DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. Would that they treated said characters as kindly as I do. ;) This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG for adult themes and language. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS "Funeral For a Friend" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ======================================================= "A lie, Mr. Mulder, is best hidden between two truths." -Deep Throat, "E.B.E." ======================================================= FBI Headquarters Washington, DC Dana Scully's lip trembled. Tears sprang to her eyes. She was surprised by the emotions, how even the mere words she spoke were horrific enough, powerful enough to evoke anguish. Go with it, Scully, she thought. She heard the words in Mulder's voice, and the lump in her throat grew. She swallowed hard and resumed. "Agent Mulder died late last night of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head." There. She'd said it. It was on record. Reality. As real as things got these days. The expression on Blevins' face was gentle, sincere. Five years ago, she might have bought it. She didn't buy it now. These people in this room didn't care about Mulder. They didn't care about her cancer. For all she knew, all of them were in on it from the beginning. But she accepted their condolences with a watery half-smile. "I have requested a leave of absence to deal with everything I've just told you," she managed, her voice tight and thick with tears. Her head ached. "My doctor has suggested that radical chemotherapy and radiation treatments may arrest the growth of the tumor. And, as my assignment to the X-Files is now at end, this seems the right time." "Will you be available for further questioning, Agent Scully?" Blevins asked. She turned and looked at him, using her lethal stare to full advantage. "What's left to ask, sir? I've told you everything. I have nothing left to give you." He looked stricken. For a moment, she almost believed he was sorry. Almost. She rose and left the conference room, not looking back. How many of those people were involved in the conspiracy? She wasn't sure she really wanted to know. And right now, it wasn't that important. She had too many other concerns. Too many details to attend to. In the safety of her car, she dialled her cell phone and waited for an answer on the other end. "Skinner." "I've completed the hearing, sir. I'm taking leave now." "I'm so sorry, Agent Scully." The A.D.'s voice was tender and sincere, sincere enough that tears sprang to her eyes again. "I've made some calls to arrange for a headstone to be placed near Mulder's father's grave. I've been told that the stone and Agent Mulder's ashes will be ready this afternoon. Agent Mulder left a note detailing his wishes that his ashes be spread over the beach at Gay Head on Martha's Vineyard. I'll be going there after the memorial service tomorrow morning." She clutched the phone more tightly, surprised anew by the hard rush of emotion. "I think Agent Mulder would have wanted you to be there for the service, sir. If possible. The service will be tomorrow morning at graveside. The Garden of Reflection in Boston." "I'll be there, Agent Scully." "Thank you, sir." She turned off the cell phone and wiped her cheeks. It was done. ************** Garden of Reflection Boston, MA Early May in Boston was cool and a little blustery. The few who had gathered to mourn Fox Mulder had scattered after the service. His mother, pale and dazed-looking, had barely acknowledged Scully's presence. A younger woman--Scully thought she'd heard someone say she was Mrs. Mulder's cousin--had led Mulder's mother to a waiting car. Scully was glad for the moment of silence alone at the small memorial stone. She needed the time to gather her wits to face what was to come--the trip to Martha's Vineyard, the scattering of the ashes. And then, time to regroup. To figure out just what to do next. She crouched by the granite marker, running her fingers lightly over the etched epitaph. "Fox William Mulder, Beloved Son and Friend. 'The Truth Will Set You Free.'" She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by pain and rage and grief. So much lost. So very damned much. A hand on her shoulder made her jump. She whirled around, her hand automatically moving toward the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter tucked into a holster at the base of her spine. "Sorry, Scully." Walter Skinner caught her by the shoulders to steady her. "I didn't mean to startle you." She dropped her hands to her side. "I'm a little on edge." "How you holding up?" She took a deep breath. "I'm fine, sir." His lips curved at the corners. "You're on your way to the Vineyard now?" She nodded. "It was Agent Mulder's wish." She saw the understanding in his eyes, and for a moment, she felt the absurd urge to fling herself against his broad, strong chest and cry like a baby. His eyes darkened slightly, as if he could read her mind. Slowly, his hand moved across her shoulder and cupped the back of her neck, drawing her closer to him. After an initial moment of surprise, Scully relaxed, pressing her cheek against the Assistant Director's crisp white shirt. His heartbeat was loud and reassuringly strong beneath her ear. