From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Thu, 15 Jun 2000 15:01:40 -0500
Subject: \"Twist of Fate\"  (1/6) by Mostly Harmless and Xkitty
Source: direct

Reply To: mostlyhrmles@yahoo.com.hellokitty_17@excite.com


Title: "Twist of Fate"
Authors:  Mostly Harmless and Xkitty
Rating: PG-13
Classification: XA
Spoilers: Season 7: All Things
Keywords: Mulder /Scully Friendship, UST
Description:  This story is about a twist of fate- literally!  It is 
set after season 7 "All Things" and before "Fight Club" (for 
reasons which will become obvious....)

                          Twist of Fate (Part 1 of 6)
                                   By XKitty and Mostly Harmless

A woman sits alone in front of a large loom inside a small 
wood-framed house with a thatched roof.  A little light 
makes it inside from the open door; there are no windows 
lest the light of the sun bleach the colors of the threads she 
weaves so carefully.  Her fingers deftly pull the shuttle 
through, creating a whole fabric of cloth as she goes.  It 
looks like there are merely thousands of threads, but looks 
can be deceiving.  There are millions, even billions, of fine 
threads.  Her gnarled hands are almost too quick for the eye 
to follow, adding in new threads, cutting and ending old 
ones. The colors and textures of the threads are more varied 
than the hues of a rainbow; up close, the weaving looks 
chaotic.  Only from a distance can the pattern be discerned, 
but it is a beautiful one that tells the story of the human race, 
for the weaver is no one less than Fate herself.   Like an 
Impressionist painting, from up close or inside the painting, 
it is impossible to see the grander plan, but from a distance, 
it is clearly a Masterpiece.

The weaver is not the woman who began the project, nor 
will she be the one to complete it.  Even the identity of the 
first weaver is lost to the mists of time; buried under leagues 
of cloth which may never again see the light of day, though 
what was begun in the beginning  affects what is being 
woven now, and will continue to shape the tapestry of the 
world until the last thread is cut and tied off, the vision 
shared by generations of weavers transformed into a perfect 
weaving.  Perfect, that is, until one fateful day...

The weaver's granddaughter will one day take her place; 
already she clearly shares the vision.  She comes in to relieve 
her grandmother for an hour or so, to practice her 
handiwork.  She is young, not yet ten years old, but 
assumes the mantle of Fate, for a time, with the confidence 
of the young.  Her grandmother watches for a time, then 
leaves for her well-deserved break, knowing if there is a 
problem, she can always unweave the girl's work and redo 
it.  Upon her return, she sits down, examining the girl's 
work as she continues it.  She is about to praise her for her 
speed and accuracy, when she notices a flaw.  She pauses 
for a moment, and time stands still.  Fortunately, such a 
stoppage is beyond the ken of the people whose lives are 
contained in the weaving, and they no more notice the pause 
than do the people on their videotapes when they are paused.  

The flaw is small, only affecting a few lives.  A few strands 
of thread are twisted, out-of-kilter, and they are stained a 
color different than that which was intended.  The 
grandmother looks accusingly at her apprentice, who 
shrugs, giggling.  "Billy's fault," she says, referring to her 
younger brother.  "I didn't catch him soon enough.  He spilt 
some grape juice, tried to clean it up, and tangled a few 
threads.  I looked; there is no permanent harm done.  In fact, 
I think I like it better this way."

The old woman shook her finger, "The weaving must be 
perfect! Flawless!  I don't know how we shall fix this; we 
can undo the weaving, untwist the threads and weave 
again...but the stains!  How we can remove those, I don't 
know, I just don't know.  Boiling water, normally, for 
grape juice, but how would that affect their lives?  We can't 
cut the threads, or pull them out and replace them; those are 
lives, lives that are meant to be lived."

She takes a closer look at the damage, looking into the very 
fabric of the lives that were woven accidentally awry.  The 
threads are windows into the lives of the people, windows 
which cut through the very fabric of time and space itself.  
At first, she stares in disbelief.  Then she starts to cackle.  
She laughs and laughs, tears streaming down her face, 
falling upon those same threads, changing things even more.  
At last she sits back, smiling.  She will let this imperfection 
remain.  She will let these particular threads untwist 
themselves.  In the end, everything would be as had been 
intended.  Mostly. 

This will be the one twist of fate which will remain flawed in 
her memory.  It will not be forgotten like the others, which 
she now believes happened in accordance with the divine 
plan.

Kansas City, Missouri
May 27th,  4:30 AM

"Tell me again why we're following this creep."  The tall, 
handsome dark-haired driver looked over at his petite, red-
headed partner when she asked the question.

"He's a thief who has an interesting ability to be able to spot 
and steal, for want of a better term, magical artifacts."

"And this is a bureau matter because...?"

"Seven years together, and you're still asking me that?"

"I'm still asking that.  How many paranormal things can be 
happening in the greater Kansas City area anyway?"

"We've investigated what, 150 cases in the last seven 
years?"

"At least 90% of which were inconclusive.  I swear, you're 
a Spooky Mulder wanna-be."

"You're not exactly a Dana Scully yourself."  

Thoroughly insulted, they continued carefully tailing their 
suspect in silence.  When he stopped and parked his car 
suddenly, they were forced to drive past, continue around 
the block and return.  They parked unseen down the street, 
searching carefully for their quarry.  The sounds of the 
spring evening seemed undisturbed, crickets chirped, cars 
streamed past on a not-so-distant highway.  Finally, they 
heard a muffled commotion inside one house, and moved 
out to investigate.

They slipped around opposite sides of the house, past a 
mailbox clearly labeled 'Nichols' and converged on the back 
door, which had clearly been forced open.  Looking to each 
other, they nodded once and burst through the door in 
synchronicity.  She shouted, "Freeze, FBI!"

Two men were struggling; one, dressed in a bathrobe, was 
clearly the resident.  The other was the thief they'd been 
tailing.  They were struggling over a miniature window, 
made of plastic or glass and framed by dark wood, only 
small enough to fit in a shirt pocket.

Neither man paid much attention to either FBI agent.  The 
owner, Mark Nichols, was grunting heavily, "You. Can't. 
Have. It!"

The thief, John Davids, was a powerful man, built like a 
wrestler.  He was clutching the object with both hands.  He 
altered his grip, bringing it closer to his body, and drew a 
knife with his off hand.  He menaced the owner, a pale, 
slender man in  his mid-thirties who still wouldn't release his 
death grip on the discovery of his lifetime.  

As the knife was about to draw blood, the woman agent 
shouted again, "Freeze."  When there was no response, 
without hesitation she fired.  Her aim at Davids was true, but 
the struggle had brought the window into the path of the 
bullet she had fired...which simply disappeared.  

Mark Nichols, believing he recognized the voice, screamed, 
"Dana, no!" as in disbelief, the federal agent fired again.  
Nichols, concerned more about his trinket than his life, 
threw his body in the path of the second bullet, which 
lodged itself into his neck.  He looked up in momentary 
disbelief, murmuring "You're not Dana..." as he passed out.  

The agent froze, disbelieving what had happened.  She had 
shot the man she was trying to protect.  Her partner froze 
similarly, staring at her in horror.  Davids took their moment 
of inaction to make his escape, with his precious find stuffed 
quickly into his shirt pocket.  He fled out the front door, 
disappearing quickly into the shadows.  

A long moment later, the agents followed in pursuit, 
desperately needing to bring this criminal to justice.  By this 
point, however, the normally sleepy neighborhood had been 
awakened abruptly by the gunshots, and roused itself in 
anger.  Lights streamed on and dogs began to bark.  The two 
agents were spotlighted, and froze like deer in the headlights 
of an oncoming truck.  The bright halogen lights dazzled 
them, turned off their brains, and they fled in terror towards 
their car, driving off from the scene of a crime.  

It wasn't until a half-hour later after pulling over at an all-
night Denny's that they realized what a monumental blunder 
they had made.  An innocent man might have died because 
of their mistakes, and the thief had gotten cleanly away with 
his loot.  They hadn't even called an ambulance...this would 
be the end of their careers.  Over a cup of coffee, they 
decided to say nothing at all, not to come forward, and see if 
the fates would allow them this one mistake in their pursuit 
of truth and justice.  Surely, on the whole, the karmic 
balance was still in their favor?  They had helped so many 
people over the years, and perhaps Nichols wouldn't die, 
after all.  Maybe they could put this behind them as if it had 
never happened, bury this ill-done night's work in the back 
of their minds where it would only haunt their nightmares.  

They went home separately and called in sick with the 
stomach flu to their boss at the Kansas City Field Office of 
the FBI.  Then, as the sun rose, they drunk themselves into 
oblivion, hoping to lose all memory of the debacle and 
thereby escape its consequences. 

Kansas City, Missouri
Memorial Day Weekend
10:13 AM

"So what do you think?" Scully asked her partner as he 
parked their rental car across the street from the Nichols' 
two-story painted-brick house.

"I think I'm going to go into the plastics business," Mulder 
commented, eyes taking in the three cars in the driveway, the 
backyard swimming pool, and the motorboat that peeked out 
from the garage.

Laughing, Scully grabbed the notes she had brought to share 
with Mark and climbed out of the car. She surveyed her 
friend's immaculate lawn, suddenly noting that the yard was 
cordoned-off by yellow tape proclaiming "Crime Scene-Do 
Not Cross."

They exchanged a look which could only be described as 
perplexed.  They were investigating paranormal phenomena, 
this time, not a crime- and on their own time.  They'd been 
given warning they were likely to be subjected to an internal 
audit of their expense reports.   Scully wanted iron-clad 
proof of its existence before their work underwent such 
close scrutiny, and this seemed like a golden opportunity.  

Mark Nichols had contacted Scully directly; they'd been in 
the Physics program at the University of Maryland together, 
Mark a year ahead of her.  Scully wasn't sure how he'd 
learned of her involvement in paranormal investigation, but it 
was because of it that he'd called her.  She'd checked on him 
before agreeing to come out to Kansas City; his reputation 
was excellent.  After receiving his physics degree, he'd 
earned a Ph.D. in material science and gone to work for a 
reputable plastics firm.  

Mark's call hadn't been terribly specific, but he was 
extremely excited about a recent discovery he'd made.  It had 
something to do with a new material he had made which was 
designed to be a clear bullet-proof window much more 
resistant than anything made.  At first, it had seemed 
perfectly normal...until Mark realized that the other side of 
the window looked out on the right place...but at the wrong 
time!  

Mark had remembered Scully's senior thesis about a 
reinterpretation of Einstein's twin paradox, and felt some of 
her analysis might have bearing on the phenomenon.  He 
also needed, required even, an independent scientist to verify 
his findings...one who would take him seriously.  He knew 
he'd be a laughing-stock no matter what, but he didn't want 
to face it alone, or so he'd said.  

Scully had thought about the invitation, and decided to take 
her well-earned 3-day weekend in Missouri.  Almost as an 
afterthought, she'd invited Mulder along.  He'd been pleased 
until she informed him he'd be paying his share.  
Grudgingly, he had agreed.  Needless to say, he'd been 
intrigued by the idea, especially when Scully had said she 
wasn't entirely clear on whether or not the window looked 
into the past...or into the future.  He was also speculating 
wildly on how time would behave if one observer were on 
one side of the window and the other on the opposite side, 
something that required at least two people, though 
performing an experiment while a third watched both of 
them while not looking through it would be even better.   

