Windows To the Soul
Chapter Five - As Sounding Brass



********************
Millertown Sheriff's Station
5:56 am

Scully sighed heavily, cradling her head in one 
hand and gripping a lukewarm Diet Coke with the 
other.

When they'd called the police station and requested
that a patrol car come to pick them up, they'd had
to wait an additional thirty minutes for the car
to arrive. 

She'd had a nagging worry that the police might 
be in on the conspiracy, and had shared this concern
with Mulder. But, for now, they had little choice
but to assume the police were on their side. They
had no one else to trust at the moment.

As they'd sat and waited, Scully couldn't help 
ruminating about Agnes Donovan. 

To her surprise and dismay, the feeling of invasion 
she'd sensed after Agnes had "probed" her hadn't abated 
at all. Actually, she realized with an uneasy shiver, 
it had seemed to have grown steadily worse in the hour 
or so since she and Mulder had finally gotten out 
of that hospital.

What was worse was that everyone was
beginning to have the same effect upon
her. She had the strangest feeling that
everyone she came across - with the
possible exception of Mulder - was
staring at her, reading her far too
closely for comfort. 

It was driving her crazy.

It was almost as if she were locked in a cage made 
of one-way mirrors. She knew that the people were 
there; could sense it, somehow, as surely as she 
could sense her own consciousness, but couldn't 
control it or probe them any deeper than she could 
probe the ground they were standing upon. It was the 
one-sided nature of this entrapment that was slowly 
eating away at her. 

She groaned to herself, recalling her outburst when 
she and Mulder had first walked into the station. 
She'd said hello to one of the officers, and suddenly 
had felt as if he were trying to stare her down. 

Was it an intimidation tactic, or just curiosity? she'd 
asked herself at the time. Maybe they didn't get many 
FBI agents around these parts.

But if that was it, why the hell didn't they stare
at Mulder? And why, if he was standing right next
to her, couldn't he see what she saw? 

Soon enough, the scrutiny had become unbearable, and 
she couldn't override the feeling of sheer panic 
that had overcome her. She cringed at her words, 
recalling them now with a flush of genuine 
embarrassment:

"Stop staring at me, for God's sake! If you have 
something to say, just say it." She'd glared 
back defiantly, daring them to admit the reason
for the excessive attention.

A terribly painful silence had come over the room. Every 
occupant of the police station had gaped at her as if 
she'd grown a third eye.

She didn't really blame them.

"Sorry," she'd muttered - although she wasn't 
in the slightest - and went off to sulk by herself 
where no one could pretend not to be trying to get 
inside her head.

"Scully, you're starting to sound like me,"
Mulder had joked uneasily, and had looked at her
with guarded concern.

She'd scowled at him, and he'd wisely left her 
alone to go speak with one of the officers.

She shook her head. Since her outburst, she'd thought
it over a great deal. Although the directed stares
seemed to penetrate her in ways no simple stare ever
had before, she knew it was very possible that it was 
all in her imagination. Paranoia would and could 
account for all this.

But there was another possibility. Unlike the others,
this explanation was both believable and wholly explainable,
not to mention grounded in hard science. She wanted 
desperately to believe that this one was the root of all 
her problems.

Clinically, it was likely that the lack of sleep was causing 
synapses to misfire intermittently inside her brain... Or, not 
to fire at all. It was a known phenomenon that occurred with 
sleep deprivation. Some people hallucinated, or experienced 
narcotic-like symptoms.

Then again, she'd gone without sleep for longer. Missing one 
night's sleep wasn't exactly grounds for hallucination. 

She realized she didn't know what to believe. 

Scully gave a short, dry laugh. Where had she
heard that one before?

She took another sip of the Coke, and made a face.
It was flat. She normally stayed away from all forms
of soda, but she desperately needed the caffeine boost.

She lifted her wrist, and rotated it to glance at her
scuffed Seiko watch.

Boy, was it late. Or early.

Scully drained the can, and glanced wearily over at 
Mulder, who was still going over their report with one 
of the officers on duty. They'd turned Agnes Donovan 
over to a Detective Somarian, a thin, tightly-wound
bearded man of around forty, who was now about to
question her in another room.

As Scully distractedly ran her eyes over Mulder, she 
could finally observe the effects of the evening's wear 
and tear upon him. His shoulders were sagging and his 
back was slumped. His eyes, which were accented with 
circles of smudgy purple, were bloodshot. It was 
plainly obvious that he was exhausted, even if he 
wouldn't admit it.

She was sure, however, that she looked no better. 

Which meant that the sooner she got the phone
call to Sunny over with, the better.

Pulling herself reluctantly out of the stiff-backed 
wooden chair she'd flopped into only two minutes before, 
Scully dragged herself over to a vacant desk. 

"Officer Fernandez," Scully called to the younger 
officer, who lounged lazily in a nearby chair. "How 
do I get an outside line?"

"Just dial, Agent Scully."

She sighed, and dialed information, mentally crossing
her fingers.

"Can I have the number of Sonora Whitmore, please?"

"One moment," the operator replied. "Here it is. Please
stay on the line for the number."

She breathed a sigh of relief. Sleep was within her grasp.
She could feel it.

Scully scribbled the number on a blank sheet of paper,
and hung up. As she began to dial the number, her 
hand froze. 

What would she say? "Hi, Sunny, remember me? Your 
old pal Dana. Well, my FBI partner and I have just witnessed
a cult sacrifice, had our lives threatened, got beaten up,
drugged, and told that our lives were still in danger. Oh,
and our car was stolen, along with all our money and clothes."

Yeah, she'd believe that. No problem.

She jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

Mulder.

Scully turned, and was met by her partner's weary face.

"How's it going?"

"Fine. I got her number, but I'm not sure if
she's in town. I haven't called her yet."

"Still trying to work up the nerve?" 

She felt a pang of irritation. "No, just trying
to figure out exactly what I'll tell her. I guess
I could tell her the whole story."

He chuckled. "We might as well just tell her that 
aliens carjacked us and beat us up."

Scully rubbed her eyes. "Well, Mulder, what else
can we tell her?"

He began to pace. "Hmm. I think we should tell
her the truth. Or, at least, some of it. 'Selective
truth' is better than no truth at all."

"Which parts should we leave out?"

He rubbed his eyes with one hand. "I don't know.
Probably everything involving the hospital. We
could just say that we had our car stolen with
everything in it, and had to hitchhike to the
police station, which is where we're calling
from."

"Nothing about your injury?"

He shrugged. "Not unless you want to have to 
explain what really happened last night. Besides,
I don't think we should necessarily advertise 
to anyone in this town that we were involved 
in last night's shooting. Let's just lie low 
for a day or two, until we can find out what's
going on. Then we can turn it over to the local
bureau before Skinner has time to figure out what
we'll have been doing for the past few days."

"Fine," she breathed. "That sounds as plausible
as anything else would."

When she didn't move to pick up the phone,
Mulder got up, and sat on the corner of the
desk opposite her so he could get a better look
at her.

"Scully," he began, "what are you waiting for?"

To his amazement, she blushed.

"Nothing."

Now his curiosity was piqued. Who was this 
woman? 

Hesitating for only a moment, Scully picked up
the phone and dialed the number.

Mulder watched her carefully, but tried not to be 
overly obvious about it. She was already paranoid
enough. 

The phone rang four times, and Scully was about
to hang up when someone finally answered.

"Hullo?" a sleepy female voice greeted.

"Uh, yes... is this Sonora Whitmore?

"Speaking."

"Sunny, it's Dana. Dana Scully."

There was a too-long period of silence, and
Scully bit her lip, trying not to look at Mulder.

"Dana? What.. why are you calling? So late at
night, I mean. I haven't heard from you in ages."

Scully sighed, twisting the phone cord around in
her fingers. "I know. We should have kept in touch."

"Yeah. But things happen. What can I do for you?"
she said brusquely, and Scully began to wish she'd
never thought to call. This wasn't exactly an 
enthusiastic reception.

"Well, I'm in town on FBI business, and my partner
and I have run into some trouble."

Mulder gave her a quick nod of encouragement, and she 
nodded back silently.

"We were carjacked," Scully continued. "All of our
money and clothing were in the car. We've got nowhere
to stay, and we're both exhausted. I know this is 
on really short notice and we'd be imposing, but
I was wondering if you would let us stay at your 
place for the night. Just until we can close this
case," she added, sensing that Sunny would be
hesitant.

"I.. don't know, Dana," the woman sighed. "Can't
you book a motel or something?"

Scully shot a look at Mulder, who leaned closer,
hoping to better hear the other woman's side of the 
conversation.

"Sunny, you know I wouldn't call unless it were
an emergency. I think I'd consider this such an
occasion. We'd both really appreciate your help."

"I.. hold on a sec. I've got another call," Sunny
snapped impatiently, and Scully was left with dead air.

She moved the receiver away from her ear, and 
shook her head wearily.

"This woman was your friend?" Mulder said incredulously. 

Scully opened her mouth to respond, but she heard 
buzzing emanating from the receiver. She quickly 
brought it back to her ear.

"Dana? Dana, are you there?"

"Sunny? Yeah, sorry."

"Uh, listen. I'd absolutely love it if you and your 
partner would come stay with me. After what he's been 
through tonight, I wouldn't dream of letting you two 
stay at a hotel."

Scully raised her eyebrows. "Uh, thanks, Sunny.
I hope it's not too much of an imposition."

Mulder shifted in his seat when he heard the abrupt 
change in Scully's tone from wary to grateful. Talk 
about a sudden turn of events.

"No, no imposition at all," Sunny told her. "Besides, 
it'll give us a chance to catch up."

"That would be great. I know it's early, but is there
any way you could come by to get us? Apparently, the
only police cruiser in this town is investigating 
some domestic disturbance involving a donkey." 

She threw a deliberate glance to Officer Fernandez. To
her disappointment, he appeared oblivious, apparently 
fully engrossed in the task of folding a paper airplane 
at his desk.

"No, no problem at all," Sunny purred. "I'll be
right over. See you in a few." Click.

Scully stared at the receiver, and hung up, already
deep in thought.

"We're on?" Mulder asked.

"We're on." 

"What caused the sudden turnaround?"

She shook her head slowly. "Your guess is
as good as mine, Mulder. One second she
was as cold as ice, and the next she
was acting like she would like nothing
more than to have us move in permanently.
The only explanation she gave was that
she couldn't let us stay in a hotel after
all you'd been through."

Mulder stared at her. "All *I've* been 
through? You didn't go into that much
detail with her, Scully. I don't remember
you even telling her that your partner
was a 'he.'"

"You're right," she admitted. "But you're
probably reading too much into it. I'm sure
she meant 'you and your partner.' It doesn't
matter. I'm just relieved to have a place to
stay, and you should be, too."

"I am," Mulder replied, but he couldn't help
wondering about Sonora Whitmore's sudden
about-face. Something about the conversation,
one-sided though it was, bothered him. 

Mulder stood and stretched, his arms
extended stiffly above his head. He
yawned. 

He'd pulled far longer stretches without
sleep. But he knew he was tired, and
admitted to himself that nothing was
sounding more tempting at this moment
than a bed. 

Any bed. Hard or soft. Lumpy or flat. 

Anywhere.

Reluctantly, Scully pulled herself into
a standing position. "I'm going outside to 
wait for Sunny. Coming?" The station had a 
stale, musty smell that she couldn't wait to 
escape from. She wondered how the officers 
could stand it.

"Yeah. I think we're done with the report.
I'll just give them Sunny's number so they
can contact us if they need to. And I have a 
question for Detective Somarian before we 
go."

She nodded, and turned to walk outside.

As she pulled the door open, the first weak rays of
morning sunlight hit her face. There was a slight
breeze, and it immediately refreshed her. She
breathed deeply, enjoying the invigorating effect 
it was having upon her, and relishing its coolness.

She turned a few minutes later as the door squeaked 
open. Mulder stepped out, moving to stand next to 
Scully. He seemed to savor the fresh air as much as 
she had, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

They both stood for a moment, appreciating 
the slowly-diminishing twilight of early morning 
in shared silence.

Out of nowhere, a man rushed up to them, startling
them from their peaceful repose.

"Sorry to bother you," he whispered, "but are you
the agents who just brought in Agnes Donovan?"

They shared a glance of uneasiness, and Scully
suppressed a groan.

"That would be official business," Mulder responded.

"I'm making it my business. I'm a reporter. For the 
Millertown Sentinel." He took out his wallet, and
flashed his press card proudly.

"What can we do for you, Mister..." Scully peered at 
the card. "...Carlton?"

"Actually, I think the question is what can I do
for you." The man smiled, and looked at each agent
in turn, waiting for their reactions.

Scully realized she was way too tired for this right
now. 

"Mr. Carlton, we've been up all night. If you want 
information, go talk to the police." 

"Okay. I understand. But I just thought I might be able
to help you with some information about the cult you
guys are tracking...?" he allowed the statement to
end as a question, and looked pleased when they
didn't correct him.

Mulder folded his arms across his chest. "What cult 
would that be?"

The man glanced around, and stepped closer to him.
It was obvious he was afraid of someone overhearing
their conversation. Scully found this rather amusing,
since it was six o' clock in the morning and the 
parking lot of the police station was empty save
two or three civilian vehicles.

"Well, I'm doing research for a feature article. Been
working on it for months. My sources tell me that
you two were witnesses to one of their ceremonies."

Mulder moved his hand in a slow circle. Get to the point, 
he thought with growing irritation.

"Okay, okay. Well, for one thing, the Crescent Society
has been around for a lot longer than any of us have.
From what I've been able to gather from my informed
sources, it's not so much of a cult or religious order as
a family. Apparently, it originated in Italy among a small 
population of gypsies, probably at least three-hundred years 
ago. Some say that they can read minds, been doing it for 
centuries. People are afraid to look 'em straight in the 
eye. Oh, and you probably know this part: they sacrifice 
people to the devil."

