From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 3 Oct 2002 06:37:51 -0000
Subject: NEW: When Memory Watches by philiater by philiater
Source: direct

Reply To: philiater1@yahoo.com


Title: When Memory Watches
Author: Philiater
Category: Casefile, SSR, then becomes MSR. 
Heavy on the angst. Not sallie safe.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Takes place just after Avatar.
Feedback: philiater1@yahoo.com  More stories at 
my site: http://www.geocities.com/philiater1/
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were. They belong to 
CC and 1013. Sigh.


****************************************

Ps 63:6   When I remember thee upon my bed, and 
meditate on thee in the night watches. 

****************************************


I don't know who I am.

The others tell me I have a name and an identity, 
but I look at the pictures and see a stranger looking 
back. I have a job and an apartment.  I walk through 
these places and feel nothing when I see the smooth 
floors and polished surfaces.

I have a boss and a partner.  They in particular are 
distressed by this turn of events, and pace those 
smooth floors in an endless march of frustration. 
Undiluted emotion is painted on their faces, but 
they think I don't see. They create false smiles and 
speak to me as if I'm a child.  I may have forgotten 
myself, but I am not stupid.

They decide I shouldn't stay by myself.  Someone 
has played with my mind and may come back to 
play some more. They've also decided to keep my 
family ignorant of my condition for the time being. 
Danger figures prominently in this decision as well.

The first night is spent at my partner's place. He is 
messy, and his taste is eccentric to say the least. 
Fish tanks, conspiracy books, and pornography 
seem to be a running theme. He offers me the 
choice between a bed and a couch.  It's a tough 
choice. I can't decide which is the least offensive 
piece of furniture.  In the end I choose the bed and 
wash the sheets along with some other items he 
deems are in need of cleaning.  He seems distressed 
by this show of domesticity on my part.  I ask him if 
I didn't care before and he says I cared, but let him 
be.

I don't ask him if we're lovers.  For some reason I 
just know we're not. It's a mutual thing born of 
respect.  But I sense he would like it to be more, and 
I may have felt the same way too. I don't want that 
now.  This is all too new and disorienting.  I know 
he thinks I'm faking it, or worse, don't want to 
remember.  Was my life so awful that I had to 
escape because I couldn't face it?

The next night is spent with my boss.  His 
apartment is the polar opposite of my partner's: 
Spartan, clean, and impersonal. Careful neutrality is 
his theme. Not only is the bed clean, but so is 
everything else. I sit on the sofa and ask him a 
question.

"Are we close?"

He seems startled by the query.  "Why do you ask?"

I shrug.  "Something---"

"No, we're not close."

"Were we once?"

He starts shifting around, and he's a man not used to 
squirming. I've made him exceptionally 
uncomfortable, and I don't know why.

"No, we were never close."

I frown at this. Of all the things that I've had to 
accept as being mine, this would not be a difficult 
one. He is a strong and deeply emotional man like 
my---.  A sudden realization.  He is like my dead 
father. I have a dead father.

I look up and I know he senses the change.

"What is it?  Did you remember something?"

I nod but don't tell him.  "It's nothing."

"I don't believe that."  He says it flatly, as if it were 
the unvarnished truth.

I'm the restless one now, getting up and moving to 
his terrace door. There's some connection between 
this man and my memory.  I somehow think he 
holds the key to the recovery of it.

Behind me he has risen from the brown leather 
chair and come up to my back.  He doesn't attempt 
to touch me, but I feel his presence like a huge wall 
of muscle and emotion; both strung so tight, were I 
to touch him he would shatter against my palm.

"It was my fault."  His voice is husky and sad. "Is 
that what you remember?"

I turn because I don't understand. "No, I 
remembered something about my father."

He falters for a moment, knowing he has given 
away too much. But he recovers quickly and walks 
away.

"I have the couch and the bed is upstairs." His spine 
is ramrod straight, like a knife severing the 
connection between us.