Scully, meanwhile was wondering why Mark hadn't tried 
looking at a mirror on the opposite side. Mulder caught 
himself looking sidewise at Scully with secret pleasure; for 
once she was talking with him as if she actually believed 
something truly fantastic were plausible.  They'd passed the 
trip quite pleasantly in wild speculation and strong argument.  
This was particularly important since they had encountered 
many delays in their journey.  They had been bumped from 
their scheduled flight on Friday evening, arrived much later 
than they intended, rented a car, gotten lost while Mulder 
was driving (he wasn't going to live that one down easily), 
had to change a flat tire in the middle of the night, and had to 
search the entire town for a motel with two vacant rooms.  
They had only managed a couple hours of sleep before the 
time Scully had arranged to meet Mark Nichols.

The crime scene came as a complete shock; Mark had said 
he'd talked to no one about his research results, and Scully 
doubted he had an enemy in the world.  It didn't seem likely 
that this was simply a random act of violence, however, and 
she presumed someone must have learned about Mark's 
window into time.  

"What's going on?" Mulder flashed his badge at the officer 
guarding the crime tape.

"FBI? They called you already?" the officer asked, looking 
slightly confused. He beckoned to another policeman who 
was talking with what looked like a potential witness.

"No, actually we were just coming to visit Mark. Is 
everything okay here?" Scully asked, looking around for 
signs of the exact problem.

"Well, actually no, ma'am." The second officer, overhearing 
her question, came over, looking suspiciously at the agents. 
"It appears that Mr. Nichols was the victim of a attempted 
burglary, although nothing of value seems to be missing. He 
was just taken to the hospital with a bullet lodged next to 
his spinal cord."

"What is his condition?"  asked Scully immediately 
concerned.

"You'd have to contact the hospital to find out," the first 
officer, whose name badge read Clampet,  replied. "Mind if 
we ask what you were coming to see him about?"

"Actually, it was about some independent work he had been 
doing with a new formula for plastics" Scully began, 
stopping when she realized that perhaps Mark wouldn't want 
her to give anything away as of yet. "He asked me to come 
as 
a friend and a fellow scientist..." she continued hesitantly.

"First you're FBI now you're a scientist?" the officer 
questioned, seeming to find her contradicting herself 
already.  He lived in the neighborhood, and was quite 
interested in solving this case.

"Both."  Scully replied firmly.  "We were together in the 
physics program at the University of Maryland."  The officer 
looked a little mollified, but still somewhat suspicious, 
though he knew that was, in fact, where Mark had gone to 
school.

"Why don't we go inside?" Mulder interrupted. "We can 
look at the crime scene and see if we can be of assistance to 
your department."

"Fine by me," Clampet said, mentally adding, 'as long as 
I'm keeping a close eye on you both' as he lead the two 
agents across the vast front lawn towards the large double 
doors at the front of the house.  Before making it inside 
however, Mulder and Scully stopped to notice footprints in 
the flower bed...high-heeled shoes about the size and shape 
of Scully's actually...

"So, you work the late shift and you were on your way 
home this morning around 4:45, is that right Mr. Bennet?" A 
female officer was questioning a large, harried looking man 
on the front porch. She looked sideways at Clampet and the 
two agents as they came closer.

"Yes, ma'am, that's right. Just as I passed this house, the 
door opened and a man and woman came running out. They 
jumped right in front of my truck, I almost ran 'em over, but 
they stopped and stared at me. They looked scared to death! 
I was so shook up I went right home and went to sleep. 
Didn't 
find out about the shooting 'til this morning."

"What did they look like, the man and woman you saw leave 
the house early this morning?"

"Well, it was dark, but like I said, I caught them in my 
headlights. The guy was tall, wearing some sort of trench 
coat. He had dark hair. The woman with him was a lot 
shorter, but she had on heels. She was a redhead, I think. I 
looked in my rearview mirror after they passed to make sure 
they 
got across the street okay.  They were getting into a little 
blue compact car parked over there." He raised his hand to 
block the sun and pointed. "Right where that car is now. 
Actually, that looks like the same car." Bennet stopped, 
looking confused for a moment.

"It's the same car?" the female officer questioned, suddenly 
all ears. "Are you sure?"

"Almost positive, ma'am." Greg Bennet scanned the faces of 
the people milling around the yard, looking to see if any of 
them matched the ones he had seen the night before. His 
gaze stopped on Mulder and Scully, who had paused to 
examine a footprint in the flowerbed.

"Uh, Officer Jamison," he finally said, "that's them right 
over there."   He pointed accusingly.  She followed his gaze, 
noticing immediately that they matched the descriptions 
given by every witness.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep, about as positive as is possible, ma'am."

"You two! Over by the flowerbed! Stand up, hands in the 
air!" Jamison flipped on her radio and shouted, "Call off the 
search, boys.  We've got 'em. Came right back to the 
scene."

Mulder and Scully, engrossed in a discussion about the 
stupidity of burglars who entered through a flower garden 
wearing traceable shoes, didn't hear the commotion that 
arose until they were yanked roughly to their feet.

"Are you sure these are the people you saw last night?" 
Jamison asked the large man sitting on the porch steps. At 
his affirmation, she pulled out a pair of cuffs for Scully and 
signaled to Clampet to take care of Mulder.

"No, I think there must be some mistake," Scully began 
somewhat frantically.  "Mark asked us to come verify some 
findings for him. We didn't even know any of this had 
happened until we got here."

"Findings? About what?" An officer broke transmission with 
the station and turned to listen.

"Mark was working to develop a better type of bullet-proof 
material," Scully began, "but he discovered something a 
great deal more interesting. What he found was that, well, 
the window he created looked out on a different time."  
She suddenly realized how foolish she sounded, no doubt 
due to lack of sleep and being unaccustomed to being the 
person questioned.  She looked to Mulder for help.

"We normally investigate cases involving unusual 
circumstances," Mulder began. "And although we didn't 
come here in an investigative capacity, we were interested in 
the paranormal aspect of Mr. Nichols' discovery."

"Right," one officer commented. "Great science fiction, but 
we didn't find any mirrors that looked out into, what was it, 
Another time period?"  He wasn't really succeeding in 
keeping a straight face.  He was starting to wonder if they 
were under the influence of a narcotic.  They both seemed a 
little bit dazed, not quite in touch with reality, and their eyes 
were bloodshot." And off the record, these kinds of stories 
won't get you far in an interview setting."

"Mulder, let's just go answer their questions. They'll see by 
our flight records that we just got here, and Mark knows me 
well enough to be able to say we weren't in his house this 
morning." Scully murmured, trying to sound more confident 
than she felt. In reality, the numerous witness accounts and 
positive I.D.'s worried her. The evidence certainly seemed 
to be against them, particularly if Mark weren't conscious 
and able to identify his attacker.

"Call in their badge numbers; let's see if these ID's are fake.  
Agent Mulder? Agent Scully?" Clampet began as officers 
stripped Mulder and Scully of their guns. "You have the 
right to remain silent..."

Scully was significantly more concerned about Mark's 
medical condition than she was about her arrest for his 
attempted murder.  At first, she hardly took the process 
seriously and declined legal council.  She found it difficult to 
concentrate on the few initial questions asked and became 
increasingly frustrated when her questions were ignored or 
evaded.  She had thought that the pressure upon her would 
ease when they found out she really did work for the FBI, 
but if anything, it made matters worse.  

Apparently, there was a long-standing grudge between the 
local police force and the local field office. The origins of the 
dispute had been forgotten, but its legacy lived on.  Certain 
officers took particular glee in the arrest of two federal 
agents and made certain to make the process as unpleasant 
and as lengthy as possible.  

Mulder and Scully were immediately separated, 
fingerprinted, photographed and processed through the 
system.  They were searched, then strip-searched, and 
finally forced to undergo the unbelievable indignity of a 
body-cavity search.  Scully took her ordeal stoically, but 
inwardly fumed.  Mulder, she heard, had to be physically 
restrained during the search, and she had been able to hear 
his voluble screams for a lawyer.  When she finally was 
allowed to make her one phone call, she used it to call the 
hospital to which Mark had been taken; she was able to learn 
little over the phone, except that he was listed as 
unconscious, in serious but stable condition.  

The next step was a lineup with a number of other petite red-
headed women.  Witness after witness identified her as the 
person they had seen fleeing from Mark Nichols' house 
early that morning.  

The interrogation didn't begin in earnest until a full 
investigation had been conducted at the scene of the crime, 
fairly late that evening.  She became increasingly concerned 
about her legal position as the hours of questioning 
continued, going repeatedly over the same points she had 
already addressed.  Clearly, the police were trying to find 
means, motive, and opportunity.  

Gradually, she was able to piece together the case being 
made against her.  Witnesses placed her, somehow, as 
running from Mark's house about 4:30 that morning, shortly 
before they had checked into a nearby motel.  The footprints 
in the flowerbed appeared to match the tread of her shoes; 
doubtlessly her shoes were being closely examined for dirt 
to match to the scene.  They had established that she did, 
indeed, know Mark Nichols and that Mark had phoned her 
earlier in the week.  She had arrived in Kansas City early 
enough to have committed the crime.  

Hour after hour, they tried to trap Scully into inconsistencies 
in her story, particularly about her reasons for coming to 
Kansas City.  Since, however, she was relying on the truth, 
they were unsuccessful.  She knew how unbelievable her 
story sounded, but also knew she had to stick with it.  As 
the questioning continued, they tried to get her to pin the 
actual shooting on her partner, and were surprised when she 
actually laughed at them.  Repeatedly, she let them know 
they were focusing on the wrong suspects while the real 
perpetrators were making good their escape.  

Her examiners began to focus on her relationship to Mark 
Nichols, finding it difficult to believe she hadn't had any 
contact with him, except for one phone call, since he had 
graduated in 1985.  She admitted they had dated casually her 
Sophomore year, but that it hadn't gone anywhere and they 
had remained friends though not particularly close ones 
afterwards.  

The questioning turned back to Mulder and her relationship 
with her partner and they immediately realized they were 
onto something.  The more personal the inquiries, the more 
uncomfortable she felt, the more monosyllabic her answers 
became, and the more deeply they probed.   They didn't 
really learn much, because they were forced to end the 
examination by the lateness of the hour.  Scully was led 
seething to her jail cell, where she lay down exhausted but 
unable to sleep.  

Early the next morning, she was subjected again to 
interrogation, only this time they had access to her FBI 
records.  She was questioned in detail about every suspect 
she had ever shot...including Fox Mulder.  They clearly 
established for the record her frequent lapses in following 
proper protocol, particularly establishing the precedents that 
she had, in fact, once lied under oath, and had once been 
jailed for contempt of Congress.  Scully wondered idly 
whether any jury would take the latter charge seriously... 

Scully recognized the tactics they used, establishing simply 
the facts while forbidding her any chance to explain them.  
That didn't make it much easier to resist.  When they finally 
resumed questioning her about the actual crime, they were 
both surprised and disappointed that her answers remained 
consistent with her previous story, and with Mulder's.  
Eventually, they gave up for the moment and let her return to 
her cell.   

That afternoon, the person she expected appeared at her cell 
door.  Assistant Director Walter Skinner's face was grim, 
and her relief was short-lived.  She was again taken to an 
interrogation room, where she was left alone with him.

"Sir," she began, but paused when he raised his hand.

"Make no mistake, Ms. Scully,"  he responded, deliberately 
not using her title, "anything you say can and will be used 
against you.  If you would like a lawyer..."  He knew Scully 
was capable of shooting a friend and did not necessarily 
believe she had told the Kansas City Police officers the truth.  
By facial expression he clearly expressed that to his 
subordinate.  

Scully shook her head.  "No."  

Skinner looked away, to a corner of the room for a long 
moment before deliberately meeting her eyes.  His gaze held 
her trapped, and she felt him reaching into her very  soul to 
learn the truth.  "Did you or Agent Mulder shoot Mark 
Nichols?"