"You're saying that this cult makes sacrifice a regular 
practice," Mulder repeated carefully. "But no one has ever 
called the police. Or, has seen this actually happen?"

Carlton looked annoyed that he had been interrupted.
"I don't know the rules, but I know they have a certain 
routine they go by. The practice died out, though, for 
nearly a century, but was revived when a descendent of 
the original family came to America in the early part 
of the century. Now, the members of the original family 
recruit new members from the outside. But they don't 
have the powers of perception that the kin do."

"Recruit them for what?" Scully wondered aloud. "There 
must be some overarching purpose to the cult's existence.
Why join if you're not part of the original family?"

"I'm getting to that. The thing is, the influence of
the modern-day La Comitiva can be compared to that 
of a Mafia family. If you're not a part of it, you're 
scared for your life. If you are... well, you're scared, 
too. I'm still trying to feel out a possible mob 
connection, in fact, although I doubt it."

"That implies the cult exists and perpetuates itself
through violence, or threat of violence," Scully mused. 
"Is that the situation?"

"Well, not quite," Carlton responded. "The threat doesn't
come from the fear of bodily harm, although - of course -
no one wants to be killed in sacrifice. The truth is 
a little less clear cut than that. It seems that La
Comitiva uses intimidation tactics that are purely
mental. People are afraid of having their thoughts
exposed... of having to relive a painful or emotionally
intense experience against their will. It's not that 
they can read your mind, Agent Scully. The Boys can 
read fears and memories. It's the ultimate 
vulnerability, and people are afraid."

Mulder rubbed his chin absently. "I can understand
why. I assume that blackmail's one of the more 
common uses of this 'power.'"

"Exactly," the man nodded.

Scully shivered, recalling the terrible feelings 
of helplessness and nakedness she'd experienced when 
Agnes Donovan had gotten access to her thoughts. 

The man glanced at Scully. "I'm talking to you in part 
because I've heard whisperings about you two from my 
sources. Especially you, ma'am. They seem to be very 
interested in you."

She felt her blood run a degree or two colder. 
"What are you talking about?" she breathed, trying 
to keep her voice steady. 

Mulder looked down at her with guarded concern, and
turned back to the man with an expression of warning.

"They refer to you by name, I think. Let me see..."
The man rifled through a notepad, and stopped.
"Here it is. They call you 'Annie May Jemilly.'"

She gaped at him, and Mulder snorted.

"What?" the man said, puzzled.

"That's not my name, Mr. Carlton," Scully said,
and glared at Mulder. "You must be mistaken."

"I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure they were 
referring to you. But, they also used another word
repeatedly... 'Roccissiosa,'" Carlton responded, his 
tongue stumbling awkwardly over the unfamiliar 
syllables. "I'm sure about that one, too."

"Does that mean something?" Mulder glanced at
Scully cautiously.

"No clue. When I asked my source, she wouldn't tell
me. If she even knew."

"It sounds like a type of designer lettuce,"
Mulder commented wryly. "I'll take Iceberg any day." 

Scully's eyes flicked to him in a silent reproach,
and he gave a slight shrug in response.

"Sir," she said brusquely, "How do you know
all this? If everyone else is part of this...
organization... then why aren't you?"

"I have something against sacrificing people 
to the devil. So sue me," he quipped.

Scully shook her head. This was just
too absurd. The cult had spread its
influence to the entire town?

Carlton sighed. "Listen," he said, lowering 
his voice down to a whisper. "Your lives are
in danger every second you remain in this
town. I don't know exactly what they're
planning, but it's big. And it directly
involves the both of you. Want my advice?
Get out of here. Make this a very short
stop on your way back to wherever you 
came from."

Mulder looked at him, deep in thought. Something
about Carlton's testimony was bothering him.
Then, it clicked - this man knew an awful lot 
about their mishap. How did they know he wasn't
part of the whole thing?

"Tell me something," he said. "Who are these 'sources' 
you claim to hear this stuff from? How can we know
you're not talking to us on orders from this
Crescent Society?"

"I can't reveal my sources," Carlton smiled
smugly. "You should know that. All I can do is 
assure you that what I say is true, and that my 
motives in telling you this," he looked at
Scully, "are purely altruistic."

Mulder suppressed the desire to laugh in the 
man's face. Altruistic my ass, he thought sourly. 
The man just wants a scoop on a story. And he's 
using us to get it.

Carlton dug his hand into a pocket, and 
came out with a wrinkled business card. He 
handed it to Mulder. "If you need to contact 
me, you can reach me here. Good luck."

With that, the man looked around quickly, and 
ran off, disappearing behind the side of the 
building.

"What the hell was that all about?" Scully 
groaned, her forehead creased with lines
of worry.

Mulder shook his head, his eyes focused
narrowly upon the place where the man
had stood. "I don't know, Scully. But I'm 
beginning to wonder who's safe to trust in 
this town."

"Same here."

He turned his attention back to her, looking 
back at his partner with gentle concern.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. It was an automatic
reply. He wondered if she'd even heard
him.

He could tell she was preoccupied... with 
anxiety or worry, he couldn't tell which.

"When we're rested, Scully, let's try to
find out all we can about this whole Crescent
thing. I've got a feeling we've stumbled onto
something really big here. We can't just turn
it over to the locals. Besides, this case
is definitely taking on some shades of the
paranormal, wouldn't you say?" His eyes
gleamed with excitement.

Scully gaped at him, marveling at how clueless 
he could be sometimes. Did he actually think that
was what she wanted? To stay here to investigate 
the cult and its activities? She should have known 
that Mulder would be so blinded by his desire to 
know the truth that he'd be oblivious to her growing 
unrest - which was increasing exponentially the 
longer they stayed.

She sighed, and pushed her hair out of her face. 
"Listen to yourself. This isn't a 'case.' It's being 
at the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, Mulder, 
we weren't assigned! We were told to investigate a 
witch sighting in Franklin. Remember?"

Mulder frowned, his lower lip jutting out. "Scully..."

She shook her head, anticipating his objection. "We're 
here unofficially, Mulder. We can't forget that. In fact, 
I'm fairly sure that if Skinner knew what we were doing, 
he'd be seeing red. We shouldn't even *be* here."

His forehead creased with tense frustration. "How 
can you not want to know what's happening? Scully... 
people are being killed in ritualistic cult sacrifices. 
We've stumbled onto something really big."

"I *know* that, Mulder--"

"*Killed*, Scully," he interrupted her, his voice
escalating in pitch. "Are you hearing me? That 
means that people are dying. Dead."

She glared at him. The way he was talking to her was 
infuriating. She felt like she was being transported 
back in time to the first few months they'd worked 
together. At first, she had been his willing protege, 
and he her patient teacher. She'd had a lot to learn 
back then, and a little well-intentioned lecturing 
had been allowed from time to time. 

But that patronizing tone wasn't acceptable now. She 
deserved a hell of a lot more respect.

She swallowed, forcing down a string of choice 
words she would have loved to share. But dignity was 
essential to winning any argument with Mulder, and 
she wasn't going to compromise it. 

"I'm fully aware that people are dying," she retorted,
and saw Mulder flinch when he heard the ice in her voice. 
"But I don't want to stay here, Mulder. I think Carlton's 
right. I don't feel safe being here."

"You?" he shot back at her incredulously. "Listen to
yourself, Scully. Your perspective on this is shot
all to hell. This is about the fact that people are 
being killed, and no one's doing a damn thing about 
it. Don't you find that the least bit disturbing?"

Her eyes blazed at him. "What I find disturbing,
Mulder, is that you're never off-duty. You can't
come upon something unexplainable and mysterious
and just leave it alone for someone else to 
figure out." She sighed, suddenly unspeakably
tired. "Mulder, you... you can't be everywhere 
and figure out everything. It's not humanly 
possible."

"That's why I have you," he said, his voice teasing.

Oh, he has me all right, she thought 
bitterly. In his back pocket. 

"So you want to stay to investigate? Fine. 
But I'm leaving."

Mulder sensed Scully was testing him on some
level, but he knew better than to take the bait. 

"I don't want you to leave, Scully," he said gently. 
"I want... I NEED... you with me on this. You experienced 
the phenomenon first hand. You're part of this case, 
or whatever you want to call it, whether you like it 
or not. But we can also do some good here, Scully. 
Maybe together we can prevent more of these 
senseless deaths from occurring."

To her irritation, her eyes flooded with tears. She 
swallowed heavily. She was exhausted, and this whole
situation was making her react with uncharacteristic
emotionalism.

"Mulder, I... You're right. I'm overreacting, and
I'm sorry. We can definitely do some good here. 
I'll call Skinner after we've gotten some sleep, 
and we'll see if we can get his blessing on this."

She sighed. She still couldn't get Agnes Donovan's 
intrusive presence out of her head. Somehow, the woman
was still shadowing her thoughts. 

She frowned, sighing heavily. Since when had she allowed 
herself to become so easily affected by what she saw on 
a case?

Not since Emily. Her cheeks tingled as she felt the 
blood drain from her face. She inhaled sharply.

Scully looked away, praying for the tears to dry up so that 
she could move on. But some part of her knew it wasn't 
going to happen. 

It was only going to get worse.
 
She had always prided herself on control. It was 
an essential part of her character. And now she could feel
herself losing it altogether, but she couldn't do a damn thing
about it.

Though sheer will and determination, she'd accomplished more
as a woman than most men in the FBI. In a boys-only club, she'd
risen above them all. And because she could hold her own with any 
person - man or woman - in the Bureau, she felt that her life 
was in her hands. Sometimes, she wondered if Mulder realized how
important this was to her, how necessary it was to her happiness
and her self-confidence. When she felt that her life was truly 
under control, she was on top of the world. When it was gone, 
so was her confidence, and she felt a huge gaping hole open 
up inside of her. It was something she needed as much as 
she needed air to breathe and a solid surface to tread upon. 

But now she could feel that control ebbing away. Others 
were influencing how she felt and reacted, although she 
couldn't yet figure out how or why. She could feel 
self-control becoming supplanted by a power no less
real, but not of her own doing. And she was helpless 
against its loss.  

She sighed for what seemed like the umpteenth
time that morning. Being in this town was making her
into a total wreck.

Suddenly, Mulder's crooked finger moved her
chin so that her face was opposite his. She
tried to look away, but it was a half-hearted
effort. 

Mulder cupped his other hand around the back of her 
head, and ran it down, smoothing the gleaming cap 
of copper silk. His familiar touch sent a jolt of 
recognition through her, and her heart began to pound. 

She tilted her head back, leaning into his gentle 
caress, and her mouth curved into a sad half-smile.

He smiled back tentatively, and she caught her breath
at its innocence. When had she seen him smile like that
at her? It had been too long. She smiled back, a bit
wistfully.

"Scully, what's wrong?" he asked gently, his 
brows furrowed in concern. "What's going on?"

She shook her head numbly. How could she explain 
it to him when she could barely explain it to 
herself?

He stepped back, and his eyes searched her face.
There had to be some clue - some sign - of what
the catalyst of her reaction had been.

"Scully, let's just get out of here," he said 
finally. "This isn't our case, even though we 
seem to have gotten ourselves intimately 
involved with it. We can refer it to the 
local Bureau. I'm sure Skinner would want 
us to return to DC as soon as we can."

She stared at him, surprised and confused
by his sudden about-face. She realized with
a pang that he was willing to abandon a case 
that was obviously important to him simply 
because she had expressed discomfort.

Scully reached her hand out and touched
his arm. She smiled at him gratefully.

She appreciated his gesture more than she
could express with mere words. But no federal
agent could afford to put personal feelings
ahead of her job. No matter how intensely 
every cell in her body was screaming for 
her to leave, she couldn't allow Mulder 
to disregard protocol for her.

"Mulder, no. You were right. I'm just letting
myself get to close to this. We should stay 
here and try to figure this thing out. Besides, 
I want closure. I need to know why the people 
here seem to know me before I've even met them." 

And how a woman can know exactly what I'm 
thinking just by staring into my eyes, she 
thought nervously.

Mulder was getting the distinct impression
that she wasn't telling him something, but
decided to let it go.

"Scully, have you thought about what this
could mean?"

She stared at him, confused. "I'm not sure
I follow."

"I just mean that this might be what you
and I have been looking for a long 
time - a genetic trait for psychic ability."

What *you've* been looking for, Scully
thought to herself. Not me. I've just
been along for the ride. 

"I'm not sure about it being a psychic ability, per 
se. I don't care what that reporter said. I think it's 
simply a case of insight, maybe even an unusually keen 
and provocative insight. But there's nothing supernatural 
about that, Mulder," she added pointedly.

"Nothing supernatural?"

"No."

He stared at her in disbelief. "Scully,
we've seen stuff like this before. We 
saw it with Gibson, remember? That strange
brain activity has to mean something, and
for all we know, it's the same situation here.
Come on. Let's just start at the beginning.
You said it had something to do with how 
she kept staring at you, right?"

Scully sighed. "It did seem to grow in
intensity and effectiveness when her
eyes locked onto mine," she admitted
grudgingly. "It was like she'd found
some sort of... short-cut to my psyche."

She stopped to reflect on her words,
and tamped down an unexpected burst
of embarrassment. She was beginning
to sound more and more like Mulder.

Meanwhile, not surprisingly, Mulder 
seemed to be eating it up. "Scully, this is 
unbelievable. Is there any possible physiological 
component to this ability - this heightened 
perception - that you can think of?"

"Like what?" Somehow, she wasn't in a 
particularly scientific mood.

"The eyes might be some sort of portal, or... 
or, conduit, maybe... to accessing another's 
mind. There must be some form of anomaly
present. Scully, you've said so yourself -
there's got to be an explanation rooted
in science."

Beaten at my own game, she thought. "Mulder, 
don't tell me you don't have a theory."