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You are the strongest person I know, Agent Scully. I have never doubted your ability to rise above everything thrown your way. I don't doubt it now." She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting another wave of hot tears. Her emotions felt raw and exposed, ever on the surface, there where the slightest touch could make her bleed. She leaned on Skinner another moment before gently but firmly pushing him away. "Thank you, sir." "You know how to reach me." She nodded. "I have to get back to D.C. I'm glad I could be here one last time for Agent Mulder." "I know he would have appreciated it, sir." Scully lifted her chin and met his eyes, telling him with her gaze what she couldn't say in words. He gave a slight nod of understanding, turned and walked away. She felt stronger, she realized as she slowly trudged back to her car. Skinner's calm solidity had helped her regain her balance a bit. Her eyes were dry as she drove out of the cemetery, headed south toward Cape Cod and the ferry to Martha's Vineyard, the small box of ashes sitting on the passenger seat beside her. ******** July the 4th would herald the full bloom of tourist season on Martha's Vineyard, but the towns and villages of the island were already beginning to clean up and button up for the season. The ferry delivered Scully to Vineyard Haven before dusk; she made the drive across the island to Gay Head Beach in twenty minutes, just as the sun was beginning to drop out of sight to the west. With nightfall came a chill that raced through Scully's body, reminding her that she hadn't slept in a while and her energy was at a low ebb already because of her illness. She could rest soon enough. She had the key to Bill Mulder's house in West Tisbury. She'd had it for a while-- not long after his father's death, Mulder had taken over the task of upkeep on the house. Like so many houses on the island, the West Tis house stayed closed up off season. Every summer, however, Mulder had arranged for the house to be opened up for rental. The proceeds from the rental went to Mrs. Mulder. He'd given Scully a copy of the key to the West Tis house to keep alongside the other keys to his life. It seemed the right place to stay while here on Martha's Vineyard. She wasn't going to be here that long. Just long enough to spread the ashes and then take a couple of days to figure out what to do next. Scully stood at the top of the colorful cliffs overlooking the rocky, forbidding terrain of Gay Head Beach. The wind whipped her hair into her face, blinding her for a moment, robbing her of her equilibrium. She clutched the box of ashes tightly to her, taking an involuntary step backward, away from the cliff. It would be so easy to plunge over the side.... She shook off the quivery sensation in her stomach and opened the small brass box. The wind stirred the gray ashes, as if nature herself knew the wrongness of this death and was trying to bring him back to life. Scully drew a deep breath and thrust her arm out, giving the ashes to the wind. They swirled out across the expanse of space, fluttering and dancing as if to rob death itself. She watched until every fleck settled down over the rocky bluff below her. Then, solemnly, she threw the brass box over the side of the cliff, listening to the sound of it bouncing down the rocks. When it fell silent, she turned and slowly walked back to her car. She drove away, oblivious to the dark figure in the distance, standing at the edge of another bluff, watching her solitary goodbye with narrowed eyes. And if his own eyes were damp, it was surely the bitter wind rising from the sea or the acrid smoke spiraling from the glowing tip of his Morley. ************* Bill Mulder's House West Tisbury, MA A boxwood hedge sheltered the West Tisbury house from the street, offering a sense of privacy and safety that Scully appreciated after two days of having all eyes on her, gauging her reactions. Her mother had put aside her own grief about Mulder's death to comfort Scully, exacerbating the deep sense of guilt Scully already harbored. And, of course, she had been closely watched by her colleagues at the bureau, not to mention the nameless, often faceless observers who had chronicled the wretched tale of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the X-Files over the past five years. But not here. Not right now. Scully unlocked the front door of the house and let herself inside, closing the door firmly behind her and turning the deadbolt, locking the world outside. Wearily, she pressed her forehead against the door, letting the stillness of the silent house soothe her. She could almost convince herself, in that quiet moment, that she was the only person left in the world. Then she felt it. Felt him. Like a prickle on her skin. A whisper in her ear. She fancied she smelled him, that warm, slightly spicy essence that had marked his territory all the time she'd known him. Part aftershave, part soap and water, part raw masculinity. Essence of Mulder. She breathed it in, filled her lungs