She spoke very emphatically, earnestly and clearly.  "No."  
Her voice carried the ring of truth.

Surprisingly, Skinner relaxed.  His brown eyes again 
regarded her with warmth that warmed her like nothing else.  
He believed her; he still trusted her!  Her faith that 
everything might turn out well after all was restored in that 
moment.

Skinner nodded to her once and got up to leave the room.  
Only someone who knew him as well as she did would have 
caught the tiny smile that lifted the corners of his lips ever so 
slightly.  The only person more astonished than Scully at the 
brevity of the interrogation was Officer Clampet, who had 
watched through a one-way glass in the next room.  He 
entered before Skinner had a chance to leave.

"That's it!"

Skinner nodded, unsmiling yet projecting confidence.  
"That's it."  

"You told me you were going to establish for certain whether 
or not she was involved in the shooting."

"I did.  I'm sure you heard her clearly; neither she nor her 
partner shot Nichols.  It's not my case, but I'd suggest you 
look elsewhere."

"One question, she denies it, and you believe it?  What kind 
of interrogation was that!"

"A very good one.  I'm confident that it established the 
truth."

"You yourself admitted the possibility that she had fired the 
bullet."

"Indeed, I did."

"And she has admitted that she has, in fact, lied under oath- 
in your presence, no less."

"Yes.  In a way that is difficult to describe to someone not 
conversant with all of the facts, it was an act of great moral 
courage for her to do so.  Agent Scully has worked for me 
for seven years and I will state unequivocally for the record 
that she has as much integrity as anyone I have ever met, and 
that I am certain that the answer she gave to my question was 
nothing less than the truth."  Having said his piece, Skinner 
left the room without looking back, though he felt Scully's 
gaze on his back and would have liked to see the grateful 
expression on her face.  Perhaps it was best left imagined.  

Clampet, sensing all the advantage had been taken away 
from him, waved his hand impotently for a guard to remove 
Scully to her cell.  There, a few hours later, Skinner returned 
to speak to her briefly.  "I've looked over the case they've 
been assembling against you, Scully.  It is borderline 
whether or not the DA will think he has enough to indict 
you.  No ballistics are available.  No matching dirt was 
found in your shoes.  None of your fingerprints have been 
found inside, and from what you've said it is impossible 
your DNA will be found there either.  Two shots were fired; 
the casings match the ammunition you and Mulder normally 
use.   One bullet remains lodged in the victim.  It can't be 
removed until either he physically becomes strong enough 
for the surgery...or he dies.  The second bullet hasn't been 
recovered; it was apparently removed from the scene, and 
there is a major search underway.  Eventually, they will have 
to release you or charge you with the crime.  I'm trying to 
persuade them to let you return to Washington, but I doubt 
I'm going to be successful any time soon.  Even if they 
release you, you must prepare yourself, Scully, because 
short of Mark Nichols awakening and personally 
exonerating you, your career in the FBI will be over.  There 
will be nothing I can do about that, and I'm sorry.  The FBI 
will be fully cooperating in the ongoing investigation.  If the 
world were just, no doubt you'd be cleared.  But you and I 
both know things seldom work that way."

Scully nodded, not finding a word to say, her hands 
clutching the bars of her prison.  Finally, she thought to ask 
about her partner, "Mulder?"

"He," Skinner paused, trying to figure out how best to 
continue the sentence, "is not handling the situation with as 
much....errrr, grace, as you are.  He asked for a lawyer, 
then canned him.  Asked for another, fired that one also. 
Both of them are convinced he's a lunatic; the officers figure 
he is just stalling.  He's only answering questions directly 
related to what happened that night.  Your stories are so 
uncannily similar that the officers think it was pre-arranged.  
I've tried to tell them you're both trained investigators who 
have worked together for seven years...but they don't want 
to hear it.  They've pinned this on you as the gunman and 
won't listen to anyone else."

Scully shook her head sadly.  "That's pretty much what I 
guessed."

"About what you're really asking, well, Mulder's as 
frustrated as I've ever seen him.  He's angry, but not with 
you, I don't think.  He was hardly willing to speak with me, 
but he did ask about you.  He isn't handling enforced 
confinement well, but he'll be fine."   Skinner omitted what 
he'd told Mulder about his partner...he didn't think she'd 
want to know about his remark that she was as beautiful and 
feisty as ever, though it had brought the first smile to 
Mulder's face since his arrest.  

Skinner touched one of her hands briefly in unspoken 
support, then turned on his heel and left, appearing every 
inch true to his reputation as a surly FBI Assistant Director.

Scully closed her eyes.  It was only going to get worse.  She 
hoped the news wouldn't reach her mother until after her 
release; she didn't think she could take seeing her mother's 
fiercely loving but saddened eyes from behind bars.  She 
was certain her mother would support her, but less certain 
she'd believe her daughter innocent.  Her mother had been 
through so much pain and turmoil on her account already, 
she hated the thought of putting her through a trial.  Scully 
sighed; what would be, would be.  It was out of her hands 
for the moment.  



                 Twist of Fate (Part 2 of 6)
                                   By XKitty and Mostly Harmless

Skinner's predictions came true.  Day followed day, 
interrogation followed interrogation until she felt like an 
actress who had memorized her script.  She was saying 
nothing new, using virtually identical wording to similar 
questions and she began to feel as if she'd been sent to 
purgatory.  As time passed, her hope that Mark would 
awaken and clear her name dimmed.  She had no further 
visitors but her captors.  Day followed endless day until she 
no longer knew how much time had passed.  She was kept 
isolated, not even a cell mate shared her lonely exile.  

Finally, grudgingly, she was released.  The DA had refused 
to bring charges without ballistics evidence he was certain 
would be forthcoming from the bullet still lodged in Mark's 
neck.  He wanted to be certain of his case against the agents, 
so certain that even a good lawyer with a fickle jury couldn't 
get them off.  Eventually, that forced their release.  Walter 
Skinner spoke personally for them, guaranteeing their return 
to Missouri if and when the DA chose to indict them.  

Scully had never felt so much hostility from so many people 
who wore a badge as she did on the day of her release.  
They couldn't possibly have been colder to her, and she tried 
valiantly to hide how much that hurt.  They wouldn't answer 
her questions about Mulder, and even made it difficult for 
her to use a phone to call a cab to take her away from the 
dreadful jail.  
The only thing she was spared was the presence of the 
media.  There had been bigger stories this week; an 
attempted murder just wasn't interesting enough against the 
backdrop of political scandal, upcoming elections, and a 
recent fatal drive-by shooting.

Rain was pouring from the sky and she was forced to walk 
barefoot from the jail, as they had kept her shoes for 
evidence.  No one was there to meet her, and she made her 
lonely way to the airport, only to find her ticket had also 
been impounded.  Not wanting to spend the money for a 
new, same-day ticket when she had a feeling she was about 
to lose her job, she decided to take the bus back to 
Washington, instead.  It was a long and cheerless ride.

She returned to her cold and lonely apartment thoroughly 
demoralized, to find two messages on her machine.  One 
was from Mulder, telling her he'd heard she had been 
released.  His voice sounded strained, as if he hadn't slept in 
weeks.  She looked up at her calendar, realizing it had been 
less than two weeks since Mark's fateful phone call.  She 
owed Mulder a big apology for this one, though it wasn't 
likely to do him much good.   

The second terse message came from Skinner, informing her 
she had a meeting with OPR at 10 AM.  She picked up her 
phone to call Mulder and almost hung up when he answered.  
She didn't want to talk to him and had hoped she could 
simply leave a message on his machine.

"It's me.  I'm back.  Are you okay?"  she asked rather 
lamely.

Mulder bit back a 'no thanks to you'.  "About what you'd 
expect.  We've got a meeting with OPR tomorrow."

"I heard.  I'll see you there.  And Mulder?  I'm sorry you 
got involved in all of this."

There was a very long pause.  Almost reluctantly, he 
admitted, "It wasn't your fault, Scully.  I'm furious, but not 
with you.  I'll see you tomorrow."

The meeting in front of OPR might as well have been a firing 
squad.  They weren't really given a chance to speak.  
Everything had been decided before they stepped through the 
door.  Scully recognized the chairman; she was the same 
woman who had been in charge of the panel which 
investigated the bombing in Texas.  She looked, if possible, 
even less friendly now.  "Mr. Mulder.  Ms. Scully.  You are 
indefinitely suspended, without pay, pending the outcome of 
the criminal investigation against you.  You have brought 
dishonor to the FBI and I have little doubt that further 
proceedings will result in your termination.  Your guns, I 
understand, are in the hands of the Kansas City police, but I 
will have your badges please."  Scully looked to Mulder, 
who stared straight ahead.

"And when the real perpetrators are found?"  he asked as he 
set his badge neatly next to Scully's.

"In the unlikely event that it is conclusively shown that you 
are innocent, you would, of course be reinstated."

"With back pay?"

Through gritted teeth, she responded, "With back pay."

Mulder put on a patently false smile, "Well, then everything 
will be just fine."  He retreated with quiet dignity, Scully 
following in his wake, feeling a little like a dinghy being 
towed behind a yacht.  All eyes watched their retreating 
backs, and the weight of their judgment settled heavily on 
her shoulders.  

Two days later, Scully watched her partner load file after file 
into the cardboard boxes he had brought in on what was to 
be their last visit to the office for a long while. She sighed 
and resumed loading her box with the 
pictures and mementos they had gathered through their many 
years together.  Scully compared their choices and smiled 
sadly; she was rummaging through personal items that she 
would keep as memories of her time at the bureau and her 
partner was just smuggling out as many x-files as he could 
carry. 
As little as anyone other than the two of them seemed to care 
for their work with the paranormal, Mulder could probably 
get away with dragging the file cabinets themselves out the 
door.

Scully bit her lip, tearing up slightly in spite of her best 
efforts as she looked around the basement, which was 
starting to look a bit bare. Mulder had already torn down his 
posters and much of the contents of the bulletin board had 
been dismantled as well. The desk drawers were cleaned out 
save a few government-issue ball-point pens and a roll of 
tape. The floor was littered with random memos that her 
packrat tendencies had urged her to save over the years, and 
the trashcan was filled to overflowing with old fast food 
containers and carefully destroyed notes from potential 
informants. And now Mulder was concentrating on the 
cabinets.

Skinner had been incredibly blunt, stating that the mandatory 
leave of absence the panel had imposed was a minor 
punishment compared to what could come. And, since he 
had pointed out that it was for an indeterminate amount 
of time, they had until 5:00 p.m. today to get everything they 
wanted and get out of the J. Edgar Hoover. It was 3:55, and 
neither one of them felt like they were anywhere close to 
ready to go.

"We'll fight this, Scully," Mulder suddenly said, anger 
causing his voice to break. "They know we didn't shoot 
anyone, it's just an excuse to get us out of here for good." 
He stared at his office chair for a moment and then sat down 
on the floor, leaning up against the cabinets. He yanked out 
another folder from the lowest drawer and flipped through 
the contents, muttering harshly to himself.

"Be that as it may, Mulder," Scully began quietly, knowing 
that if she raised her voice she might cry, "there are 
witnesses who will swear up and down that I shot Mark 
Nichols and you drove the getaway vehicle. I think the best 
thing for both of us will be to get out of the spotlight for 
awhile, maybe try to be back in the real world for once." 
Scully's attempt at being the voice of reason convinced 
neither her nor her partner, who 
pulled out another empty box and haphazardly piled evidence 
inside. "Come on," she tried again, "we both know we 
could use a break. I mean, don't you realize that? Here, let 
me get that." Mulder grunted his thanks as Scully rescued 
the top of a stack of books that had been about to topple 
over.