"Oh, I do. I just want to hear yours
first."

She paused, and thought a moment. 

"I do see one possible explanation for this 
uncanny ability these Comitiva members are 
said to have. When I was in medical school, one 
of the first things they taught us was that the 
eyes are an invaluable diagnostic tool. You can 
tell almost anything about a patient's condition 
merely by examining the different parts of the eye."

"Anything?"

"Think about it, Mulder. Sometimes the eyes
can tell us more than any physical examination
can. When you're sick, your eyes become glassy. When 
you're tired, they're bloodshot. When you've been drugged, 
they're dilated. If there's been some traumatic brain 
injury, the pupils react unequally to light. And when 
we're in pain - physical or emotional - we cry. They 
used to tell us that the eyes are the windows to the 
soul.." 

Scully trailed off, and her expression
was suddenly distant.

Mulder looked at her carefully. "Go on."

"I just realized something, Mulder," she
said excitedly, her tone of voice changing
suddenly. "This is going to sound pretty 
out there..."

Mulder didn't bother to hide his amusement. 
"I'll try to keep an open mind."

"Well, here's my theory, for what it's
worth. Physiologically, the optic nerve
is one of the more concentrated in the 
body."

"Concentrated? How?"

"It's pretty much a nerve center. Other
bundles of nerves converge at the optic
nerve. That makes it highly sensitive
to stimuli. It also acts as a hub, in
a way, for other parts of the central
nervous system, which all branch off
from that central location."

Mulder was beginning to catch on. 
"So a person who can somehow have unusual
access to this nerve might have access to
other areas of the nervous system."

"Exactly. But we need to explore
the ramifications of 'unusual access.'
It would mean, Mulder, that these 
Crescent Society members have genetically 
inherited the ability to both stimulate
and read people's thoughts and emotions 
by somehow accessing the optic nerve."

"Through their own eyes?"

Scully nodded. "I'm guessing that they
have a genetic anomaly in their own
optic nerve that allows them to 'link up'
with that nerve in others. Through that
nerve, they could feasibly control a
whole slew of bodily functions, ranging
from sight to smell."

"And thought itself."

"And memory," Scully said, suddenly sounding
far away.

He eyed her uneasily. "Why would this have
affected you and not me, Scully? Could you
somehow be more susceptible?"

She shook her head. "It's possible, but I
think it has more to do with the direction
of their attention. For some reason, they
looked at me, Mulder. Into my eyes, and
not yours."

He looked at her, his eyes filled with
concern. He had to wonder why Scully
was making this situation personal.
Scully had to be an accidental target of 
this power, not an intentional one. 
If the cult had deliberately chosen
her for some reason... he fought
off an involuntary shiver of fear.

"Scully," he said in a tone of voice he hoped 
communicated reassurance, "We'll find out 
what's going on here. I don't know yet why 
you seem to be implicated, but I promise you 
that we'll find out. Just try not to worry 
about it," he told her, truly hoping she
would heed his advice.

A slight, shaky smile appeared, but was
gone the next moment. "Thanks, Mulder."

She knew what he was trying to do. 
And she appreciated it. But nothing he 
said could allow her to shake the feeling 
that everyone knew her before she even 
met them, inside, and out. It was the most 
sickening, empty feeling. It stayed with her, 
shadowing her, as if it were some radioactive 
substance that had permeated and begun to 
wreak havoc on every cell in her body.

"Mulder?"

"Hmm?" His hazel eyes focused on
hers.

"What was your theory?"

"My theory?"

"Yeah. About what's happening in
this town. About what's happening
to me."

"Oh. I just thought it was all in your head."

She gave him a look that would freeze molten 
lava, and he shot her a Cheshire Cat grin. 
Suddenly, Scully spun around.

"Mulder... I think that's Sunny."

He turned his head in the direction of
the distant rumble he hadn't noticed
until then, and saw a powder-blue
Mustang convertible rolling down
a nearby hill.

"Is that the same car she had when you knew 
her?" Somehow, he'd pictured Sunny more as a 
Mitsubishi Eclipse type of person. Go figure.

"I don't have any idea what car she used to drive, 
Mulder. I just had a feeling it was her. Hey, Sunny!" 
Scully waved energetically, and the car veered in their 
direction.

It screeched to a halt directly in front of them,
and backfired, causing both of them to jump.
Mulder hid a grin of amusement. 

The driver's door opened, and Mulder got his
first look at Sonora Whitmore...


-End Chapter Five-

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -



Chapter Six - Is There Balm in Gilead?


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet 
still, if bird or devil! - Whether Tempter sent, 
or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate 
yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On 
this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, 
I implore!"                                  

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


- Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*



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

Sonora Whitmore was a reed-thin brunette, with a 
tousled haircut, olive complexion, and cat-like emerald 
eyes. Like a tennis player, she was coltish, with 
well-muscled calves and toned arms and legs. Her lips 
were a bit too thin, and her nose too broad, but she 
had gracefully arched cheekbones and a delicately 
pointed chin. 

The outfit she wore, slim black Capri pants and a form-fitting
white linen top, showed her assets off in the best possible 
way. Her shoes were high-heeled black sandals, and as Fox
Mulder stood next to Dana Scully in the deserted parking lot,
he wondered to himself how she could possibly drive in 
those shoes. Or how any woman could, for that matter.

The next time Scully griped to him that he always drove,
he'd just have to throw *that* in her face.

He decided that Sonora Whitmore was not beautiful. Not by 
a long shot. But something about her was greater than the sum 
of her parts, and he gazed at her appreciatively. 

Just then, he remembered that Scully hadn't seen this
woman since college. He turned his gaze to Scully, 
waiting for her reaction.

"Sunny," Scully breathed, a rare smile lighting up 
her face, "You look fantastic!" She ran over and gave
the woman a tentative hug, which was returned with
exuberant gusto.

"Dana! Wow, sweetheart, have you lost weight! You
weigh less than my arm!" She grinned at Scully
with an almost startling enthusiasm.

"Yeah, well, I started eating healthier since
I got into med..." Scully stopped suddenly,
and swallowed uncomfortably.

Scully's smile looked forced, and Mulder 
assumed she was trying to figure out a way 
to recover from the slip. 

"I just learned to eat healthier," Scully
finished finally.

"And your hair!" Sunny exclaimed,
apparently oblivious to Scully's slip.
"It's so stylish. Much better than that
plain long thing you had going in college."

Plain long thing? Mulder tried to hide
his curiosity.

"Yeah, well, you look like you're still in 
college, Sunny. You look fantastic."

"Well, enough of the mutual admiration
society," the woman smiled indulgently.
"Why don't you introduce me to this 
handsome partner of yours."

Scully held out her hand, and squeezed his wrist 
briefly. All at once, Mulder had the strangest feeling 
that she was trying to establish possession over him,
somehow, or to stake some sort of claim. He looked at 
her curiously.

"Sunny, this is my partner. Special Agent Fox Mulder."

The woman favored him with an easy smile. "Nice to 
meet you, Fox."

Scully could feel the tendons in Mulder's wrist 
grow taut in her hand, and she cringed inwardly. 

He cleared his throat. "Just Mulder." 

"Ah. Well, I'm sure Dana already let you in
on my little name issue. I'll try to remember
for you, too."

Mulder allowed his defenses to drop a notch, 
and warily lifted his hand to shake hers.
"Yeah, and she mentioned your martial arts 
abilities. She said I might be in for a 
whole lot of trouble if I slipped and called 
you Sonora."

She threw her head back and laughed. It was
a sharp, slightly unpleasant braying noise,
and Mulder had to fight to keep a straight
face.

He turned to smile at Scully, but was
surprised to note that she was looking
warily over at Sunny, a perplexed 
and slightly suspicious expression 
twisting her features into a scowl.

Waiting until he caught her gaze,
Mulder raised his eyebrows questioningly.

She shook her head once, then apparently 
decided to let it drop, turning away.

He shrugged in response.

"Okay, guys," Sunny piped. "You're both
going to have to sit in the back. I need 
the front for my new Rhododendron."

Mulder looked at Scully, and she met his
gaze, her mouth twitching with puzzled
amusement. 

"Then I guess calling shotgun would be out 
of the question," he said dryly.

The two agents and the tall woman
stepped into the Mustang. 

Mulder yanked on the seatbelt, and
to his supreme embarrassment, it 
detached from the seat. Sheepishly, he 
tucked the loose edge into the crack 
between the seats. He decided to fasten 
it, if only for appearances sake.

Glancing around surreptitiously, he was
relieved to note that Scully hadn't 
noticed his little... mistake. All for
the better. 

With a crisp snap, the two sides of the belt 
locked into place.

The engine growled to a rattling start, 
then the car was chugging down the road,
a curious apparition slipping through the 
cracks of the morning.

*      *      *


Detective Robert Somarian watched the blue Mustang
carrying Dana Scully, her partner Mulder, and 
Sonora Whitmore squeal out of the parking lot. 

He briefly considered dispatching Fernandez to ticket 
the Mustang for going 50 in a 25 zone. But there were
other, more important things to worry about today. 

He turned back to Fernandez, his expression shifting
with remarkable suddenness from calm neutrality to 
white-hot rage.

"God dammit," he snarled, flecks of saliva spraying
from his beet-red face and catching in his mustache.

Officer Benjamin Fernandez looked at the older 
man warily. He removed the shiny 9mm Smith and Wesson from 
his side holster, and cocked it, flashing a grimace 
at the unfathomable idea of what they were about to do.

He'd seen it before, sure. But this was different.
Today, he would make the not-so-subtle move 
from innocent observer to willing participant.

Not that he had any choice.

Not in Millertown, that is. And not while The Boys 
were in charge, and they could penetrate any 
person's eyes, any soul. 

Every person on Earth was as open to them as
a book. It was something he'd only recently
begun to accept about the world he lived in,
but refusal to accept this reality would
mean certain doom for him and everyone and
everything he held dear.

Fernandez smiled at the futility of the situation.

He would always remember the first time he'd
encountered someone with Sight. It began
as a subtle nudge at the back of the mind -
the same kind of subconscious twinge that, 
throughout his whole life, had alerted him when 
someone was watching him, or talking about 
him behind his back. 

Whenever he tried to recall this night,
he failed to conjure a mental image
of the Seer. All he knew was that it
was a perfectly ordinary-looking 
woman, and he'd passed her on his way 
to the checkout line of the neighborhood 
Qwik Mart.

That was fitting, somehow. A certain
anonymity of the body seemed to 
correspond perfectly with the intimacy
of two minds, one with a window into
the other.

When he'd caught the woman's eye, probably
intending to engage in some harmless,
half-hearted flirting, something nibbled at 
the back of his head and told him to him 
to turn around.

He did. And he'd looked at her. Their
eyes had met, and Ben Fernandez had
felt an electric shock the likes of
which he hadn't felt in far too long. 

At first, he had mistakenly assumed that 
the overwhelming tide of feeling swelling
inside of him had meant that he was
in love with her, quite literally, at
first sight. 

But when she had turned away, 
apparently having lost interest in
him entirely, he knew.

The thoughts filling his mind so
powerfully and completely were not
of this mystery woman. He was thinking
of Marianne, his wife. 

Late wife, he reminded himself angrily.
Dammit. Can't you get it into your 
stupid head? She's dead. She's gone.
You're delusional, my friend.

Gone, maybe. But not gone from his thoughts.
And that was the important thing. The crucial
distinction, really.

He took a slow, deep breath, and steeled
himself against the emotional onslaught
that remembering always had and always
would bring.

On that night at the store, the strange
woman had unlocked long-repressed thoughts
of the most agonizing day of his life.
The memories of that day were so vivid that
they never ceased to haunt him, waking or
sleeping. They nestled beneath his consciousness,
lying dormant until some word or other key 
unlocked the memories, activating them.

The triggers could be anything simple like 
the smell of a perfume she used to wear, or
the taste of a food she'd always enjoyed.
Even the feel of a certain type of cloth
against the rough skin of his hand could
trigger a wave of indescribable longing
and sadness. 

But then, these were no longer memories. They 
became reality, seeming so real that the 
difference between past and present was 
all-but-erased.

Fernandez pressed his hand to his forehead, 
feeling the throbbing pulse of a headache 
blooming in his temple with the sudden recall 
of achingly painful sensations.

Daylight. So bright it hurt. Piercing. Dulling his
senses.

Then, with the suddenness of a frame changing in a home 
slide show, came Marianne. Her lips were spread in distorted, 
freeze-frame laughter, her eyes slits in her creamy 
peach skin. 

Wind in her hair. Whipping it around, in her eyes, nose,
mouth. Rippling black hair that was everywhere. 

Loud motor-noise. No... wind-noise. Both. Shouting
to make her voice heard.

Then came the image that always made him catch his
breath with fear and agony.

Grin turned to frown, then grimace of open-mouthed
terror. Eyes went from happy slits to engorged 
marbles.

No sound. Utter, agonizing silence. The world had
stopped around them, and only this moment of sheer,
concentrated terror remained.

Then, nothing *but* sound. Screaming. Screeching tires,
metal-on-metal, rubber-on-concrete.

Crying - his own.

No crying from Marianne. 

Marianne was gone.

More than dead. Gone. Everything that made her Marianne
was in one fatal instant wiped off the face of the Earth.

She was lifeless. Utterly, wholly lifeless.

And he'd cried with the agony of a man who longed
to die, to follow the only thing he'd ever loved into
the cold nothingness of nonexistence.

Somehow, for some reason, this woman in the Quik Mart
had brought all those feelings back in him, and the
pain jolted him with an intensity as powerful as
the day she'd died. 

But the woman's power had had a channeling affect, he'd
later realized. Like a prism, she'd taken his mixed bag
of pain and changed it, somehow, into something elemental
and noble. Something refracted, like light. Pure 
transcendence elevated him, changing him forever.