The bed is large and the sheets are as white and 
starched as his shirts. Despite the sterility, I feel 
more comfortable here than at my partner's. I sleep 
in a deep and dreamless state, but wake just before 
dawn. The desire to see how the sunrise would look 
from his balcony propels me downstairs.

He is sprawled out on the couch, long limbs leaking 
out from under the blue blanket that covers him. I 
sit opposite, the sun forgotten.  Something tells me 
watching him rise would be eminently more 
enthralling.

His face is smooth, his lips no longer thin or pulled 
down. I wonder if he ever really relaxes.  He seems 
a man as uncomfortable in his skin as my partner is 
comfortable in his.

I watch for a long time trying to remember my 
interactions with him. But I feel confused, like I 
trusted him, but mistrusted him at the same time.  A 
friend, but also an enemy, truth and fiction, light 
and darkness in one man.

When he finally stirs, he comes awake slowly 
stretching his long limbs like a cat. I stop breathing, 
willing myself to be invisible so he won't see me 
and ruin the moment. He flings an arm over his 
face, and I think he's fallen back to sleep.

"Are you hungry?"

His question startles me. When I don't answer he 
takes his arm away and turns his head my direction. 
He's looking at me through myopic eyes, unable to 
focus entirely.  He seems more vulnerable without 
his glasses.  More so than he would be without 
clothes I think.

"No."

"We need to get dressed. Do you want the shower 
first?"

"Yes."

He waits for me to move, to get out of the chair and 
retreat upstairs. But I feel something, the tingle of a 
memory forming.  If I leave I'll lose it.

"What is it?"

"I think---," I struggle to remember, desperately 
scratching at the door that closes the memories 
away from me. "I remember ---"

He sits up, suddenly wary. "What?"

Then it's gone. The hint of a memory fades with 
startling speed leaving me frustrated.

"Nothing.  It's gone." I get up without looking at 
him and trudge upstairs. Something is wrong with 
this memory loss. It feels engineered, contrived.  
But why?  What purpose does it serve to deprive me 
of them?  Whose purpose does it serve?

When I come downstairs he's made coffee. He's 
standing in the living room looking out at the city. 
He has gray sweat pants and a white t-shirt on. I get 
a sudden urge and do it without thinking. I come up 
behind him and wrap my arms around him.

He startles so badly, his coffee spills.  Swearing 
softly he retreats sideways and fixes me with an 
exasperated look. The glasses are back.  So is the 
Boss.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I'm mortified, embarrassed beyond words. I turn 
away from him and retreat to the kitchen on the 
pretext of getting coffee. My movements become 
jerky and so uncoordinated that I spill the coffee 
and sugar.

I feel so lost.  Memories serve as anchors in a world 
where all the rules are unwritten. I have violated a 
rather important one, and I don't know why. My 
right hand won't cooperate, and I clasp the sugar 
spoon in a tight fist and close my eyes trying for 
control.

His hand slides over mine, and I look up to see him 
next to me.  The hand is warm, and so are his eyes. 
We stand there saying nothing, his hand my anchor 
now. For several heartbeats we simply stand there 
while I relax. He finally lets go and retreats upstairs.  
I'm left feeling a little empty.

The ride to work is silent as I expected it to be. He's 
in full Boss mode now, talking on the cellular phone 
to his assistant, dodging traffic, leaping tall 
buildings in a single bound--. I stifle a laugh at the 
thought.

He turns to me frowning, wondering what I'm 
laughing about. This time the memory hits me full 
force. I see myself across from him as he sits in the 
car. He'd driven up to my apartment and told me to 
get in. 

"I've been in you car before."  I make it a statement.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"How much do you remember?"

"You came to my apartment and told me to get in."

"That's all?"

"I didn't want to. I don't think I trusted you, but I got 
in anyway."

"Is there any more?" 

"I think it saved my life." 

He frowns again. "Do you remember where we 
went?"

"No."

He only nods.  He won't supply me with more 
information. The company psychiatrist said it might 
create false memories.