"Don't I realize what? That this will be the end of our career 
on the X-Files, if not our entire career at the bureau? That we 
are going to be the scapegoats yet again and whoever it is 
that actually committed this crime will get off scot-free? That 
if I don't grab as many files as I can in the next," Mulder 
checked the clock, "fifty-five minutes, most of this evidence 
we have worked so hard to gather will be destroyed, put in 
the 
FBI's file for things they never want to touch again?" He 
broke off, running a tired hand through his hair.

"I know all that, I just think, well, don't you ever want to 
just relax a little bit? My dad always told me, 'when life 
gives you a lemon, make lemonade.' Maybe this 'leave of 
absence' that we've been given is a blessing in disguise. 
Maybe fate has it into her head that we work too hard and the 
only way to slow us down is by force. How bad can this be 
if we just treat it as an extended vacation? We're not guilty, 
Mulder, so they 
aren't going to be able to prove we did it." Scully spoke 
slowly and forcefully, almost as if she were trying to 
convince herself of the truth in her statements.

"Okay, okay," Mulder finally conceded, opening and 
shutting drawers to assure himself that everything of 
importance was packed. "So, what am I supposed to do with 
myself during our?<he paused, finally growling it out> 
'extended vacation'?"

"I don't know, Mulder. Why don't you write a book or 
something?" She joked lightly to hide her melancholy. 
"Based on our experiences. It would be a bestseller for sure, 
although it would probably be classified under science-
fiction."

"Yeah right," her partner responded, almost smiling. "What 
are you planning to do?"

"I don't know, sleep late, eat ice cream, spend time outside, 
read, watch television, make lemonade out of this raw deal 
we've been given." Her voice edged just a bit at the 
unfairness of it all, but she knew she would force herself to 
work through it just like she had worked through everything 
else 
that had happened. Scully thought about the situation, and 
tried 
desperately to see the time off as an opportunity to have 
some down time, to let fate make her decisions, to do what 
she wanted. Scully glanced at the clock, which now read 
4:45. Time had flown, but she wasn't ready to go. 

"Scully, come sit on this," Mulder beckoned, holding a file 
box shut as if it were an overflowing suitcase. She gave him 
a look but complied, looking around the near empty office 
while her partner searched for the packing tape. With 
nothing left but the empty furniture and crumpled up papers 
floating around, the room looked lonely and neglected. 
Scully taped shut her own boxes of memories and tried to 
decide how to get them to the car outside.

"Do you all need any help getting your things out?" Skinner 
stood in the doorway, pretending not to notice the empty file 
cabinets and the scowl that appeared on the face of one of his 
best agents.

"Trying to see if you can kick us out any faster?" Mulder 
replied sarcastically.

"Look, Agent Mulder this was not completely my decision," 
Skinner said, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You 
two are very lucky that I was able to get you out of custody 
and back here to D.C. It is in your best interests to realize 
that I am doing all that is in my power to see that you are 
reinstated as soon as possible with minimal difficulty. Now, 
do you 
want me to help you carry those out." It was a statement 
rather than a question.

"Thank you sir," Scully answered after a long and tension-
filled pause, allowing the Assistant Director to carry one of 
her boxes and motioning to Mulder with her eyes that he 
should do the same. Grudgingly, her partner complied. 
When Skinner was out of earshot, Mulder turned back to 
Scully with an angry gleam in his eye.

"We are *going* to fight this, Scully. I promise you." He 
surveyed the room one last time, eyes stopping near his 
desk. He walked over and bent down, picking up the object 
that had fallen between the desk and the trash can. He 
returned to pick up his boxes, dropping his desktop name 
plate in his 
coat pocket.

"I don't leave anything up to fate," he shouted back as he 
walked towards the elevator.

Scully watched him leave and thought to herself that maybe 
it was just as well she had never had her own desk or name 
plate. It was just one less item to make her feel sorry for 
herself. And she did feel slightly sorry for herself. She 
watched the elevator doors close stealthily behind her partner 
and found herself alone in the hallway. She had survived the 
past two weeks without shedding a single tear, but now her 
emotions came welling 
to the surface. All of the fear, anger, pain, humiliation, and 
depression she had felt during her incarceration came 
pouring out of her now.

Dana Scully sat down abruptly on the cold tile floor and put 
her head in her hands, sending a sobbing prayer up to 
heaven that it would all be over soon.

Blessedly, she had managed to make her way home with no 
witnesses to her breakdown. Mulder hadn't thought to check 
on her, but that wasn't really a surprise. He seemed almost 
to believe the invulnerable image she had tried 
so hard to project, though he was the one person on the 
planet whose comfort would have been welcome. No matter. 
No rumors about the breaking of Dana Scully's spirit would 
haunt the hallowed halls of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. 
There were some advantages to a basement office, after all. 
Except that it wasn't really her office anymore, and it might 
never be again.

Seven years. She had watched seven long years of her life 
go up in smoke as if it were her family home burning to the 
ground. She was left with nothing but ashes, wondering 
now if she had the strength or will to rise phoenix-like from 
the flames of defeat. Mulder planned to fight, she knew, 
and he expected her to fight at his side once more. If only 
there were something to fight against, she thought, then 
perhaps she could find the strength.

Scully sprawled across her living room sofa, too despondent 
even to run a bath for herself. It would give her more time to 
think, and oblivion was the only thing she wanted right 
now. She turned on the television and flipped past several 
mind-numbing sitcoms, which had the desired effect, but 
they all ended. She reached for the remote and flipped 
channels over and over, not noticing or caring where she 
stopped.

The Sci-Fi channel was the first to catch her attention, and 
Scully sat up to watch, smiling cynically and without mirth. 
Quantum Leap was on, a show Mulder watched religiously 
and had repeatedly encouraged her to try. There stood Scott 
Bakula, Dr. Sam Beckett, leaping from time to time, setting 
right what had once gone wrong. She had instantly loved the 
character: handsome, intelligent, gentle, compassionate and, 
unfortunately, fictitious. Scully momentarily wished for Sam 
Beckett to leap into her own life, to set right what had so 
obviously gone wrong.

She blushed at that, looking around and wondering how 
such a thought had crept into her otherwise rational mind. 
Scully smiled wanly; she had been thinking of Fate so often 
lately, since she had seen Daniel again. Each time she 
thought of him now, she pondered what Fate had been 
thinking when she had let the two of them meet after so 
many years. It seemed to Scully that Fate had played a large 
role in her life recently, and she knew from the very depths 
of her soul that her situation wasn't supposed to end like 
this.

Well, she decided, standing up and going to the kitchen to 
make some coffee, if it wasn't supposed to end like this, 
then she would make certain it didn't. She would not go 
gently into that good night.  It was time to take Fate into her 
own hands and direct the course of her own life. <But how? 
Aye, there's the rub,> she thought to herself, her tired mind 
unconsciously 
quoting Hamlet.

Scully knew she was nothing if not practical. She knew that 
there was no way she could single-handedly prove herself 
innocent or force the FBI to take her back, if that were even 
what she wanted. It was time for her to decide what was 
most important for her, and to secure that at all costs, to 
let no one take that away from her.

So many things had been put in jeopardy. Her freedom. Her 
financial security. Her careers, both medical and 
investigative. Her relationship with her family (there was no 
way they would take this well). These were 
all problems which she could handle, though, if she were 
careful. Scully suddenly thought of her partner. Now there, 
truly, was the rub.

Scully could feel them slipping apart, and she didn't think it 
was simply due to the long incarceration. Something had 
changed in both of them. He hadn't been awaiting her after 
her release, and she hadn't thought to call him until she got 
his message. He had talked about how 'we' will fight 
this, but he had no plan, no wild theory. In the hours they 
had spent packing the office, he hadn't mentioned Mark's 
missing window into time even once. He hadn't speculated 
that the arrest was a conspiracy to conceal the truth by 
suppressing their investigation. And he hadn't contacted her 
since that one phone call, hadn't informed her that they were 
going back to Kansas City to start their own investigation or 
that he had put the Gunmen to work proving their friends' 
innocence. For all his talk of fighting, Mulder had done 
nothing.

Scully started to question their friendship, wondering if it 
really were just the job that had held them together. She 
knew he cared for her, but with their partnership dissolved 
would they even see each other again? They had never spent 
time together socially, and it would seem so...so contrived 
to attempt that now. She had been waiting for the phone to 
ring, expecting him to come by with plans of reconciliation 
and reinstatement, but now all she wanted was the 
opportunity and the initiative to apologize to the man 
who had become her best friend.

She knew, in a moment, that this was the one thing she 
would not allow them to take from her. Her friendship was 
all that was left, and she would not allow Mulder to slip 
away and consign that relationship to oblivion. Scully 
knew Mulder, given half a chance, would turn away from 
the world, sink again into paranoid isolation, trusting no one 
and tilting at paranormal windmills. But she would reach out 
to him, as many times as necessary, until he forgave her for 
the unjust hand Fate had dealt them both.

Perhaps, with time, she would learn to accept the love she 
believed he was offering in his own, muddled way; she 
would learn to let him touch the part of her she'd deliberately 
hidden from him. Perhaps, without their professional lives 
holding them back, he would reach out to her just once 
more. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would let herself fall in 
love.

Scully awoke, as usual, just before her alarm clock rang.  
She was in the shower before realizing that there was no 
reason to be up so early in the morning- she could have slept 
in.  She wished, in fact, that she had because the day was 
going to seem so much longer.  She took her time getting 
ready that morning, even watched a few minutes of the 
morning news.  Still, sooner than she had wished, Scully 
was ready to leave her apartment.  Unfortunately, she had no 
place to go.  

Scully sat down by the phone, staring at it, willing it to ring.  
It didn't.  She lifted the receiver, and all her good intentions 
of the night before evaporated.  She held the phone in her 
hand until the insistent 'Bleep  Bleep  Bleep' told the phone 
had been off the hook for too long.  Unsure why she lacked 
the courage to call Mulder, she set it back down on the 
receiver and turned away.  

Four hours later, her apartment, which hadn't really needed 
cleaning, was spotless.  She went back to her phone and 
dialed the Kansas City Hospital, only to learn that Mark's 
condition was relatively unchanged; she did find out that the 
prognosis, though guarded, was positive.   He was expected 
to awaken soon, they hoped.  

Thinking a moment, Scully decided to call her mother.  

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Dana!   I've been trying to reach you for a week now, I was 
starting to worry."

"You should have left a message."

"I didn't want to bother you.  Well, it is good to hear from 
you.  I'm glad to know everything is fine." "It is fine, isn't 
it?"

Scully paused, "Not exactly."

"Tell me."

"I've been suspended again, Mom. It is pretty serious this 
time.  I'm under investigation for the attempted murder of a 
friend."

"You had better tell me all of it."  

So she did.  Dana talked to her mother for more than an 
hour.  Maggie tried to be supportive, but there was really 
nothing she could do.  Scully finally hung up the phone, 
relieved her mother had taken the news as well as could be 
expected, that she had been given only a mild scolding for 
not having called sooner, and that she could count on her 
mother to break the news to Bill and Charles.  Scully really 
didn't want to deal with her brothers just yet.

Desperate to get out of her house, Scully picked up her car 
keys and left.  She felt naked and vulnerable, leaving her 
apartment for the first time in many years without her gun.  
It felt weird to walk out on the streets as an ordinary citizen, 
with no crimes to investigate.  Determined to cheer herself 
up, she decided to play tourist for the day and headed to the 
Smithsonian.  It had been many years since she'd been to 
most of the museums, and today she was in the mood to 
look at great art.  And so she did.