Somehow, she'd allowed him to make peace with his wife.
For one brief moment, nothing lay between heaven and
earth, and he touched her.

This he would never forget.

Fernandez sighed shakily, attempting to compose himself.

Was there truly a difference between past and
present? Not in the mind. The mind was the place
where past and present collided.

That was why it was so vulnerable to attack, so
open to the warfare that made La Comitiva 
so powerful. 

So evil. Yet capable of providing such catharsis.

Pure darkness clashed with the whiteness of 
the gates of heaven.

Somehow, generations ago, this power
had been harnessed, and was simply greater
than anything on the planet. More honest. 
Closer to the real truth of life, and the 
reason for living it.

With the power to unlock moments like his 
from the cast-iron stronghold in his mind, he
felt sure they could do anything. Absolutely 
anything.

Since then, he'd learned out of sheer 
necessity to shield himself from their 
powers of preternatural insight.

It could be done, despite what most
folks said. You just had to know how 
- and when - to do it.

There were a few rules to follow:
Never open yourself to them. Never
forget where your allegiances lie.
Never look them straight in the
eye.

He smiled hollowly. The last rule?
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Inevitably, everyone became a Brother. 
Sooner or later, it became easier just to
follow, rethinking one's moral code
as one went along.

There would be a lot of rethinking today.


*             *             *


Across the room, Robert Somarian watched the younger
officer who appeared to be deep in thought, and glanced 
casually at the weapon in his holster. It gleamed with the 
sheen of disuse. Any gun worth the metal it was cast with 
would be nicked, scorched... rusted, even. But Fernandez' 
gleaming toy was the only thing to use. The only thing 
that would be suitable for the occasion.

He couldn't very well use his own. He sneered,
looking down at the inexperienced younger man. If he 
only knew what he was getting himself into, maybe
he'd have stayed home today. Skipped the morning
doughnuts and weak generic coffee, and stayed
home with his little motherless daughter. 

He glanced towards the solitary door that lay
off to his right. It was the kind of door that gave
no indication, none whatsoever, of what lay hidden
within. A pale imitation of walnut varnished the
door's surface, while its knob - a cheap, dented
brass - had only a tiny keyhole to distinguish it
from the rows of other doors in the station's 
corridor. 

The door bore no outward sign of the value of its 
contents. In this way, the room was the most 
democratic section in the place. You could be
a criminal, or you could be an innocent citizen
wrongly accused of some heinous offense, but
you would still be treated with precisely the
same actions and intent.

Somarian gestured to the younger officer, and 
lay his hand on the cold metal of the doorknob.
He lingered, memorizing the cold, solid feel
of the brushed metal on his sweaty palm.

No turning back.

With a quick flick of the wrist 
and a bated breath, the two men 
tensely entered the room. It was 
dark. The only other inhabitant 
was Agnes Donovan. Her expression
was pristinely calm and tensely
accepting, as if she knew what
was to come but could do nothing
about it.

Maybe she did. It didn't matter in
the least.

"Mrs. Donovan," Somarian pronounced,
and cleared his throat.

She looked up, her gaze locked
on his round black pupils, unyielding
but somehow amazingly vulnerable.

He glanced at Fernandez. Catching his
eye, he motioned, and the man moved
to stand directly behind the woman.

"How did you come to be in contact with
FBI Agents Mulder and Scully?"

She shrugged. It was a jerky, awkward
movement. "I was waiting at the hospital
for Dr. Moss's instructions, see.
And then they came along, and I..."

Somarian was shaking his head, a smug, 
sarcastic grin on his face, and she trailed 
off self-consciously.

"Do you expect us to believe," he 
said coldly, "that you just happened
to be there when you bumped into them?
Agnes, you're wasting our time. 
Come on, now. What led you to speak
with them, Agnes."

Suddenly, he felt the tell-tale twinge
in the place in the back of his head.

The Sight. She was trying to See.

Immediately, he fixed his pupils to 
two points directly above the pupils
of her eyes. He felt the sensation
abate, and he gave a sigh of muted
relief.

She paled, and the man smiled inwardly.
Their gift was so limited. Even they
themselves didn't realize how limited
it really was. But he wanted that gift 
so badly. It was funny. Maybe someday 
he'd have it, and he'd understand not 
only what it was to be a Brother, but 
also what it felt like.

The difference between inside and out,
up and down, high and low.

He turned casually to the heavy-set
woman, and saw her as an entirely
different creature.

As he'd entered the room, she was
an enigma. A dangerous mystery.
Now, she was a lamb, shorn and 
ready for slaughter.

Somarian slammed his fist down on 
the metal table, startling Agnes and 
Fernandez as well, who both jumped.

"Agnes. If I have to ask you again,
so help me. What did you tell them,
Agnes? Did you tell them about us?
About the ceremony? About Barry?"

Every question was punctuated by
the man's large fist pounding into 
the cold table. He did this mostly
for effect, but it was a product of 
the intense contempt he felt for the 
woman practically genuflecting before 
him.

"Agnes." His voice had the quietness
of the calm before the storm. "You
know the value we place upon loyalty.
You know that you have broken the most
elemental and sacred bond we have, the
one we hold above all else. And now
you must join the meek. You have become
what we loathe, Agnes. You are the
instrument. Remember this."

Her eyes filled with tears, and
her shoulders sagged. He could see a 
sudden meekness come over her posture.

In this instant, Somarian knew that he'd
won the game before it had even begun.

Not another word needed to be said.

He moved his head quickly up-and-down
in a jaunty nod. His eyes flicked to
Fernandez, who appeared startled, then
determined.

With a shaky thumb, Fernandez 
pulled the slim piece of metal
back as far as it could go.

Click-click. 

The walls of the interrogation room
in the station seemed to vibrate as 
a sharp, concussive explosion shook 
the room.

The tip of the weapon emitted a long,
black plume of smoke.

Casually, as if in hindsight, Somarian took a few 
unhurried steps back to make room for the growing 
crimson pool lapping at their toes.

He looked at the pile of worthless meat and bones
that had been Agnes Donovan. And laughed. 

The harsh, humorless sound would haunt Ben 
Fernandez as long as he lived.

Somarian smiled, then left the room, sparing one 
last look for the young man who wept as though 
this night were his last. 

Maybe it was, he thought to himself.

His grin faltered, and his eyes grew cold.

Maybe it was.


*        *        *


The tires of the Mustang screeched noisily.
Mulder cleared his throat, and leaned forward
to address the car's eager helmswoman.

"So, what do you do, Sunny?" Mulder called to
the front seat.

Suddenly interested, Scully craned her neck
forward. She'd been wondering as much herself.

Sunny turned back to look at him. "I'm a 
patent consultant. Basically, I assist chemical
companies in obtaining the copyright to whatever
commercial brand name they choose for a drug
or surgical implement."

Scully tried to hide her surprise. So, Sunny
had managed to be involved in medicine somehow,
even if indirectly. Well, as long as she wasn't
treating patients...

"Sounds interesting," Mulder commented. "How
do you like it?"

Suddenly, they watched as her face grew dark 
and bitter. But she immediately plastered a huge,
happy grin on her face, and Mulder wondered if
he'd imagined it.

"Oh, I love it," she gushed. "The best job I could
have."

They shared a glance. "That's great, Sunny," Scully
said. 

"And what about you two? How long have you been 
working together?"

"Five years," they answered in unison. 

Sunny smirked. "And how did you come to 
be assigned to one another? From what I hear,
it's pretty hard to keep a partner that long
in the FBI. I'm amazed you're still together."

"Well, I've wanted to leave so many times, but
Scully always manages to convince me to hang
around," Mulder joked. "Besides, she's not
bad to look at."

He turned to smile at Scully, but was surprised
to note that a flush was creeping up her neck
and into her cheeks. Suddenly, he felt damn
stupid for saying something that had 
obviously stepped over some hastily-drawn
line in the sand. As usual, he had
failed to even notice it until he'd 
crossed it completely.

His heart sank, and his head spun with a cloud
of bitter confusion and disappointment. Shit.
Was this how it would be between them now?
Walking on goddamn eggshells?

But then Scully smiled, and Mulder sighed with
relief. She wasn't offended, he realized sheepishly.
Just embarrassed.

"Mulder and I have an understanding," Scully told
her, and glanced at Mulder. "I understand that some 
of his intuitive leaps will turn out to be true, 
and he understands that some of my theories just 
might, too."

"Ah, the eternal debate - human intuition versus
the certainty of cold, hard science. I prefer
intuition any day."

Scully couldn't help feeling annoyed when 
Mulder smiled at the woman, and nodded.

"I see I have a kindred spirit," Mulder
said good-naturedly.

"Well, that remains to be seen. What 
kind of work do you do, Mulder?"

He glanced at Scully, and she 
smiled slightly. This was always
a tough one. How much could they
tell her about the X-Files 
without sounding like complete 
psychopaths? It was always a 
balance between being relatively
honest, and being careful. The only
problem was that the wrong thing to 
say was practically everything.

"Scully and I investigate cases within the 
FBI that defy normal investigation," Mulder 
supplied.

"For example?" she said, eyebrows raised.

"For example..." he trailed off,
momentarily at a loss. 

Scully smiled. "We often investigate cults, 
and - occasionally - domestic terrorism." 

Not a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth, 
either. Mulder wondered if Sunny would be
at all suspicious that they were hiding 
something from her.

He groaned to himself when he saw her eyes 
narrow to slits. Great. So she was the suspicious
type.

"How does that defy normal explanation, Dana?"

Scully sighed. "It doesn't. We also investigate 
claims of the supernatural and the paranormal."

"Let me get this straight. What you're trying to say 
is that you investigate aliens, goblins and mutants."
Her tone was razor-sharp and highly amused.

Scully opened her mouth to retort, but Mulder beat 
her to it.

"Yeah, but don't forget ghosts, circus freaks, fluke 
men, clones, conspiracies, plagues, psychics, murderers 
of every shape and size, killer cats, goat suckers, 
vampires, Bigfoot, and Big Blue. Oh, and lions and 
tigers and bears."

"Oh, my," Scully finished dryly.

There was an uncomfortable silence as they waited for 
her to respond.

"I see," Sunny smiled, her tone withering. "Your average, 
run-of-the-mill paranormal and all that. Sounds like a 
real upper-echelon assignment. So, that's where my tax 
dollars go. I'm sure you guy's got the corner office 
at FBI headquarters."

Scully could feel spots of color appear on her cheeks, 
and her pulse quickened. Silently, she counted to ten, 
while she dug her fingernails into her clenched fists.

Mulder watched Scully carefully, sensing that she wasn't 
going to stand for the woman insulting their work. He 
couldn't care less what some woman in Massachusetts 
thought about their work on the X-Files, but Scully 
obviously did. 

His quest was now hers as much as his, he 
realized with a jolt of surprise. She had 
every right to be protective of it.

"It may seem like the type of work the FBI
doesn't like to talk about," Scully told her, 
anger bubbling just beneath the surface of an 
almost painful politeness. "But it's not 
because it's embarrassing. People have lost
their lives over the contents of these files,
Sunny. It's no joke." She shook her head,
and looked the woman straight in the eye, her 
gaze steady and confident. "It's what I do,
and I'm good at it. To be honest, I don't 
know what I would have done if I hadn't 
joined the X-Files five years ago."

Her words caused a flood of perplexing emotions
to rise within him, and he didn't quite know how
to feel - guilty, or unspeakably relieved.

<I know what you would have done without the
X-Files,> Mulder thought grimly. <You would have 
been appointed chair of pathology at Quantico,
maybe even made ASAC or AD by now. And you'd 
probably be happily married with three 
perfect kids and a dog. You'd have a life.> 

<A life without me.>

"Mulder?" 

Suddenly, he realized both women were 
staring at him, and he yanked his mind
back to the present.

"Were you saying something? Sorry."

Scully looked at him carefully. "Sunny 
was just asking why we're up here in
the first place, and I was explaining
that we came to visit your mother."

He blinked. He hoped for Scully's sake that
Sunny couldn't tell when she was lying,
because - to Mulder - it was advertised
all over his partner's face.

He tried not to smile, and cleared his
throat. "Yes, but we didn't want to, uh,
worry her about our problem. She's in
frail health. Now, Sunny.. there's
something I'm curious about."

She smiled cautiously. "What's that?"

"Why Jujitsu? Just daring to be different?"

A storm cloud seemed to pass over her face,
and when she responded, her voice was clipped
and flat.

"Jujitsu is typically a man's artform.
It's rough, and you have to take a lot
of falls. Females don't like to fall,
as a rule. We're too breakable," she
spat with contempt. "We also have more 
body fat, which reduces our aerodynamics. 
But I find it stimulating." She smiled 
challengingly. "What form of martial art 
do you study, Agent Mulder?"

He wasn't going to play that game.
"The high art of not getting my ass
kicked by someone who knows more
about martial arts than I do."

Sunny laughed. "That's a good one
to know."

Mulder sighed, and lay back against
the vinyl seatback. Mustangs were
great cars, he had to admit. But
they weren't exceedingly spacious.

He shifted, but found that his long
limbs couldn't arrange themselves 
comfortably in the cramped space of
the back seat.

He turned as he realized Scully was
looking at him. She smiled sympathetically
at him, and he realized she could tell he
was uncomfortable. He smiled back at her,
and they shared a glance.

Suddenly, the car careened wildly around a sharp 
corner, and Scully was suddenly forced by the 
momentum of the turn to slide into Mulder's lap. 
Her elbow dug into his side, and he bit his 
bottom lip to keep from yelping. 

"Uh, Sunny?" Scully yelled, trying to make
her voice heard above the harsh guitar chords.
"Can you slow down a bit?"

"Relax, Dana," she commanded recklessly, and
grinned. She floored the pedal, and the car
zoomed forward. "There's no one else up at this
hour. It's my favorite time of the morning, and
I love to let the rein out on Bessie here."