The day passes uneventfully.  No more recollections 
emerge in the stuffy basement office.  I sift through 
papers that belong to me, but find them bewildering. 
I tackle the files, trying to organize them since I 
can't be of much help yet.  When my partner catches 
me at it he becomes enraged.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to organize the files."

"They're already organized."

"They are?"

"What's gotten into you? You never would have--"  
He trails off, seeing my hurt expression.  Another 
rule broken. He doesn't extend a warm hand, but 
scratches his head absently.

"Maybe we should call it a day."

I agree silently, suddenly exhausted.  

"Do you want to pick up dinner?" He says it as 
though we do it often.

"Look, I've been thinking. I'd rather --"

"What? You'd rather stay with him? You don't even 
like him."

"I don't?" Is he supplying me with a false memory?

"No, you don't. You don't trust him, and sometimes 
I don't either. He's the one who was with you when 
you disappeared and lost your memory." He turns 
his back on me headed for the desk. I try to walk to 
the door.

What he's saying is giving me a headache. I put my 
hands over my ears, as I hear a roaring sound and 
pain pulses inside my head. 

"Stop," I say weakly. The pain intensifies and the 
floor starts to swim. Just as I'm going over, strong 
arms catch me.

"What's going on? Are you okay?" I sway against 
him, nauseated, bewildered.

"Take me--" I was about to say home, but it doesn't 
feel right. "Take me back with you."
Whatever protestation my partner makes is lost in 
the buzz inside my head. I'm faintly aware of my 
boss next to me, herding me forward with an arm 
wrapped around my shoulders. I allow him to lead 
me, my eyes closed against the nausea and swirling 
blackness.

Dimly I hear him say, "Hang on.  We're almost to 
the car."

The creak of metal signals that the door is opened, 
and I'm led to the seat.  Hands pick up my feet and 
swing my legs inside. For a moment he leans over 
me to fasten the seat belt.  My vision is narrowed 
and dark; filled with him. Too soon he retreats and 
brushes a hand over my face.

"Are you all right?" So much concern in his voice. I 
don't like this man?

I nod weakly. As the car pulls out I allow the buzz 
to engulf me completely. 

****************************************

 I hear arguing when I wake. A cocoon of white 
sheets is wrapped around me, but they can't insulate 
me from the sounds drifting up. Sitting up becomes 
a dangerous proposition.  Initially the world twirls 
like the bright lights at a carnival ride. I stand with 
as much difficulty, but I begin to even out with each 
step.  Traversing the stairs seems too daunting 
initially, so I sit on the top step while I get my 
bearings. 

I recognize the voices. My partner and my boss. So 
angry with each other, and I know I'm at the center 
of the storm.

"You were told not to supply any additional 
information. Look at what happened when you did."

"This is not my fault. She's like this because of 
you."

"Get out." I hear the unmistakable threat in his 
voice.

"Not without her."

"If you don't leave now--"
 
"Or what? You'll beat me up? Will that make you 
feel better?"

I have to stop them.  I can't be the cause of this. 
Somehow I manage to make it down the stairs.  
They're so intent on each other I escape their notice 
at first.

"Stop it, stop it now." I meant it to be a shout, but it 
comes out a whisper.

They both freeze and turn to see me slumped 
against the wall. My boss is closer and reaches me 
first. He holds me up and I lean against him.  I drink 
in his solid strength and cling to him.

"Come with me," my partner implores. I shake my 
head no, and he's aghast.  "You don't know what 
you're doing.  You're safer with me."

The buzzing begins again at his words and a pain 
knifes through my head. All I can do is whimper 
against the onslaught.

"If you don't get out now I will kill you." He means 
it. I know he'd do it. 

"Mulder please."

Both men freeze when they realize I've spoken his 
name. Until now I hadn't felt a connection to them; 
to the use of their names.  Strong emotion seems to 
bring the memories out, but they also devastate me.

"Please leave Mulder.  Please. I can't take 
anymore." I squeeze my eyes shut, willing him to 
go.  Eventually I hear a door open and close again. 
My boss's hold tightens and I'm led to the couch. He 
sits me down and wraps a blanket around my 
shoulders. When he starts to leave, I clutch his 
hand.