After spending many pleasant hours in the museum, Scully 
found herself walking along the Washington Mall.  She 
paused by the bench half-expecting to find Mulder where 
they had met so often before during times of crisis.  She 
waited there until it grew completely dark...dark enough no 
one saw the few tears she couldn't hold back.  He hadn't 
come.  She wiped away her tears angrily; she had no reason 
to be disappointed.  Mulder could have no way of knowing 
she was here.  

Scully climbed into her car.  She crossed her arms on the 
steering wheel and pillowed her head on them for a moment.  
Mulder.  She needed to face him, to act on her resolve of the 
night before not to let him walk out of her life.  She steeled 
herself and drove to his apartment.  

Mulder didn't look surprised to see her, but he didn't look 
happy, either.  Perhaps polite best described his response.  
She had coming hoping he would give her an opening, some 
opportunity to share emotions.  It never came.  She had tried 
to put the most optimistic spin possible on the situation, but 
Mulder only seemed to withdraw further.  Growing 
increasingly uncomfortable by the moment, flight became 
her best option.  She made an excuse she couldn't even 
remember, which had angered him, and then she had said 
something fairly stupid about leaving a message for her if he 
wanted to.   

Scully made one final effort to pull Mulder out of his 
withdrawal, embracing him before she left, hoping that it 
would, as usual, trigger a warm response.  He returned the 
hug rather woodenly, and Scully left wishing she had never 
come, had never seen the indifferent look on his face.  
Mulder hadn't wanted her there.  She had seen him look to 
the clock, as if counting the minutes until she left.  It had 
never occurred to Scully before that Mulder might not want 
her to continue to be a part of his life.  It hurt even to 
consider it.

Scully knew that one encounter in the larger scheme of 
things meant nothing.  There were times, no matter how 
much two people cared for each other, they just didn't want 
to be together.  Perhaps it was so with him.  She resolved, 
however much she might worry about him, to give him the 
space he seemed to desire.  As the days went by without 
Mulder contacting her, Scully grew increasingly 
apprehensive about him and about their apparently 
nonexistent relationship.  She had to know how he was 
doing, whether he desperately needed her intervention but 
wouldn't ask, or whether he was doing just fine without her.  

At a loss for alternative ideas, she decided to surprise the 
Lone Gunmen with a visit.  Frohike seemed delighted to see 
her, quickly unlocking the myriad of devices that secured 
their lair.  

"Come in, come in, Agent Scully.  What brings you here?"  
Frohike brought her inside.  By some miracle, Byers and 
Langley were out for the day.  Scully found it easiest to talk 
with Frohike, and she had little question he would lend her 
his complete support. 

Scully smiled wryly, and Frohike began to wonder what 
was wrong.  "I always seem to come here when I need 
something."

"You're always welcome, Scully, and whatever the problem 
is, we'll see what we can do."

"Have you spoken to Mulder lately?"

"No.  No, I haven't."

"So you haven't heard about our arrest and suspension from 
the Bureau?"

Frohike let out a long whistle.  "When did this happen?  
Maybe you should tell me this from the beginning."

Scully did, telling it as objectively and dispassionately as 
possible.  She did not mention, however, that she had driven 
by Mulder's apartment daily, sometimes several times each 
day, and seen the tree pollen accumulated on his unwashed 
car.  She watched the lights on in his apartment and outline 
of his body as he moved about his apartment.  As far as she 
could tell, he hadn't set foot outside his door since she had 
been to visit.  

"That's quite a story!  So, you want us to go to Missouri and 
investigate- and see if we can find the person who really shot 
your friend?"

"I'm not sure that is the best idea; I suspect the perpetrators 
are long gone.  I would like you to keep your electronic ears 
out for reference to a window looking out onto a different 
time.  I've surfed the net, but haven't found anything...I 
even checked E-Bay to see if it came up for auction, but it 
hasn't."

"We can do that...we have some connections you don't.  If 
there is anything out there, Scully, we will find it.  Isn't 
there something else we could be doing?"

Scully blew out her breath.  "I'd like you to check on 
Mulder."

"Excuse me?  I thought you said he had been released."

"He's hibernating at home.  I'm worried about him; I don't 
think he is taking this very well.  I was hoping you could 
drag him out of his isolation for awhile."

Frohike gave Scully a questioning look, wondering why she 
didn't just do it herself.  "Scully..."

"I'm the last person he wants to see right now.  He wouldn't 
welcome my...interference."  Scully looked away as she 
spoke, biting her bottom lip, and not meeting Frohike's 
eyes.  

Daringly, he put his hand on her arm in support, squeezing it 
lightly.  After a very short moment, she looked back, 
completely composed.  "Don't be so certain of that, Dana.  
I'll do my best.  Is there anything you would like me to tell 
him when I see him?"  Scully shook her head.  "Just let me 
grab my jacket."  Frohike accompanied Scully to her car and 
closed the door for her after she got in.  "Don't worry.  I'll 
call you tonight."

Scully smiled up at him in appreciation.  "Thank you."

Frohike chuckled slightly.  "He doesn't deserve you, that's 
for certain."

Scully smiled slightly.  "That could be taken more than one 
way, you know."

Frohike chuckled again, and waved to her as she drove off.  

That evening, Scully paced her apartment restlessly, waiting 
for Frohike's call.  It came at about 8 o'clock that night.  
"Scully?  Frohike.  I've seen him.  You're right, I doubt 
Mulder has set foot out of his apartment this week.  He 
seems to be doing okay, though.  I brought some take-out, 
so I can say for certain that he's had one good meal today."  
Scully winced inwardly at what Frohike probably considered 
a good meal.  "I think he figured out you sent me to check 
up on him.  He's not blaming this on you, Scully, but I 
don't think he believes there is a lot to be done about the 
situation.  I'm sure he'd like to see you, Scully.  You ought 
to stop by...I'd plan on taking him out, though, his place is 
a mess."  Frohike didn't add that between the boxes of X-
files and trash cans full of paper, the only place where two 
people could fit was on Mulder's bed.  On the other 
hand...Frohike crushed that thought even as it formed.  

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"I haven't told Mulder this, but Byers set out for Kansas 
City earlier this evening.  He's going to canvas the town 
looking for your doubles.  If there's any news, I'll be sure 
to let you know.  Langley's contacting his friends, we 
should have something for you eventually."

"You don't need to go to all this trouble..."

"Pshaw.  We want to.  We're all in this together."

Now there was a frightening thought!  "Well, thanks again, 
Frohike."  

"Anytime."

Scully hung up her phone.  Things were about what she had 
expected.  All night, her eyes kept straying to the phone, 
hoping once again that Mulder would finally call.  

Mulder stared blankly at his computer screen. He had typed 
the words "The Quest" at the top of the page and below 
them, "By Fox W. Mulder." From that point on, he had 
nothing. It had been a week since his eviction from the J. 
Edgar Hoover Building and three days since he had decided 
to take Scully's suggestion seriously. "Write a book," she 
had said. He had laughed at the time, but soon after had 
realized that he desperately needed a project to keep him 
busy. Throwing himself into writing with the same all-
consuming passion he put towards everything else was not a 
problem. He just couldn't seem to get past the title.

Every time he began to write, he became completely 
enveloped in the memories that title evoked. Memories of the 
funny, the sad, the painful, the frightening, the touching, 
even the truly bizarre moments came flooding back faster 
than he could jot them down, and when it was over, when 
he was exhausted emotionally, he looked at his notes and 
sighed, knowing the impossibility of transcribing and 
communicating such deeply personal experiences. Every 
trashcan in his apartment was exploding with the results of 
his brainstorming sessions, but he couldn't bring himself to 
take out the trash. He caught himself eyeing the crumpled 
sheets of notebook paper from time to time, wishing he 
could rescue them, smooth out the wrinkles, and relive the 
excitement he had scrawled on each page.

He hadn't left his apartment since he had brought his life's 
work home with him. The boxes of saved files were still 
piled in the hallway, the food Frohike had picked up and 
brought by sat mostly uneaten in the refrigerator, and his 
name plate remained in the pocket of the coat he had casually 
tossed across the couch a week ago. The one clean area in 
the series of rooms was the bed, not because he had slept, 
but rather because Mulder kept planning to get work done. 
He had vowed to keep that small area neat, because he felt, 
wondering mildly if his partner had rubbed off on him, that 
to allow his "workspace" to fall into disarray was to give up 
hope entirely. He hadn't given up hope, but the clutter 
moved closer to the bed each day.

Scully had visited one time, the first day of 'the rest of their 
lives,' as she had carefully phrased it. Mulder had noticed 
but chosen not to comment on the puffy, mascara-rimmed 
eyes, the fact that she kept patting where her gun would be, 
and the way she kept forcing herself to smile. Just because 
he didn't feel the same didn't mean that he wanted to ruin his 
partner's attempts at optimism. She had mentioned quietly 
that if he wanted to contact her, he should just leave a 
message on her home phone. Otherwise, it would probably 
be better if they lived their own lives for a little while.

"Why, so they can't accuse us of collaborating on our stories 
again?" he had shouted hot-temperedly, in truth, wanting her 
to reply in the affirmative so he wouldn't have to 
acknowledge that the memories were as painful for her as 
they were for him. Unfortunately, she had looked away, 
pretending to study the screen saver on his computer. Soon 
after that conversation, she had hugged him politely and 
headed home, leaving Mulder 
feeling more abandoned than he would have thought 
possible.

Knowing that he couldn't jump headfirst into the work was 
what killed him. For two days Mulder had paced his 
apartment, dribbling his basketball until the landlord had 
come to him with complaints from three different sets of 
neighbors. He had called Skinner's office for updates every 
few hours and even put in a few long-distance calls to the 
Kansas City police station (much good that had done). He 
had picked up the phone many times, finger poised over the 
speed-dial to Scully's number, but had chickened out each 
time. He honestly couldn't come up with a reason he needed 
to see her, and that distressed him as much as the inactivity.

Now, Mulder sat down and began to write, wondering if 
maybe this book was the key to resuming his relationship 
with his partner. If he could just write something intelligent, 
he thought, maybe he could ask her to read it.

"He had started with a personal quest. He had never planned 
to take it any further than his own family, outside his own 
sphere of existence," Mulder read aloud as he typed. 
"Hmmm, it's a start," he muttered approvingly before 
continuing. "And yet the more he searched for the truth of 
what had happened, the more he was unable to leave well 
enough alone. For this personal journey was dynamic, 
constantly changing his view on life and on those around 
him. He gathered others to join in his work, discovering 
things that challenged every tenet he had ever held true in his 
mind. And yet one discovery seemed to be beyond his reach. 
He never really found the answers he had been looking for. 
His initial goals remained unattainable, for he knew that his 
quest would never truly succeed in finding the Holy Grail of 
truth he so valiantly sought."

Mulder smiled, really smiled, for the first time in several 
weeks. He scanned what he had written silently, making a 
few grammar corrections along the way, and then seriously 
got to work.

Several hours later a knock came at the door. Mulder grunted 
and stood, shouting "Just a minute!," and rolling his sore 
shoulders and neck muscles until they popped. He sent a 
silent prayer of thanks up to his muse before beginning to 
carefully pick his way towards the door. Peering out of the 
peephole, Mulder saw Frohike standing nervously in the 
hallway holding a bag that looked suspiciously like Chinese 
takeout.

"Come on in," Mulder said hesitantly, kicking aside the 
clothes that were piled in the way of the door.