Mulder's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He assumed 
Bessie was the Mustang they were currently imprisoned
within. If not, then the woman was a little on the
delusional side.

All at once, Mulder felt the car accelerate, and
he and Scully were thrown briefly into the air. 
He surmised that they'd gone over a fairly large 
speed bump - at top speed. His seatbelt pulled 
out of the seat crack, sending him nearly a 
foot into the air.

In the next instant, they were thrown back against the 
metal bar backing their seats. 

White-hot blinding plumes of pain shot through him
as the back of Mulder's head connected with a resounding
snap. 

His vision grayed out.

He blinked, and the gray fog was gone, replaced only
by a pounding ache in the back of his skull.

"Mulder. Mulder!" An insistent whisper in his left ear.

Dazed, he turned his head. He was suddenly aware that 
it was being supported by Scully's strong hand, which 
was curled firmly around his neck.

"Mmm." He was feeling nauseous again, and willed the 
sensation to pass before it could manifest itself in a 
more obvious way. He shuddered.

He realized that Scully was looking at him with
an oddly familiar mixture of subjective 
concern and analytical scrutiny.

He shifted uncomfortably, wondering exactly why
Scully would have cause to look at him in a 
manner she usually reserved for autopsy
patients.

"Mulder, look at me," she whispered urgently.

He blinked woozily, trying to focus on her 
heart-shaped face.

She sighed tensely. "Mulder, you just lost
consciousness for a few moments. You 
blacked out. Do you remember?"

Dazed, he shook his head. He instantly 
regretted the movement when the ache in
in his skull intensified briefly with
a painful jolt.

Her eyes ran over his face with practiced 
precision. "You look okay, Mulder. But you 
scared me for a moment there. I was afraid 
I'd have to bite the bullet and tell Sunny 
about last night."

"She doesn't--"

Scully shook her head, anticipating his question. 
"She doesn't know that you blacked out," she 
whispered softly. "I steadied you until you 
started coming around."

He glanced up to the front seat. Sunny
was apparently oblivious, engaged in singing 
at the top of her lungs to "Free Fallin.'" 
She hadn't even turned around.

Gingerly, he touched the back of his head. 
"You could say that I'm the lucky one, Scully."

"Lucky? You call getting your head bashed
in lucky?"

"Well, who's the one who managed to 
catch a few minutes of shut-eye?"

She looked at him witheringly, and moved 
her hand behind his head once again. 

"What are you--"

A sharp intake of breath told her that
she'd found the offending bump on his
head. 

"We need to get this swelling down, Mulder.
I'll get you some ice when we get back
to Sunny's place."

He looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should tell her 
that I'm recovering from a partial lobotomy."

Scully nodded with exaggerated seriousness. 
"Now, that she'll believe."

Mulder leaned closer to Scully until she
could feel his breath on her cheek. "You 
know, I think I like her, Scully. She's not 
at all as you made her sound: greedy, lazy,
ambitious. Maybe a little sarcastic, but I 
don't consider that a FLAW, per se...," he 
said, and grinned.

Scully didn't smile. That had been bothering
her for the past few minutes. She knew that she
hadn't talked to the woman in years, but she wasn't
acting normal... like herself. She was surprisingly
friendly and upbeat, and it was driving her crazy. 

She sighed, and lowered her voice so that Sunny
wouldn't catch her words to Mulder. "Sunny was 
practically the opposite in college - reserved 
and moody. It seems like she's trying too hard."

"Don't you think YOU may be trying too
hard, Scully? To fit her into the person
you conceived her to be, I mean? Maybe her 
life hasn't been ruined by not choosing 
medicine. Maybe she's happy. Who knows?"

She scowled at him, feeling a bit betrayed.
"You don't know her, Mulder. I do. So trust 
me - this isn't her."

He shrugged. Scully had the right to her
suspicions, but he had to admit that her
steadily-growing paranoia was starting to 
scare him a little. 

Maybe he'd give Frohike her number after all. 

He chuckled to himself, and tried to settle
himself comfortably in his seat without 
brushing the lump on his head. 


*      *      *


Sonora Whitmore's azure eyes blazed 
behind her sleek tortoise-shell sunglasses.

She sneered. She didn't know how much more 
of this revolting shit she could take.

Contemptfully, but with enough forced
enthusiasm to mask it entirely, she 
mouthed the words to some inane radio 
R&B tune blaring from the loudspeaker. 

Her mouth began to ache from holding 
the ridiculously wide smile she'd 
plastered on her face for the sake of 
Dana Scully and her partner. 

She wondered if her passengers realized 
that she wasn't listening to the music at 
all, really. She found their conversation 
to be far more diverting.

She'd craned her neck back, trying
to pick out the low hum of their
hushed voices from the din of the
electronic music without alerting
them to her hushed observation. 

She smiled coldly, her thin lips stretched
taut in a painfully unnatural orientation. 

Pencil-thin fingers suddenly clenched
the steering wheel, her immaculately
polished acrylic nails digging into the
cracked black vinyl. She held it until 
her whole body shimmied with tension,
until her knuckles felt as though they
would snap, then finally relaxed them, 
allowing the abrupt slackness of her 
muscles to transmit its own form of 
clarity to her addled mind.

She'd have to be a bit more careful
with her little redheaded college
friend. It was obvious the sour, dour 
Dana Scully hadn't changed much since 
college. She'd been sanctimonious, cold
and high-and-mighty then, and it appeared
as if little had changed. 

Except now she had a partner. And
it was patently clear to her what 
the nature of that partnership was. 

Her mouth twitched, and she chanced
a glance to the back seat.

Maybe things had changed after all.

As she'd listened to them speak in
hushed tones, apparently believing
that their conversation could not
be overheard, she'd decided that 
they were trying to hide the man's 
injury from her. 

She'd seen the angry swelling half-hidden
by hair on the back of the man's head even
before he'd gotten into the car. Neither had 
mentioned it, but she knew it was there. 

So she'd seen what would happen. To test
a theory of hers - much as she imagined
the good Doctor Scully would go about it.

She'd decided with serene calmness to 
have a little fun. Be reckless. There had
to be some way of letting off a little
steam without ruining a perfectly 
good set of acrylics. So the car's
engine had been strained to maximum,
and she'd thrown her little friends
around a bit before going for the 
speed bump at maximum throttle.

She hadn't expected to knock the man
out, but had enjoyed the consequences
like a wine connoisseur savored a vintage
Chablis. 

Glancing back at the small redhead, she
saw the woman cradle the man's head in
her hand, looking at him in a way that
she'd never fathomed. It was a look so
foreign, so transcendent, it was truly
a most bewildering thing to observe. 

She held her breath, waiting to see if 
the small redhead would apply her medical 
knowledge in examining her partner, hoping
to trap her in the web she had so carefully
spun. 

Sonora had surreptitiously glanced into the 
rearview mirror, observing. All the while, 
she hummed one awful song after another, 
hoping to appear obliviously content.

But she hadn't expected the woman to 
silently cradle his head in her hand, 
stroking his hair, gazing at his face 
like it was a map to decipher, an
heirloom to cherish.  

And then he awoke, and she was left with
nothing but unfulfilled expectations.

She smiled thinly. No, not nothing. 
Something quite monumental, indeed.

Now, she knew for sure. That was 
confirmation if she'd ever seen it.
There was no doubt in her mind. 

There was only one path to take now.
One course to follow.

No turning back now, she warned herself,
and her heart sang with the joy of a million
hearts broken, a million lives destroyed...

Just like mine, she thought to herself.

This time, her wide smile was genuine.

Let the games begin.


-- End Chapter Six --


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


Chapter Seven - Gilded Windows



****************
Sunny Whitmore Residence
1265 Appletree Rd.
7:03 am


The Mustang pulled into a small, shaded
yard in front of a tiny white country
cottage. Rich green plants snaked up
trellises in front of the house, and
the air was redolent with wisteria
and honeysuckle.

Sunny hopped out of the car and 
walked to the door of her house,
letting herself in. She left the
door open, waving for them to 
follow.

Mulder stepped out of the cramped 
back seat.

He blinked, suddenly very disoriented.
Dizzy. He swayed slightly, a thin layer
of perspiration suddenly coating his face.

God, he was so groggy... his head was 
spinning...

His knees wobbled as spots danced 
crazily in front of his eyes.

The world began to tilt wildly, 
and he reached out, grabbing for 
the side of the car.

<Shit, shit, shit....>

The next moment, he felt a strong
hand on his arm, and Scully eased
him back against the side of the
car.

"Mulder..." Scully moved her hand to
his shoulder, steadying him. "Mulder, 
talk to me!"

Mulder took a long, slow breath, trying
to blink away the speckles of light 
dancing in front of his vision.

"I'm... okay," he said hoarsely, as much
to convince himself as to reassure Scully.

"The hell you are," she returned tensely,
her eyes dark with concern.

He felt her hand press against the side
of his neck, and heard her sigh softly.

"Mulder... your blood pressure feels 
dangerously low. I want you to stay 
off your feet for the next few minutes."

Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but
she silenced him with a glance. 

"This shouldn't be happening, Mulder. 
You shouldn't even be walking around. 
In fact, you should be in a hospital 
right now," she reminded him, her 
tone sharp with worry.

He nodded weakly, too disoriented to argue 
with her. Straightening carefully, he met 
her concerned gaze, and turned to walk 
inside the house.

Scully followed him as he stood and walked
towards the door, watching him carefully. She
was beginning to worry. His brief loss of 
consciousness in the car had made her reconsider 
her decision not to take him straight back to 
the hospital. And the subsequent dizzy spell 
bothered her even more.

Then again, she couldn't risk taking Mulder 
back to that hospital. Not when every single 
employee could be a member of the cult. The 
next needle they plunged into him could be 
his last.

She sighed. He needed to be looked at,
but she decided it would have to wait 
until she got him out of Millertown. 

She watched Mulder step into the house,
and she felt the tension in her back 
and muscles slowly begin to abate.

Scully stretched, taking a great, deep 
breath of the fragrant air surrounding 
the wooded house. Sometimes she forgot 
what real, pure air smelled like.

With a wistful sigh, Scully realized
that this was a lot like the house
she used to admire when she first
entered Quantico. It was on the 
outskirts of town, right off the
main highway, and she'd had to 
pass it everyday when she'd wanted
to take a scenic shortcut on her
way to class.

It was the house she vowed that 
she would have. That is, after she'd
"made it" in the FBI, when she
was at the place she wanted to
be.

She didn't know where that place
was anymore. Or if it even existed.

But this house was still here... even
if it was in a different town, with
different smells and a different
owner. It was the same house. So
there was hope for her after all.

She followed Sunny and Mulder inside,
and breathed deeply, inhaling the
mingled homey scents of cinnamon
and the fragrance of something baking 
in the oven.

Warning bells began to blare in
her head, and she stole a glance
at the woman.

Sunny, a domestic? Back in college,
Sunny wouldn't have known domesticity if
it bit her. But people changed. She 
certainly had, since college. She was 
hardly the same person. 

"Make yourselves at home," Sunny 
called from the kitchen. "I only
have one bedroom, but the couches
are yours. Make yourselves comfortable."

Wearily, Scully lowered herself into an 
overstuffed chair, and kicked off her shoes. 
Before she'd even realized it, the
combination of the calming scents and
the delicious comfort of the chair had 
lulled her into a light doze.

Mulder brushed her cheek with his 
hand, and her eyes opened. She smiled 
up at him.

"Did I fall asleep?"

Mulder tried unsuccessfully to stifle 
a yawn. "Just for a minute or two. But 
I assumed you wouldn't want to miss this," 
he said, indicating with his hand.

Her eyes widened. Breakfast. But
it wasn't breakfast as she knew
it - low-fat granola, with a splash
of milk, and maybe a sliced banana
thrown in for good measure.

This was no breakfast. This was
a feast.

Her eyes drank in the welcome sight 
with a hunger that rivaled the sharp
sensation in the bottom of her
stomach. 

Sausage. Pancakes. Coffee cake. 
Berries - freshly picked, from their 
abnormally large size. Eggs Benedict - 
god, her favorite. She hadn't had that 
in ages. Coffee. Grapefruit. Orange 
juice in a pitcher.

Scully's mouth watered, and
her stomach grumbled audibly.

Mulder grinned. "That's what
I thought."

"Come on in, before it gets
cold," Sunny shouted from the
tiny kitchen.

Mulder thought he saw a flash
of suspicion crawl across Scully's
face, but it was gone the next 
moment.

"C'mon," he said, and grabbed 
her hand.

He pulled her out of the chair, 
and they followed Sunny into the 
kitchen.

Mulder dove into the meal with abandon 
until his stomach wouldn't hold any more,
and he watched Scully spoon eggs into
her mouth with what looked like 
equal enthusiasm.

When they'd scraped every last dish,
they lay back against their chairs,
allowing the food to digest.

"Sunny, that was the best food I've
had in ages," Scully smiled.

"I second that," Mulder offered.

Mulder volunteered to rinse the
dishes, and Scully followed 
Sunny into the living room to
clean up the table.

"I wish I had time to cook like that,
Scully admitted. "And the skill."

Sunny laughed.  

"Dana, if I recall, you used
to cook some pretty interesting
things back at Berkeley."

Scully's brow furrowed. "Did I?"

"Allow me to refresh your
memory. Does French Fry 
lasagna ring a bell?"

"French fry WHAT?" Mulder
called from the kitchen, raising
his voice above the running water
to make himself heard.

"Oh, God," Scully smiled. "I forgot 
about that. Amazing what college
students can make into a meal, 
isn't it?"

Sunny shook her head. "No,
it's amazing how good something
that disgusting actually tasted.
There was nothing better in the
world than Henry's french fries."