with him. Welcomed him into her. Heat caressed her back. Then, the first touch. Gentle. Featherlight, like a breath against her skin. Firmer now, a hand closed over her upper arm. Another hand on the other arm. Fingers drifting lightly down her arms. Moving to her waist, splaying briefly across her belly, setting off little sparks of awareness, before she was engulfed in the circle of strong arms. "Long day?" The voice in her ear was the most familiar sound in her life. Dry, whisper-soft, just a little raspy. She nodded, her forehead rubbing against the pebbled privacy glass in the front door. "You have no idea." She felt his breath stir the hair tucked behind her ear. And suddenly, a dam broke inside her, spilling out fear and anger and pain and relief in a torrent that spun her around. Into the strong, waiting arms of a dead man. End of Part One DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: R for adult themes, situations and language. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS "Dead Man Walking" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ======================================================= "I was a dead man. Now I'm back." -Fox Mulder, "Paper Clip" ======================================================= FBI Headquarters Washington, DC The basement office was quiet. Still. A husk, shucked off and tossed aside, robbed of its reason for being. Walter Skinner walked slowly around the room, letting his fingers drift lightly across the desk, the lamp, all the trappings of the office that had lent the room its unique personality. Once, not so very long ago, it had been the lair of the lone wolf, a haven of sorts for a man whose life had been singular in purpose and in the living. But that had been before Dana Scully. Skinner sat in the chair behind Mulder's desk. It rocked beneath his bulk, seeming to lean backward of its own volition, as if it expected to be tipped backwards upon inhabitation. Mulder used to lean back in the chair, challenging fate and gravity with the same offhand insouciance with which he faced down evil and death. Like it didn't matter what happened to him. Like he was nothing but a pawn on a chessboard, created to be sacrificed to the battle in order to win the war. Of course, that was before Mulder had met the white knight, Skinner thought, his lips quirking slightly at the strangely romantic notion. But he couldn't help making the comparison. Dana Scully WAS Mulder's knight in shining armor. She'd taken a bureau pariah and shaped him into a force so dangerous that he could no longer be ignored. Her faith in him, her determination that the work was worth doing, her blinding passion for justice--those were the keys to the rebirth of Fox Mulder and The X-Files. Before Scully, he had been a nuisance, a fly to be swatted away. With Scully, he had become a rogue lion running amok in a house of cards. It had come as no surprise to Skinner that someone felt it was time to kill the lion. Skinner sighed and picked up the letter opener lying on the desk blotter. Scully's call that morning had awakened him from a vague, disturbing dream. "Meet me at Agent Mulder's apartment. Now." Her voice had been tight. Scared. Shaky. Now he knew why. She had insisted on playing this game her way. Never mind that five years ago, she had barely had two years of FBI experience under her belt--and all of that spent in classrooms and labs at the FBI Academy at Quantico. The past five years had taught her a lifetime's worth of how the game was played. She knew how to watch her back and cover her tracks. She knew she was being watched now--she had a good idea who was watching, too. But this had been the way she wanted to play it. And Skinner had gone along with her. It seemed she had the same effect on him that she had on Agent Mulder. She could bend him to her will with so little effort that he was almost embarrassed. Except that he trusted her. And he knew that she trusted him, too. With her life. And with something she held even more dear--Agent Mulder's life. Little did she know. *********** Bill Mulder's House West Tisbury, MA Dana Scully felt fragile in his arms. Had she always felt that way? He couldn't seem to remember. Perhaps he was letting the cancer color his memories the way he let it color everything else between them. He had his own mental calendar, one where time was marked as Before Cancer and After Cancer. Before that, his calendar had been marked Before Scully and After Scully. And the calendar before that had been Before Samantha and.... He shook his head, rubbing his chin against the top of her head in the process. There was something wrong with that way of thinking. Where everything was a milestone, a momentous landmark in the tortuous map of his life. Had he ever enjoyed a moment for what it was, one ephemeral strand of time and space, to be inhabited and enjoyed for itself alone? No. He hadn't. He'd even turned a trip to Graceland into some kind of mystical self-exploration, for God's sake. Scully's arms around his waist loosened, as if giving him permission to pull away from her embrace. But he didn't move. He liked the way she felt, her body pressed against his. He