to ask. But one thing he did know for certain, was that she would not come out again for quite a while. --- Scully's Office Wednesday, January 13 4:00 p.m. Her steps sounded more brisk than her energy level would indicate. She stepped in her seemingly more-permanent-by-the-day temporary office and dropped her briefcase in the chair, switched on the computer, and shrugged out of her coat before heading for the coffee maker in the hallway. The chime of the mailbox prompt on her e-mail garnered her attention. She gripped the mouse to aim the cursor at the inbox logo, sipping her hot coffee with her other hand. And she remembered. She remembered receiving e-mails, anonymous ones that she had never been able to trace. And the lines of the messages had matched the lyrics of the songs she had listened to on the cassette from the week - scratch that - from the hours before. When were the dates again? Sometime in late March, about a month before she had left. She had sought Mulder's advice, but he had had better things to do. Or so she thought at the time. She knew that he had been searching for Samantha, but unfortunately, the only way he had seen fit to do that was to leave her out in the cold. She had had to turn to other sources. She picked up the phone. end part 7 **********