"Raleigh's were better. And 
cheaper. They were so hot, right
out of the oven. And perfect for
a bunch of broke students who
thought a square meal was one
that couldn't get up and walk
off the plate."

Sunny stood, and threw a couple
of pillows at Scully, who caught
them with a grin.

"Be honest. Don't you ever miss
Berkeley? Just a little bit?"

Scully shook her head a little 
wistfully. "To be honest, I barely
remember that year."

"Too drunk from going down the
hill to meet Andrew at Kip's?"

A patient smile played on Scully's 
lips. "You know I never went to 
Kip's, Sunny. That was where all 
the freshman went when they couldn't 
get a fake ID. I went to the library.
And so did Andrew."

"Who's Andrew?" Mulder said, 
walking in from the kitchen
and wiping his hands on a 
dishtowel.

Sunny grinned. "Your partner's
first college boyfriend. And
a rather cute one, I might add."

Mulder watched in amusement as
Scully blushed fiercely. "Scully?
How come you never talk about 
Andrew?" His tone was teasing and
playful.

"He's ancient history, Mulder,"
she responded, feeling the smile
fade from her face.

"Oh, really?"

"Really. Be honest. Would you have 
told me about Phoebe Green if she 
hadn't come back to ask you for help 
on the Cecil L'Ively case?" 

Mulder stared at her, noting that 
Scully's expression had inexplicably 
grown tense.  

"I probably would have mentioned 
Phoebe eventually."

"I'm sure," Scully said, her tone
suddenly distant and cold.

Suddenly, he could feel the good
mood evaporate, and a cloud of
tension hung over them.

Sunny stood up, and cleared her throat.
"I'm going in to get some pillows for
you guys. Be right back." She turned to 
walk out, glancing behind her. 

Scully crossed her arms, her eyes
flashing fire.

Mulder blinked in surprise. He
knew instantly that something was
bothering her - it was written all
over her face. 

Suddenly, he understood. This had
nothing to do with Phoebe Green,
really. Nothing at all.

She was talking about Diana Fowley.

"Scully... this is about Diana, isn't
it."

She stared at him impassively, her
eyes telling him what he needed to know.

Wearily, he passed his hands over his 
eyes. "Diana has nothing to do with
this." 

"Oh, really? Seems to me that she has
to do with quite a bit. You both 
discovered the X-Files, yet you 
somehow forgot to mention this to me? 
Why was that briefing last May the 
first time I'd ever heard of her, 
Mulder?" She hated the way she was 
sounding, but she couldn't stop herself. 

Mulder shook his head. He was beginning
to feel like he was being attacked, and 
he didn't like it. "That's all there is, 
Scully. We dated. You've probably heard 
of it. It's what people do when they're
interested in one another."

She flinched inwardly, stung by his sarcasm.
"I think I have, Mulder," she shot back,
her voice dripping with icy resentment.

Instantly, she saw pain flicker in his eyes,
and he dipped his chin in contrition. When 
he brought his eyes back up to meet hers, 
they were filled with guilt.

Strangely, she felt triumphant. This was 
exactly what she'd wanted to see.
 
"Scully... I just meant... it's over. It 
ended a long time ago."

She looked away. "Over," she repeated.

"Yeah." He shook his head, his worried hazel 
eyes roaming over her tense face. "I don't 
understand why you assign Diana such importance 
in my life. If she and I were a perfect match, 
I would have worked with *her* for five years."

She stared at him, struck by the implication,
and felt her anger drain away as quickly as it 
had come.

Mulder seemed to realize what he had 
said, and his face went blank. She 
realized he was retreating from the 
statement, hoping that if he didn't 
comment, the whole conversation might 
just go away.

Instantly, the anger was back,
and Scully's throat constricted.

Dammit... Why did he always do this? 
Just when she felt they were actually 
communicating, taking an important step 
forward, he withdrew, taking two big
stumbles back.

Their gazes locked in a tension-filled 
stalemate. After a few moments, he 
wearily averted his eyes, and her 
jaw clenched in satisfaction.

But her misguided triumph withered 
quickly. Scully flushed, suddenly 
feeling as though she were being 
a little childish. This wasn't exactly 
the right setting - or the appropriate 
audience - for them to be having this 
argument. 

She sighed. "Mulder... forget it. I'm 
sorry. I'm just tired, and irritable. I 
don't know why I brought it up."

Suddenly feeling very drained, Mulder sank down 
onto the couch, resting his cheek against the 
back of the sofa. 

Forget she mentioned it? He sighed. Talk about 
an exercise in futility.

"Scully, I don't have a problem with
you asking me about this. I never have.
But you've never asked. I'm not a 
mind reader."

No, he wasn't, was he. She realized 
with a pang that she was being unfair.
He didn't owe her a full history of
his life before the X-Files. But 
if the relationship were truly over,
and she admitted to herself grudgingly
that it seemed to be, why had Diana's 
return bothered her so goddamn much?

Scaly shook her head, and threw him
a half-hearted look of apology.
"I think we're both tired. We could 
both use some sleep. Especially you, 
Mulder," she added pointedly. 

It wasn't difficult to detect Mulder's 
exhaustion. She ran a practiced eye over 
his slumped form, noting the lines of
weariness around his eyes. He'd hardly 
bothered to lift the side of his head 
from the couch over the past few minutes. 

Mulder shook his head in a half-hearted
attempt at denial. "I'm not that tired, 
Scully."

Scully shot him a look that told him she
knew better. 

"Bull," she said gently but firmly,
glancing over her shoulder to make 
sure Sunny was still out of earshot.
"Mulder, your body's still in shock
from that blow to your head. The body 
needs to heal itself after a traumatic 
injury, and if you don't get some sleep, 
it won't have the chance. I'd also like 
to get that swelling down, but that can 
wait until after you've had some rest. 
How does your head feel? Any better?"

"A little," Mulder mumbled, and blinked
drowsily. The food in his stomach was
making it hard for him to stay awake. He 
realized with annoyance that he could 
barely keep his eyes open.

Scully glanced at him, and smiled to herself. 
She saw his head nod, and then he jerked it 
back up again. 

"Mulder, you need to sleep," she told
him gently. "You're exhausted."

"Scully?"

She sighed patiently. "What, Mulder."

"Sorry about this. About everything.
I got us into this. S'my fault." His
voice was slurring with fatigue.

She placed her hand on his arm, squeezing 
briefly. "No, it's not. It's okay. Go to 
sleep, Mulder."

"Mmm," Mulder mumbled, and closed
his eyes.

Within a minute, his breathing evened
out, and he was asleep, his cheek resting 
against the back of the couch. 

Scully sat next to him, watching him a 
moment or two, until she realized how tired 
she was herself. A heavy drowsiness settled 
over her, and her eyelids fell. A moment
later, she had joined her partner in the
comfort of slumber, her head resting
easily upon Mulder's broad shoulder.


*        *        *


Sunny peered carefully around the 
corner of the hallway into her living 
room. She smiled thinly, and stared for 
a moment at her friend and the man 
sleeping beside her.

When she'd left them alone in the living
room to discuss this old girlfriend 
of Mulder's in "private," she'd been
very careful to remain in earshot.

She couldn't believe what she was
hearing. Dana Scully was jealous
of her partner's ex-girlfriend.

To her, it was astounding that the
man hadn't called her on it. Was
it possible that he didn't recognize
the pain that flashed in her eyes
for what it was? Didn't he understand?

Could he possibly not know that his
partner was head-over-heels in love
with him?

She shook her head, smiling
slightly as she saw Scully move
closer to Mulder in her sleep.

It was so obvious, it was painful.

Sunny moved closer to the sleeping
agents, scrutinizing their blank
faces. 

The Boys were right, she thought, her
heart racing with dark pleasure.

This was her chance. Her moment. The
one that she'd dreamed about - no,
planned down to the letter and 
gone over in her head a thousand
times was more like it. And now
the dream was coming true.

Now the only thing left to do was
to figure out, somehow, if the man
felt the same way about her. She
didn't see why he would, but it 
was possible. She couldn't think
of anyone less feminine and appealing 
than a hard-as-nails redheaded FBI agent. 
With his casual, well-bred good looks, 
Mulder probably had a fairly active 
social life that most likely excluded 
his achingly serious little partner 
completely.

The man was utterly fuckable. She 
snickered softly.

Just to make sure she wasn't on
the wrong track entirely, she 
glanced at his left hand, and 
breathed a sigh of relief. No 
gold band.

She stepped closer, and examined
the man's face thoughtfully. Ivy League, 
she decided. He was probably a Harvard man 
and came from old money. You couldn't miss 
the signs of a society upbringing. His 
manners, although completely unpretentious 
and unforced, were carelessly impeccable. 

Quite a different background than
a sea-captain's brat. It was amazing
that they got along at all.

But there was something, she had
to admit, in the way he looked at
Dana Scully. He obviously was a 
man who guarded his emotions 
carefully, and so she couldn't be
sure. But all it took was a subtle
look or a hand placed in a certain
way to tell her that he cared
for his partner in ways she couldn't 
even begin to comprehend. Everything 
from their bizarrely silent exchanges 
of meaningful glances to the way
they stood next to each other spoke 
volumes about the trust they had
to share.

She sighed. So that was the next
step in the game - to explore that
trust until she knew it inside and
out. Until she could be sure.

Laughing at herself, she grabbed
a blanket, and threw it over the
sleeping agents. 

Don't they make a sweet picture,
she thought scornfully, humoring
herself for the moment.

Pathetic.


*     *     *


10:23 am


Warm, steamy water was pouring over Dana Scully,
and she wondered at that moment if she'd ever
been more content.

When she'd fallen asleep, turbulent dreams
had coursed through her brain, making it difficult
for her to truly feel rested when she awoke only
a few hours later. The dreams had been uneasy
montages of images and emotions, and more vivid
than any she could remember having. It was almost
as if Agnes Donovan's insight into her mind
had clung to her, and was now affecting her 
even in sleep. The thought made her queasy, 
and she wished more than ever that they could 
get the hell out of Millertown for good.

So, now that she was finally able to rinse the residue
of the previous evening from her body, what she really 
felt like was a used car with "Like New!" painted on the 
windowsill - nice-looking and shiny on the outside, but 
in desperate need of a 50,000 mile tune-up.

She squirted some cotton-candy colored body wash 
into a round, fluffy sponge, and grimaced when she 
caught the sickeningly sweet aroma. 

She picked up the bottle. The label read "The 
essence of fresh Georgia peaches." 

<What the hell,> she thought. <It may smell like 
Peach-in-a-bottle, but that's a whole lot better 
than the alternative.>

Scully ran the sponge down her body, starting 
at her chest and arms and working down to 
her feet. She moved the sponge in rhythmic
circles, pressing as she turned. It felt
indescribably good.

She threw her head back, and caught some
of the warm, spouting water in her mouth.
She made a face, and spit it back out.

This tasted better when I was little, 
right? I sure hope so. She smiled.

Scully leaned against the cool, slippery
tile of the shower wall. She closed her 
eyes, allowing the warm water to cascade 
over her legs and stomach. Gradually, she 
could feel the aches and sore spots she'd 
accumulated from the evening before begin 
to ease under the influence of the steamy 
water.

There was nothing better than a long,
luxurious shower after a night's worth
of running around, crawling through
refrigeration tubing, getting kidnapped,
drugged, and kidnapped again. 

Well, nothing but a bath. But beggars 
couldn't be choosers. 

Not all people were lucky enough
to have bathtubs, she reminded herself
reprovingly. She just happened
to be one of them. But she had a soft
spot for bubblebaths. She even doubted
that she would have rented her apartment
in Georgetown if it had only come with
a shower. 

There were certain things she usually
liked to unwind with after a long day
at work. They were just about the only 
things in her life at the moment that could
be classified as routine - A good book or 
journal article, a glass of zinfandel 
and some cheese and bread to go with it, 
and a long, hot bath were the most important 
components. If that wasn't doable, she might 
as well just go to bed. The night was as 
good as over. She chuckled to herself.

She squeezed some more of the 
slippery bath gel into her right
hand with her left on the bottle,
and smoothed the gel onto her wet
belly, watching as a lather began
to form.

She reached for a bottle she thought might
be shampoo, and wrinkled her nose.

Prell.

Far be it for her to judge other people's
bath products. But when it came to hair,
she couldn't understand how people could
use supermarket discount shampoo. It didn't
make any sense. 

Since her hair was her most distinctive 
feature, she realized she would rather
rinse it with nothing but water than
use a waxy generic brand like Prell.

<Well, what do you know,> Scully noted
with amusement. <I'm a hair product snob.>

She could remember a time when having 
red hair was akin to having copious 
bunches of freckles scattered all over
her face, or a fleshy pout. She had
all three as a child, and was tormented
for a time by the entire fifth-grade
class for looking like Little Orphan
Annie. 

Her mouth quirked up, and she ran her
fingers through her damp hair. She could 
remember when she'd tried to dye her hair 
brown with a peroxide drugstore kit as 
a rebellious fourteen-year-old, and 
the reaction her poor mother had to the 
hideous results. It was all she could
do to convince her mother that it would 
grow out eventually.

Now she could appreciate what God had
given her. Had given the entire Scully clan,
actually. Her hair suited her - she couldn't
imagine it any other color. Even if Mulder
occasionally teased her about it, she 
knew that he secretly liked it.

Mulder.

She stopped lathering, and stood very 
still, her heart suddenly beating at 
a faster rate. 

What am I going to do about Mulder?

She paused, then shook her head. She 
wasn't ready to tell him everything - not 
yet. It just didn't feel like the time was
right, and rushing into some impulsive, 
ridiculous statement of love and affection
might destroy a relationship that had taken 
five long years to build. 

Besides, "love" and "affection" weren't the
first two words she would use to describe the
way she felt about Mulder. Maybe trust,
or loyalty. Compassion. Risk. 

Words were so inadequate. 