"Stay. Please stay a minute." I need the anchor 
back.

Without removing his hand, he sits next to me and I 
hold onto him against the storm.

"Why," I whisper, "is this happening to me?" 

"I don't know."

I sense the headaches and sensory distortion I'm 
experiencing are a total mystery to him. He may 
hold the key to my memory, but someone else is 
manipulating us, manipulating me.

In the quiet of his apartment my jangled nerves 
settle and I find myself drifting against him. He 
doesn't pull away or sit me back up, but allows it 
like a mother cat with a blind kitten seeking to find 
its place at her side. Sleep claims me quickly and 
it's deep and dreamless again.

When I wake he's still there next to me, except I've 
managed to end up in his lap. I sit up quickly to find 
him watching me.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."  He ignores the obviously awkward 
situation. "What time is it?"

"Six o'clock."

"In the morning?"  Now I feel even worse, believing 
he's been next to me all this time. "I'm sorry."

He dismisses my embarrassment with a turn of his 
head. It's a quick gesture and meant to be all 
encompassing. It reminds me of something. I look 
at his profile and struggle to bring the picture into 
focus.

"You were shot."

He turns and nods. "Yes."

"Did I shoot you?"

"No."

"But I feel--"

"You weren't responsible."  

"Was I there?"

"No." With that he sits up and moves to the stairs. 
"If you don't mind I'll take the shower first."

I watch his back as he climbs the stairs and wonder 
what it is I've really remembered. I feel a distinct 
coloring of responsibility where this is concerned, 
but don't understand my part in it.  It remains just 
out of reach.

Once we're in the car I ask the question I know he's 
waiting for me to ask.

"What happens today?" I try to make my voice 
neutral as if asking about the weather, but he and I 
both know there is great significance in what he 
tells me.

"We go to work."  

There really isn't an answer to that, so I sit back and 
dread the confrontation that will surely take place 
when I arrive in the basement.

But he has a surprise for me.  When I move toward 
the elevator that will take me to the basement, he 
gently grasps my elbow and steers me with him up 
to his office. He studiously ignores my inquiring 
look and I accompany him past his assistant to the 
big office.

He sits me at the conference table and gives me 
work to do.  I don't ask about Mulder and he doesn't 
tell me anything either.  Mulder. I can say his name 
now and it means something. And Skinner.  But I 
think I must have called him something else.  
Saying his name isn't as easy.

"What did I used to call you?"

He looks up and before he answers I know.

"I called you sir."

"Yes."

We settle into a comfortable silence, the noise and 
pain of last night are forgotten as I work.  The 
basement remains in my mind though, and tugs me 
out of thought from time to time like he's calling to 
me; willing me to bolt and join him.

I rise late in the afternoon and tell Skinner that I 
need to use the ladies room. He frowns because he 
obviously can't go with me, and sending someone 
with me seems like overkill. 

Mulder manages to get me in the hall as I emerge.

"Scully, leave with me. Right now."

I fix him with a frustrated look.  "Why? I'm not in 
danger.  Skinner's been a gentleman and I seem to 
remember more when he's around."

"You *are* in danger.  Trust me.  You used to trust 
me.  You used to trust me implicitly."

The headache begins again. "Please don't ask.  
Every time you mention leaving, it makes me sick."

"They're making you sick Scully, don't you see? 
They're keeping you away from me to drive a 
wedge between us and destroy the x-files."

A part of me knows he could be right, but any step I 
take to think in that direction leaves me in pain and 
exhausted.

"Mulder, if I go with you I'll die.  I don't know why, 
but you're making me sick." Even as I say the words 
harsh noise fills my ears and the pounding 
intensifies. I feel him put an arm around me.

"Scully?"

"I can't go with you. Find out what they did to me 
and then come back."

That's all I can say before the world goes black.

*****************************************


When I wake this time I'm on Skinner's black 
leather couch.  I'm beginning to really hate these 
episodes.  They make me more disoriented and 
vulnerable with each incident. Losing time is like 
losing memory, or the chance to recover it.