"Thought you might like something to eat," Frohike 
muttered, eyeing the place with disdain. "Mulder, not even 
our place looks this messy. Of course, Byers takes care of 
the neatness thing." He faded off, setting the food on the 
kitchen counter. "So, have you been out at all?"

"Do you want to stay and eat?" Mulder asked reluctantly, 
handing Frohike a fork before realizing that he couldn't 
avoid the real question. "No, I haven't gone out. I've sort of 
been busy here."

"Obviously not cleaning house," Frohike muttered under his 
breath. If Scully would only come by and visit, she would 
certainly see how much Mulder really did need her. Frohike 
remembered the pain on Scully's face <He wouldn't 
welcome my interference> and scowled. If only Mulder 
weren't so dense, maybe he would realize how selfish he 
was being by shutting her out.  It was obvious to anyone 
that Scully was falling apart without that friendship (if 
indeed it weren't more) and Frohike suddenly wanted to 
smack Mulder for putting her through so much pain.

Mulder mistook the frown for a judgment on his cleanliness 
and immediately felt a need to protest.

"Hey, it's not like I haven't been busy. I've, um, been 
working on this book."   Mulder trailed off, somewhat 
embarrassed and wishing he could find a way to make 
Frohike leave.

"You're writing a book?" Frohike repeated incredulously. 
He set his food down on the table and leaned forward.

"Um, yeah. Scully suggested that I write something to take 
my mind off of?" he paused, looking away. "Off of life, I 
guess."

"You're writing a book?" Frohike repeated again, shaking 
his head. The sight of the little man looking so confused and 
out-of-place gave Mulder another burst of inspiration and he 
stood up quickly.

"Yeah, actually I was just in the middle of something when 
you came by.  I'm not really great company right now," 
Mulder hedged, trying to usher Frohike towards the door.

"Wait, what's it about?" Frohike asked, refusing to be 
hurried from his dinner.

"Um," Mulder paused, unsure how to answer. "I don't want 
to say yet just in case I end up changing something." He led 
Frohike to the front door, trying not to appear too relieved 
that he would soon be alone again. He had almost forgotten 
what having company felt like, and he really didn't feel up to 
dealing with people yet.

"Fine, I'm gone," Frohike complained as he stood in the 
doorway. "If you need anything, let us know." He was 
barely a step from the door when he heard it shut sharply 
behind him. "Jeez, don't act sorry to see me leave or 
anything," he grumbled as he got in the elevator to head 
home. Mulder worked his way back to the computer and 
picked up where he had left off.

"His partner, a petite redhead?  No, too obvious," he said to 
himself, backspacing vigorously. "His partner, though 
small, made up in spirit what she lacked in size. Her dark 
hair was casually styled and her blue eyes glimmered fiercely 
at the notions with which he tried to present her. Agent 
Williams knew he had met his match."

Three days later, mostly spent volunteering at a soup kitchen 
and homeless shelter, Scully was feeling much better.  She 
was reminded how lucky she really was.  The people she 
saw at the shelter, the addicts, the battered women, the 
children with sad and frightened eyes...there was so much 
need in this world.  She was doing her bit, mending 
clothing, helping in the kitchen, cleaning, reading stories to 
the children.  Not everyone was grateful, of course, but 
there were a few people whose lives she had touched, who 
had touched hers in return.  Scully knew she hadn't made 
any lasting difference, but she was grateful that her mother 
had suggested doing some volunteer work.  All in all, she 
felt better about herself and her life than she had in quite 
awhile.  Life outside the FBI, it seemed, was possible.  It 
could even be worth living.  For the first time, Scully began 
to think hopefully about what she might do with the rest of 
her life.  



                 Twist of Fate (Part 3 of 6)
                                   By XKitty and Mostly Harmless

Scully was beginning to consider her options, limited to jobs 
which wouldn't require a background check, when her 
phone rang.  She had stopped expecting it to be Mulder, and 
it wasn't.

"Scully?  Frohike, again.  No news yet on the mirror, and 
Byers hasn't found anyone yet.  Everyone there is certainly 
convinced you pulled the trigger, but it doesn't look like the 
DA is going to act.  I'm sure you knew that.  Anyway, I 
stopped by to feed Mulder again today.  I guess you haven't 
been by.  I really wish you'd at least call him.  He seems to 
be doing better, though he's become obsessed with some 
book he is writing.  He wouldn't let me see it, though, and 
practically pushed me out of the door."

"A book?"

"He said you suggested it."

"I suggested it?"  she paused.  "Wait, I guess I did...but it 
was a joke!"

"At least he's doing something productive."

"I guess so.  Thank you, Frohike."

"No problem.  I'll talk to you when we know more."  The 
line went dead.  

Scully considered calling Mulder, but if he'd practically 
pushed Frohike out the door, he wouldn't welcome her 
intrusion.  No matter what Frohike said.

Four days later, after a long, grim day at the shelter, Scully 
returned home, exhausted.  It had been a bad day; one of the 
children she had been working with had been brought to the 
hospital.  A battered wife had been sweet-talked into going 
home and believed the man who had said he had changed.  
Now she was back at the shelter with three broken ribs, 
while her child lay in a hospital bed unconscious.  Scully 
had gone with her to the hospital and made certain as best 
she could the child was receiving proper medical care.  As 
much as she felt herself wanting to heal the child, she found 
her greatest desire was to find the man who could do such a 
thing to his own flesh-and-blood, lock him up and throw 
away the key.  She wanted to have the authority to 
investigate crimes.  In short, X-files or not, she wanted to 
return to the FBI.  

Scully's phone rang.  She picked it up.  "Hello."

"Scully?"  It was Mulder's voice, sounding a little husky 
from disuse. 

Scully tried to say something, but failed.  

"Scully?"

"Mulder?" she managed to sound normal.

"I've taken your advice.  I've been working on a book."

"That sounds...great."  Her voice didn't ring true.  

"I hate to bother your 'vacation',  but...never mind.  I 
shouldn't have called."

"Mulder, wait!"  Scully managed to stop him from hanging 
up.  So much seemed to hang on her next words.  "It's no 
bother...what can I do for you."

"It's just...well, I was wondering if you would be willing to 
read what I've written.  I'm fictionalizing it, of course, 
but... would you be willing to edit it for...scientific 
accuracy.  Or just in general.  Look, if you would rather not 
bother, I understand.  You probably don't want to be 
reminded of all this right now.  I'm sorry I called."

"Of course I'll read it!"

"You will?  Good.  I mean, thank you.  I don't want to 
trouble you...should I just email it to you?"

Scully hesitated.  "I'd like to see you."

She couldn't hear Mulder's answering grin.  "I could bring it 
by..."

"Why don't we meet somewhere.  Isn't there a coffee house 
down the street from you?"

"Yes, do you want to meet there.  In, say, an hour?"

"I'd like that."

"I'll see you there."  Scully's smile mirrored Mulder's as she 
hung up the phone.  Perhaps he had forgiven her at last. 

Mulder hung up the phone and grinned. She wanted to see 
him. He sat on his couch for a moment, trying to decide 
what he would say to her, how he could apologize for 
shutting her out so completely for the past two weeks. He 
was staring into space when it hit him. He had to make sure 
the book conveyed his feelings towards her as well as the 
fictitious Williams' feelings towards his partner Kathy 
Thompson. Mulder jumped up, flipped on his computer, and 
waited impatiently for it to finish booting up. He had less 
than an hour to edit in the message he wanted, needed, 
really, for his partner to receive.

Less than that, actually. Mulder looked down at his 
unwashed clothes and thoughtfully fingered the week-old 
stubble on his chin as the document popped onto the screen. 
He didn't want her to think he couldn't take care of himself 
without her constant guidance, so he guessed he needed to 
get cleaned up as well. Good thing the coffee shop was only 
down the street. Besides, she probably wouldn't be 
expecting him to be perfectly punctual. 
His track record for that was not great, so why would this 
time be any different? Mulder ran his fingers through his 
sloppy hair, not noticing that it stood straight up even after 
he had returned his fingers to the keyboard and his eyes to 
the screen.

Fifty minutes later, Mulder finally decided he was ready to 
go. He had tried on several different outfits, unable to decide 
whether to wear his professional-looking suit or to go for a 
more relaxed, out-of-work appearance. He had 
compromised in the end, choosing to wear a nicer set of 
jeans (which basically meant no holes or stains) and a 
dressier looking shirt. He checked in the mirror one last time 
to make sure he had remembered to brush his hair and then 
sent the first fifty pages of his story to print. While the 
computer continued to spout out the results of his passionate 
efforts, Mulder paced back and forth. Since he had gotten in 
the shower, he had been able to think of nothing other than 
whether or not she would like it. He had never been so 
nervous, so starved for positive reinforcement in his life, 
and he couldn't really figure out why.

She was his partner, indeed his best friend, and they had 
been proofreading each others' reports for years. There was 
no one around whom he felt more comfortable, more able to 
be himself, and yet suddenly the very thought of showing 
her his work seemed intimidating. Mulder bit his lower lip, 
willing the computer to work faster. He was desperately 
anxious just to hand it over and be done with it, telling 
himself he didn't care whether her critique was positive or 
negative. He just wanted her to read it and understand why 
he had felt he couldn't talk to her before today. He wanted 
her to be able to comprehend his feelings towards her, 
feelings he hadn't necessarily realized existed until he had 
written them. For some reason having it in print in front of 
him made it all seem more plausible, and above all Mulder 
knew that Scully loved plausible.

The document finished printing and Mulder grabbed the 
pages, stuffing them into a spare folder he had found under 
his pillow. He grabbed his leather jacket and stuffed an arm 
into it, saving his work with his free hand. He was halfway 
down the hall before he remembered to lock his apartment 
door and outside the building before he remembered to put 
his other arm inside the empty jacket sleeve. Giving a 
perfunctory glance to the road and seeing 
no immediate danger, Mulder jogged across towards The 
Grind, holding his precious manuscript carefully in both 
hands.

He paused for a moment outside the coffee shop, looking in 
the front windows to see if she was waiting inside. He 
finally spotted her, sitting alone at a two-person table in the 
back corner. She was reading a book, probably selected 
from the shelves lining the back wall next to her table, but 
hadn't bought anything to drink yet, so he guessed she had 
arrived not too LONG before him. Mulder took a deep 
breath and opened the front door. The jingle alerted not only 
the staff of a new customer, but also his partner, who turned 
her head inquisitively towards the entrance. She saw him 
and a smile teased at the corners of her mouth, but she 
suppressed it and remained seated.

Mulder sighed, somewhat relieved that she wasn't going to 
put on a false show of excitement for him. For some reason 
he felt that it would be easier if they were truthful with each 
other; the time off had been hard on both of them, and it was 
no use arguing who was worse off. Mulder had spent 
enough time over the past few weeks moping around his 
apartment and blaming everyone else for his misfortune to 
know that that course of action, or rather, inaction, besides 
being terribly depressing, garnered about as much success as 
hiding in the closet or lying in bed with his head under the 
covers waiting for problems to go away. He took another 
deep breath and approached the back of the room, 
wondering why on earth she had chosen the table furthest 
away from the door.

Scully watched her partner as he neared and was suddenly 
glad she had chosen this particular table. It had afforded her 
the chance not only to watch him study her before he 
entered, but also plenty of time to observe what effect the 
whole process had had on him. Scully noticed the outwardly 
calm appearance, the carefully chosen clothing and the still 
slightly wet hair and nodded to herself. This was exactly 
how she would expect him to look, as if he were putting on 
some kind of charade around her so she wouldn't worry 
about him. Yet she also saw the intense furrow between his 
brows and the small sweat stains on his dress shirt. She 
smiled at the cautious way he carried the folder that 
contained the start to the novel she was going to read; he 
held it as if he wanted to show the world his accomplishment 
but was afraid someone would steal it if he looked away 
only for a moment.