She sighed. No matter how well their 
relationship had stood the test of time, 
how intimately they trusted one another
or how many obstacles their partnership had 
overcome, it was just as fragile and transitory
as any other - and just as unpredictable.

That made it doubly important, she realized
with a sudden heaviness settling in her chest,
for this to be thought about, deliberated 
and planned. Maybe even questioned, just to
make sure that this was really what she 
wanted. A mistake would cost her far more 
than a valuable partnership.

She'd lose her best friend. The thought
made her momentarily sick to her stomach, 
but she fought the feeling off.

That couldn't happen. She wouldn't let it.
With a forced sense of finality, she banished 
the mind-blowing fear firmly from her thoughts.

All at once, she thought to wonder whether
Mulder was awake. She hoped not. He needed
sleep far more than she did.

Absently, she glanced around for a 
bottle of conditioner, and was annoyed
to find that there apparently was none.

It occurred to her that you could 
probably tell a lot about someone by 
her bath products... or, lack thereof. 

Which was good. Because right now,
Sonora Whitmore was throwing her for 
a loop. 

Suddenly, Scully frowned. She recalled 
the sight of a whole table laid out with the 
most sumptuously prepared breakfast she'd had 
in ages. Oddly, instead of feeling grateful
and happy, she'd felt a surprising twinge 
of uneasiness. 

That wasn't like Sunny. Sunny didn't cook.
In fact, Scully recalled with a pang of
certainty, she'd hated cooking, and usually 
had asked her to do the honors in college. 
She also watched her weight strictly then, 
and probably did the same now, judging 
from her almost too-slim appearance.

Seeing the table piled high with an
extravagant feast had simply felt wrong.
It was like looking at a seemingly-normal
photograph of a barn she'd once spotted
at a gallery in D.C. Everything looked
just as it should, except for one thing:
The cow in the picture had only three
legs. At the time, the photograph had
affected her profoundly. She couldn't 
bring herself to keep looking at it.

She was having exactly the same feeling
now.

Despite the warmth of the piping-hot 
water on her skin, Scully shivered.

<There's something not quite right here,>
she mused to herself. <Sunny's off, 
somehow. Not herself. It's as if she's
trying to convince me that she's a 
different person now. But how 
different can she be? Why do I get
the feeling that she's up to something?>

She twisted the shower knob to high,
and rinsed the last bit of shampoo
and body wash from her hair and
skin.

Reaching for a towel she'd thought 
to fling over the top of the shower 
door, she toweled herself off, cringing 
at the feel of over-starched cotton on 
her wet skin.

Maybe she was imagining things.
Maybe she was letting the paranoia
induced by Agnes and the others
affect her judgement of Sunny. Nothing
the woman had done had merited her
suspicious thoughts. Scully felt a 
pang of contrition.

She couldn't bring herself to apologize
for winning a scholarship that she still
felt as though she'd earned. But she
could do her friend the favor of halting
her unwarranted suspicions. The woman
had been nothing but kind and big-hearted
to them since they'd arrived.

Scully blinked. <Amazing,> she thought.
<I feel better already.>

She slipped on the robe Sunny had left 
for her, and wrapped the tie around her 
waist. Momentarily, she hugged her arms 
around her waist, savoring the warmth of 
the soft cotton on her damp skin.

Scully opened the bathroom door, 
and breathed in deeply, her lungs 
full of cool, fresh air.


*       *       *


Mulder stirred, feeling a burning
warmth on his face, and opened his eyes.
His head ached, and for a moment, his
vision was fuzzy and unfocused. 

When he turned his head, he was nearly 
blinded by the hot rays of directed sunlight 
streaming in from the leaded glass windows. 
He blinked rapidly, trying to dissipate the 
harsh after-image the sunlight had left 
on his retinas.

His thoughts still scattered and slow, 
Mulder blinked, wondering groggily 
where Scully had gone.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and
then he saw her. He smiled to himself.
She sat in a chair in the other side of 
the room, completely engrossed in a 
mass-market paperback.

Quietly and carefully, Mulder shifted 
position so that he could watch her.
He moved his head slightly so that one
eye peeked above the thick blanket
- wondering briefly how the blanket
had gotten there -  and sat up higher 
on the pillow to achieve a better 
perspective.

She was dressed in a fluffy white 
terrycloth bathrobe - borrowed from
Sunny, he assumed - and her small 
white feet were bare. Her face was
scrubbed clean and fresh, completely
free from makeup. The typical shining
copper perfection of her hair was
a damp ribbon of dark auburn at that
moment, and was tucked back behind her 
ears. Every few moments, she smiled
slightly, the lines on her face
deepening and her eyes crinkling with
pleasure.

This wasn't the Scully he saw every 
day. This was a whole different person, 
and he was fascinated.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her.

As he lay quietly, trying not to
breathe too loudly, he realized how much
he enjoyed watching her when her guard
was down. Like magic, she became a younger, 
more open version of herself. 

This way, he admitted to himself, 
he could enjoy and catalogue all the little 
quirks that made her who she was, just as 
he'd done a thousand times before.

He counted them off mentally. Her left
eye blinked slightly more often than
her right. Her mouth never completely
closed, and it always pursed slightly,
making her always seem as if she were
just about to say something. She had
two tiny creases jutting vertically
just above the top of her eyebrows, and
they became more prominent when she
furrowed them.

When she smiled, she seldom showed her
teeth. He barely even knew what they
looked like, he realized with amusement.
She could have never had orthodontic 
work as a teenager and he would never 
know it.

When she sat, she scrunched up her toes.
This was a new observation. He couldn't
remember the last time he'd seen her
without socks or shoes on... unless
he counted Antarctica. And that
couldn't count, because Scully's
feet were just about the last thing
in the world on his mind at the time.

Or, were they? Maybe not.

He recalled putting his heavy sherpa-
lined boots on Scully's tiny feet. A
fleeting thought had rushed through
his head, and he remembered being 
furious at himself for getting distracted
when Scully's life was hanging in the
balance. The thought had been absurdly
out-of-place.

What if the boots were too big? What
if they fell off, and her feet froze? 
Would he be able to live with not thinking 
to bring insulated snow-boots in her size?

But her feet had survived. Thankfully,
so had the rest of her. 

As Mulder had felt the last of his reserves bleed 
into the snow as he lay upon the vast Arctic 
icescape, the last thought that entered his head 
before he'd succumbed to the numbing cold and 
relentless exhaustion was that Scully would be 
warm soon. Her skillful, expressive hands would 
survive to autopsy an ever-growing line of crime 
victims. Her feet would carry her from case to 
case, just as they had infinitely many times before. 

She was safe.

Mulder turned his attention back to Scully as she sat 
reading in the overstuffed chair. He felt a blanket of 
warmth come over him, and allowed his head to fall back 
on the pillow. He drifted off, a slight smile upon 
his face.


-- End Chapter Seven --


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -



Chapter Eight - All My Soul Within Me Burning


****************
11:32 am


Scully knocked three times on what she assumed
to be Sunny's bedroom door.

"Come in," she heard muffled through the door.

She turned the knob, and saw that Sunny
was sitting at a worktable by the window,
reading some paperwork with her glasses
on.

She stepped back a few paces. "Oh, sorry.
You're busy. I'll come back."

"No, Dana. Come on in. Did you get 
enough sleep?"

Scully filled her lungs with air, and let it 
out slowly, trying to dispel the afterimage of 
the disturbing dreams of invasion and intrusion 
from her thoughts. She tried to smile, but 
couldn't quite manage it.

"I couldn't sleep much, but I did get
a little. I do feel rested, thanks."

"Well, great. What's up?"

Scully paused. She'd walked into the
room intending to sit down for a long
talk with her old friend. She had 
decided firmly to bury the past, and 
find out what she'd been doing for 
the past ten years. But apparently 
Sunny was busy. The last thing she 
wanted to do at this moment was 
intrude.

She shrugged her right shoulder
back towards the door, and took
a step backwards.

"I can come back later."

Sunny took off her glasses, and placed
them on the table, rubbing her eyes
with two fingers. "No, that's okay.
I'm not really busy. Have a seat."
She patted the bed next to them.

Obligingly, Scully took a seat. She
was startled when her whole body
seemed to sink into the mattress.

"It's a waterbed," Sunny told her,
smiling. "Sorry. Should've warned
ya."

Scully tested the bed, bouncing up
and down a few times, and looked
up at Sunny.

"You always did like to be different."

Sunny stood, and walked over to the
bed, taking a seat next to her.
"So, what's on your mind, Agent Scully?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, really.
Just wanted to catch up on old times."

Sunny's grin faltered, and for a moment
Scully thought she might have said something
wrong. But the smile came back a moment
later, and she dismissed the thought.

"Nothing much to tell. I've been a 
patent consultant since getting out
of grad school."

Grad school? Scully tried to 
hide her disbelief.

"What did you get your Masters in?"

"Chemistry."

Scully was surprised, but tried
not to let it show. 

"I had no idea you'd gone that far," 
she told the brunette honestly.

Sunny's eyes flashed with bitter 
fire, but she forced her anger
down, masking it with a
saccharine smile.

<You didn't think I could do it, 
you mean,> Sunny thought acidly. 
<You thought I'd go nowhere, right, 
Dana? If I couldn't become a doctor
like you, I'd just fade into obscurity, 
is that it?> She smiled sourly.

"And I can't believe you've been
in the FBI for five years. I'd
heard somewhere that you went
into the academy, but I lost
track of you after that. Have
you always worked with Fox?"

Scully was tempted to correct
her, but decided it wasn't 
important.

"Yes, ever since I was 
assigned to the X-Files unit. 
You might say that Mulder was 
part of the package." Scully's 
eyes twinkled fondly as she
remembered the look on his face 
as she'd walked in that door for 
the first time. "At first, he 
thought I was there to spy on
him. Can't you just see me
as a spy?"

"No," Sunny admitted. "You're 
honest to a fault, Dana. You 
can't tell a lie to save your 
life."

"No, I can't." Scully looked down,
smiling slightly. "We've come
a long way since then."

Sunny sat up a bit straighter, her
gaze keenly alert.

Unless she was mistaken, that was the 
in she had been waiting for. She'd be 
a fool not to take advantage of it.

"He's really cute, you know,"
Sunny purred. "Have you two...
you know... ever dated?"

She was delighted to see the woman 
give a start, and set her lips in a 
thin line.

"No, we've never dated," Scully
replied in an odd, clipped monotone.

Sunny noticed that her voice was strangely 
flat and devoid of inflection, as if she 
were deliberately sapping the phrase of all 
emotion. Very interesting. She cocked
an eyebrow.

"Why not?" she shot back challengingly. 
"He'd be the catch of the month."

"We're partners, Sunny. That would
be unprofessional." Scully shifted
uncomfortably, realizing how forced
her words had sounded. Too forced.

Sunny looked at her closely.
It wasn't exactly a statement
that their relationship was
platonic, she realized, just 
the obvious fact that a romantic 
relationship wasn't conducive to 
earning the boss' favor. This was 
definitely encouraging.

"That implies you've thought about
it."

Scully rubbed the back of her 
neck, deep in thought.

"You know, sometimes it seems like
the only difference between a married
couple and Mulder and me is the ring and
the honeymoon. We act like an old married
couple. Sometimes I feel like we bicker 
like one, too."

Scully blinked. She couldn't believe that
had really come out of her mouth.

That was no answer, Sunny thought. That
was an evasion. Back to the topic at hand.

"You've got to admit, Dana, he is attractive," 
Sunny purred slyly.

Scully tensed. "I can understand why 
some might find him attractive," she 
said carefully.

Sunny looked at her. "But you don't?"

Scully shook her head in frustration. 
This wasn't the subject she'd come in 
here to talk about. "I admit that I think 
he's attractive... in a boyish sort of way."

Well, that was a start. Sunny
cleared her throat.

"Haven't you ever considered
a relationship? Or do you
have a significant other?"
Sunny sensed that she didn't,
but had to ask.

"Not right now," Scully said,
trying to keep her tone neutral.

"Not right now?" Sunny echoed.
"Dana, when was the last time
you've been with someone?"

The last thing she wanted to
do was talk about Ed Jerse.

"A few months ago," Scully
lied. Then she felt foolish.
Why did she have to defend
her lovelife to anyone? She
didn't have time for a 
relationship. There was too 
much going on in her life 
as it was. There was nothing
wrong with that, she told 
herself firmly.

Sunny looked at her. She 
suspected that she'd just 
been lied to. How delightful.
Her lips curved into a smile.

"Who was he?"

Scully searched frantically
in her head for a name to 
give her. Any name, as long
as she could back it up with
a believable story.

"Alan Pendrell."

Alan Pendrell? Sunny smiled.
Sounded like a CPA or a 
bank manager.

"So, what happened between
you and Alan?"

"He... transferred. He
was an FBI agent. Worked
in the lab."

Sunny tried to hide
a smirk. 

How perfect. A lab 
rat and a field mouse.

"So, it must not have been
all that serious."

Scully almost smiled. Maybe
it wasn't such a lie. She'd
been told on several occasions
that Pendrell had had a terrible
crush on her... before he'd been
killed. She felt a twinge of
sadness.

"No, it was serious," Scully
said quietly. "But only 
briefly. It was over before
it began."

Sunny looked at her, trying
to determine if what she
was saying were true. She
obviously felt strongly
about him, because she 
looked pretty shaken up
about the end of the
relationship. If it was
a lie, it was a good one.
She decided to change the
subject.

"So, what's with the
'Mulder,' 'Scully' thing?"

Her brow furrowed. "What do
you mean?"

"I mean, why have I not
heard your partner call
you by your first name
once since you got here?"

Scully shrugged impatiently.
This was a question she had
stopped asking herself long ago.
It never ceased to amaze her 
that the way she should choose 
to address her partner - or, 
vice versa - could incite such 
perplexed curiosity in others.