There are no lights on in the darkened office, and I 
can't tell just how late it is. I sit up with a groan, and 
he's instantly at my side. He helps me to stand, but 
the floor feels like it's on springs. He winds up 
supporting all my weight as I try to get my bearings.

"Mulder--"

"He's gone."

"Why does it make me so sick to be with him?"

He doesn't answer.

"Do you know? Is what he said the truth?"

"What did he say?"

"That you were trying to hurt me.  Drive me away 
from him."

With the last sentence he drags me across the floor 
and sits me in his chair. He leans close; so close his 
face is a breath from mine.

"I'm only going to say this once. I would never do 
anything to hurt you and I'm not helping anyone 
else to hurt you or Mulder either. Your partner has 
the misguided notion that I'm helping someone do 
this. I am not"  His tone is deadly, serious and 
instills a deep fear in me.

 But he follows it up with a feather light touch to 
my face. He leans his head above mine into the 
chair grappling for control, his chest so close the 
buttons on his shirt touch my face. He's not angry 
that I say it, only that I would believe it.

And I want to believe him. He's been nothing but 
kind.  But if what Mulder says is true, it would be 
the worst kind of betrayal.

"I wish to god that I could have prevented you from 
disappearing"

He uprights again and reaches out. "Can you 
stand?"

I look up at him with trust and place my hand in his. 
"Yes."

******************************************
*****************


The next two days are rather uneventful. Skinner 
and I fall into a routine of sleep, work and sharing 
the apartment.  I've been told Mulder has been sent 
on assignment, and I don't need to work in the 
basement. 

I miss him. Despite the havoc he creates with my 
health a part of me longs to see him.  I don't 
understand it exactly because I seem to be closer to 
Skinner.  I find his presence calming, reassuring, 
and a bonding is taking place that I don't think he 
expected.

He touches me sometimes; comes up behind me and 
places a hand on my back as if absently. But I feel 
something passing between us in that touch of his 
hand, and I look forward to them. Expect them.  
Miss them when they're gone.

The next night changes everything.

Despite my protestations, I've been given the bed 
indefinitely. He has to be uncomfortable on the 
sofa, but he won't let me switch.  I think it gives 
him a strange sense of satisfaction to have me sleep 
there in his bed.

The day was routine enough and we said good night 
as we usually do.  I went to bed feeling calm, 
happy, and ready to face the next day.

But my sleep is interrupted. For the first time since I 
came here I have a nightmare.  There are enormous 
amounts of information in this terrifying vision.  I 
see myself on a hospital gurney surrounded by 
masked men who look like doctors. I feel cold, 
instruments probe my helpless body. Something is 
removed from me, something I can never get back.

I scream and scream, but no one can hear me.  
There is no one to rescue me.

"Scully, Scully!'

 I hear Skinner's voice cut through the sounds in my 
head. The images stop, and I find myself awake in 
the bed. I hug him tight, still feeling the effects of 
the nightmare roll over me, through me, vibrate 
inside my head.

He lets me cry against him, absorbing my tremors 
and pain without comment. The ache takes a long 
time to fade, and I find him rocking me slowly. It 
feels good, so good to be in his arms. It's not just a 
feeling of safety or gratitude.  In that moment I 
know.

I want him.

It's not particularly startling given our close living 
arrangements, but it brings with it a memory of 
sorts. All this time he has watched me, looked over 
me, and has *always* wanted me for himself.

I pull back to look in his eyes, to see if passion lurks 
there before he can cover it up. I gasp at what I do 
see; desire so strong it makes me warm, flushed, 
wet.

He traces my face, eyes, nose with his fingers. His 
thumb moves across my lips, smearing them, 
sealing them with his skin.

"Please," I whisper. "Please." He knows what I'm 
asking for and may be too far gone himself to deny 
me.

He bends to me, bringing him within a hair's breath 
of my mouth. "Mine," he says

"Yes."

And then he's lost, powerless to stop himself; so 
hungry he will not be satisfied until he is inside me, 
brought me to completion.