liked the feel of her breasts against his ribs, small and firm. Her hair smelled like sunshine and salt air and just the faintest hint of her White Linen perfume. Circumstance forced him to think of her as his partner, his comrade. But she was also a woman. A pretty woman. Smart and tough as they came, but blessed with a bone deep compassion she preferred to hide beneath her hard-assed exterior. When she chose to shine that compassion on him, she was as tender as a lover, soothing him with hands and eyes and voice. He was the most disciplined man he knew in terms of sexual self-control. He was practically a monk, his video collection notwithstanding. He could look at Scully--at her slender curves and her full, ripe lips and her copper-fire hair --for days without once thinking about pinning her up against the file cabinets and burying himself inside her. Days at a time. But sometimes the awareness would strike like a snake, often at the oddest times in the oddest places. Like a morgue in San Francisco, when her off-hand remark about the worth of a body made him think just how much he liked her body, the sinewy strength underneath the small, deceptively delicate-looking surface. There had been so many other times--the surge of blood often catching him by surprise, hitting when sex was the last thing on his mind. Maybe because those times when his body was tight and on edge, natural male hunger making him feel like a lion trapped in a cage, he was so careful to fend his thoughts away from Scully, a lion tamer with a whip and a chair, that wayward feelings didn't have a chance to emerge. Instead, it was at times like these, times when his thoughts should be focused anywhere but below his belt, that the hunger hit him like a physical pain. Right now, with his body curled around Scully's, his skin felt hot and tight, and he cursed himself mentally as he felt the swift, unmistakable response of his body to her nearness. Scully lifted her head and looked up at him. He felt his face flush crimson, the skin of his neck burning with shame. Her hands shifted against his back, and he loosened his arms to let her move away from him. And gasped when her hands clutched his ass and pulled him hard against her belly, grinding the ridge of his growing erection against her taut muscles. He overbalanced slightly and threw out his hands to catch himself against the door behind her. He couldn't seem to catch his breath as she rose up against him so that her hipbone brushed against his groin. He looked down and saw that her eyes were open. Heavy-lidded and glassy in the fading twilight. Her lips parted to expel a shaky breath. "Scully--" God, was that his voice? Taut and pained. Needy as hell. She squeezed his buttocks and ground his hips against her again. "Shut up, Mulder." He was dead. That was the only possible explanation. He, not Kritschgau, had taken the slug in the head. He'd died there on the floor of his apartment and now his final reward was having Dana Scully squeeze his ass and grind her hips against his for all eternity. Please God, let it be so.... Then his karma kicked in. A loud, glass-rattling series of knocks vibrated the door beneath his hands. Scully gasped and gave him a hard shove backwards, almost toppling him. Arms windmilling for a moment, he stumbled backwards until he could regain his balance. She said one word, low and taut. "Hide." And he did. ********** Scully took five strong, deep breaths before opening the door, wondering if the heated rush of blood coursing through her veins would be evident to whomever was outside Bill Mulder's door. She felt behind her back for the cool steel of her Sig, comforted by its solidity and heft there in the cradle of her spine. She left her hand there, her fingertips against the butt of the gun, and slowly opened the door. A woman stood on the porch, her strawberry blonde hair touseled by the wind blowing inland from the sea. She seemed startled to see Scully and took a little step backwards. "Can I help you?" Scully kept her fingers closed around the butt of the Sig. "I--uh." The woman pressed her lips together for a moment. "I thought you were Mrs. Mulder. I--I saw the car, and I'd heard the news about Fox--" Scully clenched her jaw. "Mrs. Mulder went back to Greenwich. I'll be glad to call and offer her your condolences, if you'd like." The woman shook her head. "No. She never liked me, anyway." Scully's natural curiosity almost got the better of her. But she couldn't afford to encourage this woman to hang around, especially if she knew Mulder. "Well, all right." She started to close the door, not really caring if it was rude. "Wait--are you Fox's girlfriend?" "Girlfriend" was a word Scully despised, which is why she was shocked at the way her body responded, a hard, hot shimmering sensation pooling deep in her core. "Agent Mulder was my partner at the FBI," she answered, willing her voice not to shake. "I came here to spread his ashes here on the Vineyard." The woman went pale. "On Gay Head Beach?" Scully nodded, surprised. "It was his favorite place. We spent hours there as kids." Scully didn't reply, afraid of encouraging her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be