"It's just what we call
each other," Scully said
simply. "His name is Mulder.
I don't think of him as
'Fox.'"

"But why can't he call you
'Dana'?"

Scully thought back to the first 
time she'd met him, back in 1992. 
She had walked into his office - his 
territory - as his new partner. "What'd 
you do to get stuck with this detail, 
Scully?" he had said. Not Doctor Scully, 
not Ms. Scully, not Agent Scully. Just 
Scully. She frowned.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice 
quiet. "He's always called me 'Scully.' 
I can only remember a few times that
he's actually called me by my first 
name..." Her voice trailed off, and
she looked away.

Sunny touched her hand, and was
startled to note that it was
icy cold.

"What is it?"

She shook her head numbly. "He did it the 
morning after my father died."

"Oh, Dana." Sunny felt a genuine pang of 
sorrow for her. "How long ago?"

Her voice caught in her throat as she 
responded. "Four years. Mom's been so 
lonely, Sunny." 

Suddenly, Scully wanted to tell her 
everything that had happened in the past
few years - the abduction, the tests... 
everything. It didn't matter if they hadn't 
seen each other in a decade, or if they 
hadn't exactly remained close friends. All 
that mattered was that she needed a friend, 
and had for a long, long time. Suddenly, 
she found herself feeling unbelievably 
grateful that Sunny was here for her.

Sunny observed Scully's back slump from
its rigid upright position, making her
posture more open. Her expression had
softened, and her eyes were moist. 

Perfect. She would never be more
vulnerable.

Sunny smiled understandingly.

"I can understand why that
would be so hard for your
mom. Your mom and dad were
always close, weren't they?"

Scully nodded mutely. 

"But at least she still has
you and your brothers and
sister. How is Melissa, anyway?
Still into all that new-wave
metaphysical stuff that she
was into when we were in
school?"

Scully didn't respond. When Sunny 
turned to glance at her, she realized 
she must have said the wrong thing. 
Her face had gone pale, and her 
brows were furrowed.

"What's wrong?" she said
softly.

Scully shook her head, and
managed an ironic smile. "Sunny,
Melissa passed away."

"Oh, my God. Dana, I'm...
I'm so sorry." She wondered
what had happened, but didn't
really want the conversation
to be so quickly steered away from
her relationship with her partner.

"She was murdered, actually," Scully 
corrected herself, her voice hardening 
to match the rock-hard expression upon 
her face. "Luckily, the man who killed her 
is dead as well." There was some justice 
in the world after all.

Sunny shook her head. She couldn't
help but feel sorry for the woman.
First her father died, then her
sister, and her partner couldn't
even call her by her first name
after working with her for five
years. Maybe they weren't meant
for each other after all. Sunny
frowned.

Scully sighed heavily. "At any
rate, that's when he called
me 'Dana.' The day my father
died. And on the day of Missy's
funeral." 

She could remember the day
with unusual clarity, as if it
were a single moment flash-frozen
in time, preserved as an everlasting 
mental lithograph within the folds
of her memory. 

It hadn't been warm and sunny, 
despite her prayers for good weather.
Instead, the sky had been overcast 
and strangely dark. Mottled storm clouds 
had billowed ominously overhead. 

Father McCue had come over before
the service to pay his respects. She had 
stood, accepting a paternal squeeze on 
the arm in silence, her steely blue-green 
eyes wide with the turmoil of surprised 
rage. When the man had passed, moving on 
to her mother, she had had to fight the 
inexplicable urge to scream with the agony 
of loss and the futility of life without 
her only sister, the most calming, constant 
presence in the first few chapters 
of her life.

Her Missy. And this man thought
that, by consoling her with religious
platitudes, he could ease her pain.

She wanted the pain. It fed a hunger
inside of her, and she needed it. 
It was acceptance she could do 
without. Denial was a blessing.

As she watched the priest retreat,
his long, black jacket moving at
a steady clip away, she began to 
tremble with unspeakable rage.

Why. Why. Without realizing it, she spoke 
the word aloud, and Mulder had turned 
to look at her.

Instinctively, he said nothing
in response. His Adam's apple bobbed 
once, and his eyes searched her face, 
the calm hazel settling her stormy
heart.

His hand went to the small of
her back, and nestled there for
a moment before flashing up to
her neck, then tracing a long,
curved line down her back. It
settled upon her hand, enveloping
it in his, and this contact had 
done more to ease her heart than 
a thousand well-wishers and a 
million heartfelt prayers ever 
could.

She found the courage to smile, 
for a brief moment allowing herself
to feel the pain in all its bitter
force.

Then, in the middle of the service, it 
had begun to rain. Mulder had opened 
the umbrella he'd thought to bring 
just in case, and held it over their 
heads. 

Scully found herself gently pushing the 
umbrella away, and letting the rain stream 
down her face. It felt good, somehow. A 
form of liquid catharsis. Maybe the water 
would wash all her grief away.

Mulder had turned to her, and
saw her getting soaked by the
downpour. Then he did something 
she would never forget. 

Without hesitation, he closed the 
umbrella, and tipped his face up 
to the rain along with her. They
stood like that for several minutes, 
both drenched but not caring,
and the rain kept on coming.

"Dana, let her go," he had
whispered, his eyes filled
with compassion and understanding. 
"It's raining. No one will know 
if you cry." 

And she had.

Scully swallowed heavily, her eyes 
glistening. She knew why Mulder rarely 
called her by her first name. 

It was something only she could 
ever know.


*    *    *


Sunny looked at Scully, her gaze piercing.
She had her own suspicions.

He only calls her 'Dana' when she's
suffered a great loss, she thought.
A sign of low self-concept, at the very 
least. If she's not vulnerable with her 
guard down, then he feels like he would 
be pushing things to get that personal 
with her. 

But it was almost a compliment. A sign 
of respect. If he expected her to call 
him by his family name - if that was
a courtesy he asked of her - then he'd 
pay her the same courtesy.

In a way, it was amazingly
respectful. He didn't want to
tip the scales. If he was
'Mulder,' then she would be
'Scully.' No more, no less.

How sad. But, ultimately, it
was telling.

"Would you call Mulder a 
good partner, Dana?"

Scully's head snapped up.
"What?"

"Is he a good partner."

"He's saved my life, Sunny,"
Scully said, and to Sunny's ears
she sounded a little defensive. "On 
countless occasions. He's my best 
friend." 

Alarm bells began to blare in
Sunny's head, and she decided
to tread lightly.

"When did he save your
life?"

Scully shivered, and fear fluttered 
across her features, momentarily 
compromising the stony facade.

"I was taken," Scully said
cautiously. "Mulder came to find me. 
I would have died, and he saved me."

Sunny sensed that there was a 
complicated story behind this 
simple statement, and suddenly 
found herself wanting to know more.

She put her hand on the woman's
shoulder. It was a calculated move,
designed to invoke trust and 
openness. She wondered if it would
have the intended effect.

To her pleasure, the woman 
looked up and her, and smiled
gratefully. 

"Dana, what happened?" Sunny injected
just enough concern into her voice
to mask her curiosity - and her
ulterior motive.

Scully sighed. "Long story. But 
it ends with Mulder pulling me
naked out of a dark, cramped
snow cave, covering me with his 
jacket, carrying me thousands
of feet to the surface, pulling
me across the snow, and collapsing
on the ice. Then I had to get us
out of there before we both froze
to death."

"Sounds more to me like you saved
him, not the other way around."

Scully's expression hardened. "No.
He saved my life. All I did was
find a way to get us back home
after he'd gotten us out of there."

Sunny smiled to herself. Her 
comment that it had actually 
been Scully who saved Mulder was 
designed to provoke her, and it
had done just that. Everything was
going perfectly. She only hoped Scully
wouldn't start to choke up and
stop talking before she found out
what she needed to know.

"What did Margaret say about 
this?"

Scully's eyes flicked downward.
She swallowed. "I didn't tell her."

Sunny gaped at her. "You mean
she didn't know that you almost
got killed?"

She shook her head. "I don't
tell Mom anything about my work,
Sunny. If she knew half of the
situations I've gotten myself
into over the years, she'd kill
me... or, at least disown me. 
I'm really protecting her. She 
has enough to think about 
already. She doesn't need to 
be worrying about me on a daily 
basis."

She would never forget the 
accusing look on Bill's face when 
he had visited her in the hospital
after she'd been diagnosed with 
cancer. She'd been pushed down the 
stairs, and had a few bruises. But 
Bill hadn't been sympathetic. All 
he could say was that she was 
putting the family through hell.

If she could avoid that, she
would. Even if it meant hiding
from her family the thing she
most enjoyed, the thing that
meant more to her than almost
anything. Her job made her feel
useful and important, and she
needed that right now. 

She sighed. "Mulder doesn't tell
his mother, either." Not that
she doesn't know already, she
thought. She knows exactly what
Mulder does and what he puts
himself through. 

"Sounds like you and Mulder have
a special bond," Sunny observed, 
watching Scully carefully. 
"I guess it makes sense that 
you've never taken it any farther 
than friendship. You wouldn't 
want to ruin what you already 
have."

Scully looked off into space, her 
face a stormy portrait of clashing 
emotions. Her eyes were achingly distant, 
and Sunny waited for her to respond with 
her pulse pounding in her ears.

In the next instant, she seemed
to pull herself together, an
expression of bemused determination
hardening her features. Her eyes 
moved back and forth with reverent 
concentration, almost as if she were 
examining the solution to a complex 
equation.

When she finally spoke, Sunny was
nearly in a trance. She couldn't 
look away from the woman's face.

"He kissed me," Scully breathed
softly. 

Sunny stared at her. She wasn't
sure she'd heard her correctly.

"What?"

"He kissed me, Sunny. And I've
kissed him. He just doesn't know
it."

No. No, this was just too good
to be true. Sunny had to struggle
to keep a huge, malicious grin 
from spreading over her delicate
features.

"When was this?" she asked, almost
too casually.

"Last night. I..." Her voice trailed
off awkwardly.

Suddenly, Scully wondered what
she was doing telling all this to
someone she barely knew. She realized
that she didn't feel comfortable
with the direction this conversation
was heading.

When had the conversation turned into
an interrogation about her relationship 
with Mulder? And why would any of this 
be of interest to Sonora Whitmore?

Scully's eyes grew wary. She folded
her arms across her chest. "It doesn't
matter. We're partners, Sunny. Right
now, that's all we are." The future
might be unwritten, but that was
something she didn't feel Sunny
had a right to know.

Sunny's expression hardened,
and her posture stiffened. So that
was all she'd get from her little
'friend,' huh? Fine. She'd learned
all she needed to know. 

What was important was that her plan 
had worked. The only question that
mattered had been answered. 

She stood, stretching her arms, and
yawned deliberately. "Dana, I don't 
mean to kick you out, but I've got a 
lot of work to do."

Scully stood quickly. "Oh, sorry,
Sunny. I didn't mean to distract
you." She smiled, but her
expression was curiously 
indecipherable. "Thanks for 
listening."

"No problem."

The door closed, and Sunny's forced
smile fell. Her eyes locked onto
the solid slab of wood. For a 
brief moment, she felt as though 
she could see right through it.

Through anything, for that matter.
Anything at all.

She stood, and walked to the door slowly,
placing a small hand upon it and feeling
the texture of the grain under her 
fingertips. Somehow, she could picture
the redhead curled up in the fetal
position, utterly beaten.

She smiled.

There was only one spin left in the 
game of a lifetime...

And it was her turn.


*     *     *


As she left the bedroom, Scully's head
was spinning with uncertainty.

<Did I say too much? Was I so eager to 
unburden myself to the first person who 
came along that I was too open with her, 
too trusting?>

She knew it would have been just 
like the Sunny of the past to find
a way to use her candidness 
against her somehow. Suddenly,
she felt frighteningly vulnerable. 

Then that was the issue in question.
Had Sunny changed since college?
Was she a wolf in sheep's clothing,
or merely a compassionate friend 
who had turned over a new leaf?

Suddenly, she stopped in her
tracks, and her mouth fell open.

<What if Sunny's so curious about our 
relationship because she's interested
in Mulder? What if she wants a chance at
him, and that little interrogation was
for her own benefit?>

Oh, my God. 

That was it, wasn't it. That was it
all along.

Dammit. Why hadn't she seen it before? The multitude 
of questions about the nature of their friendship
had ultimately led to just one: Were they friends, 
or more than that?

Of course. That was Sunny's way of finding out
if she had a chance. Testing the water, so to
speak. Maybe she was trying to figure out
if she could win him away. 

Maybe a plan was formulated already.

She cursed herself. So that's what she got
for being so uncharacteristically open with
a woman she hadn't seen in ten years. Not 
to mention letting her guard down with
a person whose college major had practically
been "Personal Betterment Through Skillful 
Manipulation of Those Around You."

Now, she'd have to sit back and watch
her scheming college buddy try to score 
with her partner. 

She scowled, and threw a glance back 
at the closed bedroom door. 

Not if she could help it.

She turned, and sank into the nearest chair, 
feeling totally drained. She felt the air rush 
out of her lungs with a satisfying whoosh. 
Her limbs felt weighted, as if they had doubled 
in mass. She was immobile with exhaustion. Angry 
as she was, she just couldn't muster the energy 
to focus on Sunny right now. It would have 
to wait until her brain didn't feel like it 
had turned to a puddle of useless slush.

She nestled back into the comfortable
reading chair and glanced a bit 
protectively at Mulder, who still 
slept soundly on the couch. Good, 
she thought. He needs it.

She lay her head against an oversized
pillow. Her last thought before she
dozed off was that she was relieved
she hadn't told Sunny about her cancer, 
or Emily. 

Some things in life were better off 
kept hidden only within her memory - a 
place even the Sunnies of the world 
could never reach. 


--End Chapter Eight--