Afterwards I wonder briefly how it will affect our 
working together.  My memory is still so blank, still 
has so much left to be filled in that I wonder if I will 
ever get it back. Part of me believes recovering it 
will drive me from him. I don't want that, I know I 
don't. Yet it remains there, stagnant, waiting for the 
opportunity to bloom forward.

It hasn't long to wait.

While I sleep in his arms, men in black clothing 
come and take me away. There is a brief struggle 
from both of us before I feel a needle jammed into 
my thigh. Blackness comes quickly, and the last 
thing I hear is Skinner shouting my name in 
anguish.

******************************************
************

Drifting, I'm drifting through a liquid blackness that 
is quiet and calm. My limbs are heavy beside me, 
unable to communicate with my brain. I can't see 
anything, though I hear voices distantly. Every time 
I attempt to rouse myself, the blackness comes back 
to overwhelm me. 

Time passes without meaning. A day could have 
gone by, or a year, I don't know. I can't place the 
voices I hear, but they seem familiar. Are they 
trying to speak to me, or are they just noise inside 
my brain?

A have a lucid moment when I smell cigarette 
smoke and hear men talking.

"I told you she wasn't to be hurt."

"She wasn't, just sedated. She's responding well to 
the suggestions."

"When will you be done?"

"Soon, within a day or so."

"Good.  It will be interesting to see if your 
techniques can work on a mind so strong," He 
pauses, and I feel a course hand brush my cheek. 
"So intelligent, so intent in its human attachments. 
If you thwart her love for him then I will accept 
your proposition." 

The rest is lost in a buzz of white noise and I drift 
again. It seems never ending. I don't know if I'll 
ever wake.

******************************************
*************


"Look at her. Look at what you did to her face."

"Hey, that wasn't my fault.  Lover boy over there 
conked it dragging her through the door."

"Well, if you'd have kept your end up like you were 
supposed to she wouldn't have hit the door."

"Shh, shhh, she's waking up."

I open my eyes to an astonishing sight. The 
Gunmen are leaning over me like the dwarves in 
Snow White waiting for me to wake.

"Where am I?" My head throbs when I sit up.

Frohike speaks first. "You're in a safe place.  We 
had to take you so you could be deprogrammed."

"Deprogrammed? Where's Mulder?"

"He went out for a while. He'll be happy to see you 
when he gets back."

"Not when I get a hold of him. Byers, where's my 
cell phone?"

They all look at each other and grin like they've 
made some marvelous discovery.

"It worked!" Langly exclaims

"Wait a minute. She's only said Byers name.  Who 
are we?"

My irritation grows with every second. "Is this 
some kind of weird Gunmen game? Drug someone, 
wake them up and make them guess your names?"

Without looking at them I stand up and start for the 
door. I've been to the lair before and know my way 
out.

They come scurrying after me to stop me.

Frohike holds up his hands. "Just wait until Mulder 
comes back.  He can explain everything."

"No. You tell me now."

They all look at each other like I'm part of some 
grand conspiracy.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Byers asks 
in a soft voice.

No longer on auto pilot I try to think back to the 
time before the blackness. "I remember---"  

Suddenly a cascade of images courses through me, 
across my mind, flash in front of my eyes: Mulder, 
my family, the FBI, the cases I've worked on.  So 
much in such a short space of time, I lose my 
balance.

The Byers catches me before I can fall and sits me 
down.

"What's happened to me?"

"We believe you were used in a mind control 
experiment by the Syndicate," Langly explains.

"They tried to make you dislike Mulder, made you 
feel ill when he was around." Frohike realizes what 
he has said and makes it a joke. "More ill than 
normal."

We laugh to ease the tension as I try to grasp the 
enormity of what they have said. It all comes 
together then; the memories lost, the Smoking Man 
at my side when they were taken, and the new ones 
formed in the mean time. I have it all back, even the 
ones with---.
"Skinner." I whisper.

I see them shift uncomfortably, embarrassed for me 
and themselves.