He reached the table and she stood up, both of them 
speaking at the same time.

"Sorry I'm late."

"I didn't order yet."

They both stopped, unsure which one of them should be 
first to fill the awkward silence. Mulder finally gestured 
towards the chairs and they both sat, looking everywhere but 
at each other.

"Do you want anything?" Mulder finally asked, looking up 
at the menu scrawled onto a blackboard in multi-colored 
chalk. Most of the names meant nothing to him, but after a 
prolonged search he found one he recognized: espresso.

"Yeah, I was thinking about a double-shot mocha latte with 
whipped cream?." Scully grinned at the surprised look on 
her friend's face. She could certainly understand why; she 
would never have ordered anything with that many calories 
or that much fat while they were working together.

"You, um, develop a sweet tooth over the past few weeks?" 
Mulder asked, glad for a chance to lighten up the 
conversation. Scully made an affirmative noise, then 
corrected him, "I've always had a sweet tooth; I've just 
decided to indulge it a bit."  Unconsciously, she looked 
down at her slender waistline, wondering if her indulgences 
were starting to show. She stood up to get in line. "It's 
okay, I've got it," Mulder said hastily, pushing Scully back 
into her seat and pulling a wad of money out of his jeans 
pocket. Scully couldn't help but smile at his attempts to be 
cavalier, suddenly feeling as if she were on some bizarre 
kind of first date.

Mulder had left the bulging folder on the table while he was 
in line, and Scully eyed it curiously. He had really been 
serious about this book thing...who would have thought 
Fox Mulder could become an author? She flipped open the 
folder and started to skim down the first page, making it 
through the introduction and into the first chapter before 
Mulder reappeared with two steaming porcelain dishes of 
coffee. He noticed with a slight glimmer of pleasure that she 
had already begun reading, and regretted having to place the 
coffee down on the table and disturb her.

"Thanks Mulder," she murmured, eyes remaining on the 
page. "This is good! But, don't you think the opening is a 
bit presumptuous?" The cheerful 
comment had been meant as a joke, but the way his face fell 
was all too real. Scully didn't notice. "This is supposed to be 
you, right? So when do I come in?"   Scully was still joking, 
but her comments quickly became more substantial.

Mulder hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, knowing that 
this kind of critique was exactly what he needed if his book 
were ever to be published. His inner voice forcefully 
informed him that at least he could be sure she was giving 
him a truthful interpretation of his work, but for some reason 
the comments still stung a bit.

"Come on Mulder, thicker skin," he mumbled to himself, 
taking a tongue-scalding sip of his espresso.

"What?" Scully asked, looking up from the printout.

"Nothing." His dismissive reply didn't fool Scully, who 
replaced the pages she had read and shut the folder 
decisively.  She realized Mulder might be taking her  
comments a bit more personally than she intended.  Perhaps 
they would go over better non-verbally.  She would amend 
the work just like she would one of his reports, and hope he 
took the critique a bit more...professionally. "I can read this 
later and get back to you."

"No, it's okay." Mulder said hastily, knowing it was really 
futile to argue with her. He decided to bite the bullet. "Well, 
um, how have you been? I mean, I know we talked a little 
bit last week, but?"

"I've been coping with it, Mulder." She said hesitantly. He 
nodded, knowing that he'd never expect her to do anything 
else. "I've been doing some volunteer work at the shelter 
over the past few days, and that's helped. Kind of put things 
into perspective for me, you know, that my problems...our 
problems...aren't really as bad as we make them out to be 
sometimes." She faded off, looking to him for confirmation. 
Scully picked up the bowl of coffee in front of her and blew 
away the steam, sipping delicately at the soothing liquid. She 
looked up, about to speak, when Mulder held up a finger. 
He reached out and wiped the whipped cream off her nose 
with a paper napkin, then motioned her to continue.

"I, um, was curious how you've been doing as well," she 
said, blushing and vowing silently to be more careful.

"I've been okay. Didn't really go out much but Frohike came 
by to visit me a few times. I was kind of surprised he was 
willing to see me in broad daylight," Mulder joked, trying to 
see if he could get any reaction. "I was wondering if 
somebody maybe told him I needed to be taken care of."

"I did talk to Frohike after my release," Scully began, that 
same half-smile playing on her face, "but I didn't tell him to 
go see you. He suggested that part himself."

"And it was a great idea. I, um, wouldn't have had anything 
to eat if he hadn't dropped by."

They both laughed tentatively, beginning to relax into their 
familiar back-and-forth banter. Mulder paused to take 
another gulp of his coffee, momentarily unsure where to take 
the conversation. It suddenly struck him that with their 
caseload at the bureau no longer applicable, indeed, a 
somewhat painful subject for both of them, they really didn't 
have much to talk about. He checked his watch, surprised to 
see that almost two hours had elapsed since he had left his 
apartment.

"Do you have somewhere you need to be?" Scully asked 
when she saw the subtle movement, sounding a little 
insulted. "I guess we have been here a while, probably 
exhausted all avenues of conversation.?" Despite her 
equivocation, Mulder could tell that she really wasn't ready 
for him to leave. He sighed, immediately sensing the out and 
disliking what he was About to do.

"Yeah, actually I told Frohike I'd stop by this evening to 
repay him for the meals he brought, so I probably should 
go. Um, do you want to get together again sometime? 
Maybe when you finish reading that segment?" He pointed at 
the pile of papers on the table between them, which sat 
soaking up a small puddle of spilt latte.

"Yeah, that sounds good." Scully gave Mulder the most 
genuine smile she could muster, standing up to say 
good-bye. On the spur of the moment, Scully hugged him 
just as he turned to leave. He looked at her with a mixture of 
pleasant surprise and sadness, squeezing her hand once 
before walking away.

Scully sat back down and eyed her now-room temperature 
coffee. Scooping a dollop of melted cream from the top with 
her finger, she opened the folder and flipped pages until she 
found where she had left off. 

An hour later, Mulder chanced by the coffeehouse.  Peeking 
in through the window, he saw Scully still absorbed in his 
book.  He smiled, confident that everything was going to be 
just fine.

Reading Mulder's novel was an experience which Scully 
could only describe as bizarre. The first few cases she didn't 
even recognize; he must have worked on them before they'd 
met.  She found that a little odd, she'd assumed that Agent 
Thompson was supposed to be her.  Either he was 
discussing cases he'd worked on with Agent Fowley, or 
he'd invented them out of whole cloth.  

Scully knew he intended to market it as a work of 
fiction...but somehow she had expected him to stick closer 
to the facts. She paused to think about that for a moment.  
How closely did her perceptions of the facts of case match 
his? 

Scully remembered one of the few times they'd ever 
really compared their stories; in fact it should still be on tape 
somewhere...it would have been difficult for their 
interpretations of the same events to have been more 
different.  Only Mulder could have figured out that it was a 
real vampire wearing false fangs because he'd seen one too 
many Bela Lugosi movies.  Scully flipped ahead to see if 
he'd written about that one; somewhat disappointed, she 
found his writing hadn't gotten that far just yet.  

Scully re-read several early pages of the manuscript, trying 
to determine if he and she really did have such different 
views regarding the cases they'd collaborated to solve.  
Noting certain factual discrepancies- for example, in the 
novel, Big Blue had turned out to be a prehistoric reptile, not 
a crocodile, Scully finally realized that Mulder was writing 
the conclusions he wished the investigations had produced.  
Yes, that was it.  

Ordering another drink, a skinny latte this time, Scully began 
again at the first page.  Truth be told, Mulder had a flair for 
story-telling, not that that would be news to anyone who had 
ever read one of his reports.  His writing was significantly 
more up-beat than she had anticipated.  Somehow, she had 
expected it to be darker, more filled with angst...more like 
his real life.  There was more humor than she expected, 
though it was often dark, and the entire tone was 
different...the fictional agents actually seemed to be making 
headway, solving cases, making a difference in the world.  
Yes, Mulder was definitely writing the X-files as they 
should have been.  

Scully looked up, startled, as she realized it had grown dark 
outside.  She started to panic, thinking she was late, then 
realized she had nowhere else to be.  Mulder wouldn't even 
be home; he'd said he was joining Frohike for dinner.  In 
retrospect, it seemed a bit odd that he hadn't invited her.  
Perhaps not, at that.  They'd quickly exhausted their 
conversation...if it hadn't been for his book, they'd have 
been staring at each other in awkward silence after 15 
minutes.  

Scully left a hefty tip for the waitress who'd been kind 
enough to let her stay so long undisturbed and walked to her 
car.  She felt a little uneasy, still unused to walking alone at 
night unarmed, even in a neighborhood she knew well.  

Scully arrived home, folder in hand.  Automatically, she 
checked her machine.  Three messages!  One was a wrong 
number, one from her mother and the third from Frohike, 
telling her Mulder was actually leaving his apartment- and 
inviting her to join them for dinner.  Scully smiled briefly.  
Frohike was such a dear man in his own way.

Mulder hadn't called.  Why would she have reason to expect 
him to?  It was obviously up to her to initiate the next 
contact.  But before she did that, she had better have some 
intelligent criticisms for him.  She sat down to read his work 
again.  Carefully, she began to mark some comments.  She 
corrected an awkward sentence here, caught a typo there, 
asked for clarification...it was late when she finally finished.  
She'd gone over this as carefully as she'd ever gone over 
one of his case reports.  There hadn't been a lot of science 
contained in his explanations, not surprisingly, but she 
remembered that was what he'd specifically wanted her to 
check.   Since he hadn't gone into much detail, he'd been 
accurate enough.  She made a few little notes, expansions on 
the science in case he were interested, and left it at that.  She 
felt as if she'd done a good job, but something was 
bothering her.

Scully prepared for bed, wondering why Mulder's novel 
disturbed her.  As she lay in bed, she realized finally what it 
was.  Kathy Thompson, partner of the fictional Mulder, 
wasn't Dana Scully.  It wasn't merely the physical 
description...she didn't expect that to match.  It was the 
character herself. Thinking back to the first few cases in the 
book, the ones she didn't recognize, she began to wonder if 
the fictional heroine weren't really Diana Fowley.  

Scully thought back to her first meetings with Fowley; she 
had never liked or trusted the woman, but knew Mulder had.  
She'd watched their interactions almost jealously if she 
admitted the truth.  They had worked together so 
seemlessly...Fowley a full partner in Mulder's paranormal 
work.  A believer, which Dana Scully manifestly was not.  
Scully remembered the way Mulder would take Fowley's 
word as truth and act on it...the way he rarely, if ever, acted 
on Scully's own ideas.  

Scully couldn't sleep, not without rereading the pages yet 
again, this new vision in mind.  Definitely, Mulder was 
presenting Kathy Thompson as his ideal partner...and she 
didn't seem to bear much resemblance to Dana Scully.  
Thompson might not be Fowley, of course; again, Mulder 
seemed to idealize the fictional partner; it was conceivably 
possible the character was an amalgam of the best traits of all 
his partners.  

"Agent Williams knew he had met his match."  As Scully 
read the line aloud, it seemed to echo out of the suddenly 
unfriendly darkness surrounding the small island of light 
created by the lamp on her beside table.  "That clearly isn't 
me."  She voiced her thoughts aloud.  However hard she'd 
tried, she'd never been able to keep up with his unbelievably 
accurate intuition.  Like he'd once informed her, he had been 
right better than 95% of the time.  Or had he said 99%?  
Even at the time, that comment had struck deeply; now, the 
thought of it reopened old wounds.  