"You were the men who came to get me."

"Yes."

"Is--," I feel heat rise into my face. "Is Skinner part 
of the men who programmed me?"

Byers comes closer and sits next to me.  "We don't 
think so.  He may have been a 'bonus' planted in 
your mind; to have you fall out of love with Mulder 
and in love with him."

"But why?"

"My guess is they used you because you'd been 
taken before.  They may have started something 
subtle even as far back as that. If they could 
manipulate you, make you do something against 
your will then their experiments worked."

I know he's right.  It feels right, and I wonder if 
Mulder will ever forgive me.  As if on cue the door 
opens and he steps through. I stand automatically 
waiting, desperately wanting to run to him.

Instead he runs to me, wraps me in his arms and I 
fall to pieces.

"Oh, Mulder I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for Scully."

"But what about Skinner?"

"It doesn't matter.  It wasn't your fault."

I feel like my heart will burst as I remember my 
love for him, as the emptiness that had plagued me 
during my memory loss fills me to over flowing. 
How could I forget this? How could I forget 
something so fundamental to my very being?

"Take me home."

******************************************
**

It feels good to be back in the Hoover again, 
memories intact. The basement is no longer a 
forbidden place, a place of illness and despair. Even 
the routine things I do with Mulder take on a new 
significance. 

But there is still something I must do to make it 
right. Something I can't do with Mulder.

Late that night I drive to Crystal City and knock on 
Skinner's door. He opens it with a drink in his hand 
and a scowl on his face. He's wearing the gray 
sweat pants of a few nights past.

"May I come in?"

"Agent Scully you are not wanted here."

"Yes, I know but if I could just speak with you--"

"Agent Mulder has already informed me of your 
'mind control' and my role in it."  He sounds drunk, 
bitter, and sad.

"He hasn't told you everything."

His scowl deepens as he tests the validity of my 
statement. I take the opportunity to brush past him 
into the apartment. The sofa is where it has always 
been, but the blue blanket is gone. I move forward 
and sit on it, waiting for him to sit too.  He chooses 
the leather chair as I thought he would.  I know him 
very well now.

"What is it that Agent Mulder hasn't told me?"  His 
voice is laced with sarcasm.

"I remembered a suggestion that was given to me 
about you. That I could recover my memories if I 
chose to spent time with you. Mulder and the 
Gunmen are under the impression that I was 
programmed to fall in love with you and out of love 
with Mulder."

"But--," I say when he begins a protest, "They're 
wrong."

An eyebrow arches high on his forehead.

"I feel the truthfulness of the mind control being 
used on me.  I remember some of it and from what 
we've managed to piece together it's very likely to 
have happened.  But you aren't in any other of the 
memories I have from that time. I had a strongly 
negative reaction to Mulder, but not an overly 
positive one with you." 

I hear him snort at that, but continue anyway.

"What happened with you took time to develop, and 
I wasn't ever entirely in love with you. I think it 
makes Mulder feel comfortable to believe I was 
forced to be with you."

He doesn't say anything, only watches the amber 
liquid in his glass swirl around as he handles it.

"Sir?"

A derisive smile appears on his face and he doesn't 
look at me. "You don't have to take pity on me 
Agent Scully and tell me a lie.  I'm a big boy. I'll get 
over it."

What he says makes me angry.  Before I can think 
of the consequences I'm up and out of my chair. 

I feel myself shake as I stand before him.  "You 
asked me to believe that you weren't involved with 
making me sick or driving me and Mulder apart. I 
accepted that as the truth, but you won't give me the 
same benefit of the doubt."

When he doesn't react I turn to go. At the door he 
reaches out and grabs my hand. I stand there 
breathing heavily while my emotions settle down. 
He looks at me with undisguised pain and longing 
in his face. But he covers it up and lets go of me. A 
neutral mask slides into place.

"Thank you for coming over to clarify things Agent 
Scully. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He opens the door for me. "You're welcome sir."

As I walk down the corridor I feel sad, like I've lost 
something else I can never get back.


End