Scully read on, focusing on Mulder's descriptions of 
Thompson.  He wrote about her a lot, actually.  In one scene 
she disabled her attacker with some fancy martial art 
maneuvers Scully had never learned.  She thought she 
remembered hearing that  Agent Fowley had some martial 
arts training, Aikido, perhaps?    

The more Scully analyzed it, the less Kathy Thompson 
seemed to be based on herself.  Agent Thompson was 
always strong, never weak.  She never cried in her partner's 
arms after a near-death experience.  She didn't argue with 
Agent Williams very often; when she did, at least half the 
time she turned out to be correct.  Thompson was portrayed 
as a scientist- sort of, but the narrative never found her 
elbow deep in an autopsy.  She was more the sort of 
scientist perhaps Diana Fowley had been; several of the 
'experiments' conducted in the book were reminiscent of 
those Fowley had arranged for Gibson Praise.  

It was late at night when Scully finally put down the book.  
She had liked it at first; objectively, perhaps she still did.  
Emotionally, however, the more she read, the more Scully 
realized how poorly she lived up to the partner exalted in 
Mulder's fiction.  For there was no question how Mulder felt 
about the heroine he'd created.  Her praises were sung 
clearly throughout the work.  Scully was uncertain whether 
Thompson was Fowley as she had been before she 
abandoned Mulder to work in Europe, or whether she was 
merely Mulder's ideal.  Either way, the cold hard facts 
showed Scully didn't come close to living up to that 
standard.  While she knew intellectually she had been a good 
partner, she apparently hadn't been as good a partner as 
she'd thought.

A.D. Skinner's words rang in her head.  "Your quest, it 
should have been mine."  He'd spoken to Scully as he lay on 
what they both believed to be his deathbed regretting that he 
hadn't supported them more fully.  That he had never come 
down clearly on Mulder's side. More than she wished to 
admit, those feelings were hers as well.  She had spoken up 
for Mulder, defended him, supported him.  She cared for 
him; she knew he cared for her.   Yet self-doubt, under the 
guise of brutal self-honesty claimed her fatigued brain.

She had never truly made the quest her own.  It had always 
been his.  There was so much more she could have 
done...perhaps more of their cases would have turned out 
like they did in the novel if only she had believed him 
sooner.  More lives saved, more proof gathered.  If only she 
had spent less time arguing and more time investigating.  If 
only she had believed in him and his methods, which time 
after time had proven themselves in spite of her carefully 
marshaled 'scientific' arguments against them.  And that, she 
believed, was the point of Mulder's book.  That was what he 
was trying to communicate.  She wanted to fling the hated 
papers away from her, but didn't.  She stacked them neatly, 
preparing to return them to him in the morning.  

When at last the black pit of sleep claimed her not long 
before dawn, she welcomed it, not really caring if she awoke 
or not.  Reality was too harsh.  He'd even been right about 
the buck teeth.

In the light of the day, the book didn't seem nearly so grim. 
She was able to put a smile on her face as she arranged to 
meet Mulder later that day.   He sounded cheerful, more like 
his old self.  He was at last ready to return to Kansas City 
and continue the fight, and he wanted Scully to join him.  
But the seeds of self-doubt had grown almost cancerously 
within her.  Inside a small question had formed: was this to 
be her chance to redeem herself- to prove herself capable of 
becoming his real-life Kathy Thompson?

Scully entered the airport terminal a few hours later, carrying 
a hastily packed overnight bag and the brand new folder she 
had bought to house Mulder's novel. Her heels clicked 
rapidly on the marble floor as she sped to an ungainly trot in 
an effort not to be late. She had a feeling that punctuality 
would be another of Kathy Thompson's ideal qualities, and 
she wasn't prepared to start this whole trip off on the wrong 
foot. She saw Mulder ahead of her, sitting in the waiting 
area and studying some notes he was making, and the sight 
brought her to a halt. Scully took several deep breaths, 
trying to slow her nervous heart rate and wanting to wait 
until she felt less flustered before approaching him; her mind 
again flashed back to the unflappable Thompson, who 
apparently never got nervous or out of breath.

Mulder turned around, glad to see that she had arrived so 
promptly. He stood up, and after a moment's thought gave 
her a warm hug.

"Morning Scully. Sorry you had to come all the way back 
here, but since this is out of our own pockets, I wanted to 
find the least expensive flight," Mulder began apologetically. 
Scully nodded, looking out the terminal window towards the 
small plane.

"Thanks, I appreciate that," she said finally, not really 
knowing how else to fill the pristine silence of the terminal.

"I, um, decided not to let Skinner know we were leaving 
town," Mulder said carefully, waiting for the explosion that 
he knew would follow that comment. He hadn't been sure 
whether to tell Scully or not, but in the end he had decided it 
would be better to listen to her lectures about rules and 
regulations than for her not to know the true situation.

"Good idea, Mulder," Scully answered, not looking at him. 
Mulder sat back in his chair, amused and trying to keep his 
mouth from dropping open. He would never have expected 
her to agree with him, and it was somewhat unsettling.

"Learning to rebel now that we're out of the bureau?" he 
asked, joking to cover his amazement. A moment later their 
flight was called, and they rose to gather their possessions 
and head out to the plane. In the bustle of getting seated, 
Mulder didn't notice that Scully never answered his query.

Once the plane was in the air, Scully pulled out the folder 
with his work inside and set it carefully on her lap. She 
skimmed over it quickly to make sure she hadn't missed 
anything and then silently handed it to Mulder, who was 
dozing against the window. He sat up with a start when the 
folder landed on his lap, turning to smile at Scully.

"What did you think?" he asked, voice trembling slightly 
with excitement. He was surprised again at how much her 
opinion mattered to him, and despite a bit of trepidation, he 
couldn't wait to read her comments. Forcing himself not to 
open it and read right then and there, he merely turned to 
her, gratitude filling his dark eyes. The way she smiled at 
him before she spoke...he knew immediately that she had 
gotten his message. She knew from reading his work what 
he couldn't say aloud; how invaluable she was to him, how 
much he needed her by his side not only professionally, but 
also personally. Mulder mentally patted himself on the back, 
more certain than ever that their partnership would survive 
this investigation.

"Very well written, Mulder, especially Thompson. She was, 
um, very realistic and believable," Scully began slowly. She 
wanted to be truthful but couldn't bring herself to comment 
further on the character she had first assumed to be herself; 
that was just a bit too painful. "I enjoyed reading it," (that 
was true, at least before she had begun a more careful 
analysis), "and I think it has a very good chance of being 
published." She smiled at the relief that filled Mulder's eyes, 
noticing that he released a long-held breath when she 
finished speaking.

"Thanks," Mulder began, but Scully held up a hand. She 
knew how grateful he was, he didn't need to say it. "You'll 
read the rest of it for me?" he added. She nodded slowly, 
biting her lip to keep it from trembling. She didn't want to 
read the rest of it, never wanted to see it or hear the name 
Kathy Thompson ever again as a matter of fact, but she 
knew that for Mulder, she could, and would suffer in 
silence. She nodded again, trying to convince herself that 
she was strong enough to make it through the rest of the 
flight without giving away her plan to become the perfect 
partner.

Scully sat quietly for a few moments, watching a small child 
play in the aisle until his mother came to grab him. The 
woman smiled warmly at Scully, scooping up her son and 
tickling him on the way back to their seats. The child's 
giggles pulled Mulder's attention from his study of their 
situation, and he frowned slightly before going back to his 
ruminations. Scully watched them return to their aisle, a 
small smile creeping up the corners of her lips. She closed 
her eyes for a moment, inhaled sharply, and turned towards 
Mulder, choosing not to comment on the fact that he had 
apparently stolen or made copies of the confidential reports 
about the charges against her.

"Find anything out of place?" she asked a bit too cheerily. 
Mulder looked up and shook his head. "Any theories?" she 
tried again. Again, Mulder shook his head. He changed his 
mind a moment later, deciding to share the one idea he had 
come up with.

"Well," he began a little hesitantly, "we know that you and I 
weren't at Mark Nichols' house at 4:30 in the morning, but 
someone was. And there are enough witnesses who will 
swear on the Bible that it was us they saw fleeing the scene, 
that no sane law-enforcement official will dispute the 
decision to charge you with Mark's injuries. However, that 
isn't the only aspect of this that bothers me...I think I've 
actually made some headway on the window aspect of the 
crime. If he felt that much excitement about his discovery," 
here Mulder looked to Scully for confirmation; she nodded, 
"then I can't see that he wouldn't have kept it in his house 
near him. Especially since he knew we were coming the next 
day to see it."

"So you think the shooting was actually a burglary?" Scully 
asked. Mulder nodded enthusiastically and she breathed a 
quiet sigh of relief.

"Obviously I don't know whether Mark was shot by the 
burglar or whether someone else interceded, but seeing as 
there was no broken glass in the house, I think it's safe to 
assume that the thief made it out safely with his loot." 
Mulder paused for a moment, rifling through the documents 
in his file. "I was thinking about this last night, wondering 
why someone would steal a window that looked out into a 
different time, but I honestly couldn't  come up with a 
motive. So I got online and checked the Kansas City public 
record. Turns out their branch of the bureau has been 
chasing a thief who steals magical or mystical objects and 
talismans."

He looked at her, knowing she would see the significance; 
one of the things he loved most about Dana Scully was that 
he never had to explain anything twice. He showed her the 
records he had printed the previous night, pointing out the 
various artifacts that had been reported missing over the past 
six months and whose disappearances were attributed to this 
single thief. Scully wanted badly to ask how any of this 
related to clearing her name, but she kept her mouth shut. 
She needed to come up with a tactful way to change the 
subject back to the identity of the shooter, subtle enough that 
Mulder wouldn't notice that she had done so; Scully scowled 
when the words <Kathy Thompson wouldn't change the 
subject while her partner was trying to talk> jumped into her 
head. She shook her head once, violently, trying to clear that 
hated image from her mind.

"Are you okay, Scully?" Mulder asked, noticing the angry 
movement.

"I'm fine. Just trying to clear the pressure in my ears," she 
lied carefully. "Um, Mulder, do you have any theories on 
how we could be mistaken for the shooters?"

"Not really. It seems contrived, almost as if someone were 
singling us out to be accused. I thought about masks, but 
there are witnesses who were near enough that they'd be 
able to distinguish a mask or makeup. If it isn't a setup, 
well, I can't imagine that there are two people who look 
enough like us to be able to get off Scot free." Mulder 
paused a moment, wondering about the probability for two 
people with an uncannily similar physical appearance to be in 
the same town on the same day, especially to come to the 
same house.

"So, you've um, ruled out shape-shifting aliens and any 
other paranormal phenomena?" Scully asked quietly, tilting 
her head so her hair would cover the blush that had sprung 
up on her cheeks. Mulder gave her an odd look.

"Why, do you have reason to suspect that another 
explanation is involved?" he asked finally.

"I don't know, I was just trying to keep an open mind about 
the whole thing," she answered stiffly.

"I think you can rest assured that there are no aliens involved 
on this one," Mulder said, laughing lightly. "But I'm glad 
you're willing to accept other ideas?"

He flipped the file shut and placed it carefully alongside his 
novel in the carry-on bag he had brought. As he leaned back 
in his chair, he could see the details of the city becoming 
clearer and clearer as they descended from the clouds. Scully 
moved to the empty seat across the aisle from them and 
shared in the view of the approaching city. As she buckled 
her seat belt, she realized she was coming back to a place 
that held nothing but painful memories for her. She closed 
her eyes and looked away sharply, wondering if she would 
ever be able to assuage the dread that had seated itself in the 
pit of her stomach.