bothering you." The blonde tucked her hands in her gray tweed overcoat and hunched against the cool night wind. "And I've changed my mind. If you talk to Mrs. Mulder, tell her Eve Wentworth sends her condolences. Tell her that Fox was the best childhood friend anybody could have ever wanted." The woman smiled, tears glistening in her eyes but not falling, as if the woman willed them to stay put. The compassion and shared grief in her eyes made Scully's stomach hurt, and she was glad when the woman finally turned and left without another word. Scully closed the door and bolted it again, leaning back against the glass for a moment to bolster her sagging strength. When she felt that her legs were strong enough to hold her, she pushed away from the door and went in search of Mulder. "All's clear," she called softly. He emerged from somewhere in the back of the house. "Maybe coming here wasn't a good idea." "I thought you'd cut all your ties here." "I have. Mostly." But not Eve Wentworth? Scully tried to pretend the tight, prickly feeling in the back of her neck wasn't irritation at the thought of Fox Mulder being close to another woman. Another person. Hell, an inanimate object, for that matter. It wasn't exactly her favorite trait, but Dana Scully--the middle child in a loud, opinionated and boisterous family-- had developed a healthy possessive streak. And for the past five years, Fox Mulder had found his way right to the heart of that streak. She sighed and dropped onto the sofa. "I'm afraid to even turn on the lights," she muttered, looking around the living room at the huge windows that dominated the front half of the house. "You'd think a guy who worked for the State Department would have opted for a little more security." Mulder's chuckle eased some of her tension. God, it was a wonderful sound. A sound she'd been terrified she'd never hear again just two days earlier, when an Alexandria policeman had awakened her from a dead sleep to ask her to come identify a body he believed to be Fox Mulder. Walking into that room and looking under that sheet had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. The second hardest thing had been schooling her expression not to give away her shuddering relief when she realized that it was Michael Kritschgau, not Fox Mulder, lying there dead on the floor of Mulder's apartment. "We could hang sheets over the windows," Mulder suggested. He sat across from her, in a ladder back chair that looked distinctly uncomfortable. Better way over there than over here with the horny woman, Scully thought, not sure if she should feel amused or mortified. She wasn't unaware of the attraction between them, or Mulder's occasional moments of arousal when something she said or did got beneath his skin. Hell, it was great for her ego, if nothing else. And she had her own moments of sheer, unadulterated lust toward her partner as well. But, like Mulder, she knew how to tuck that part of her life in a corner where it wouldn't get in the way. Tonight had just gotten to her. That was all. The stress and the rage and the pain had beaten the hell out of her, leaving her weak and needy for a moment. And the feel of him growing hard against her belly, the lush hotness of her own body's response--it had overwhelmed her. Made her grasp for that sweet, undefinable something that reminded her that he was alive and so was she, maybe just for this one moment in time, but that moment was enough. It was worth reaching for. And the feel of him against her, hot and powerful and losing control--she had felt, in that moment, as if they could both live forever. It was a natural human response to death and danger. And, if she would allow herself to admit it, it was also the natural response of a woman to the most important man in her life. But it didn't have to go beyond that. It didn't have to complicate things if they didn't let it. She looked at him. Night had fallen completely, rendering him little more than a shadow in the gloom. But she saw the tension in his body, as if he were poised and waiting. It was her move. That's what he was telling her. "Since we're going to have to turn on the light sometime, let's go find some sheets," she suggested. He relaxed visibly. Message received and approved. He stood and gave a little nod of his head toward the hallway, tacitly asking her to follow him. She followed, refusing to analyze her faint sense of disappointment. End of Chap. 2 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. Sequel to "Funeral for a Friend" and "Dead Man Walking." It would behoove you to read those stories first. When last we left our heroes, they were in Mulder's father's house in West Tisbury, hiding from those who would do them harm.... BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "True Lies" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ======================================================= "I've seen the truth. Now what I want are the answers." --Dana Scully, "Paper Clip" ======================================================= Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA Dinner was clam chowder by candlelight in the back bedroom; Scully had decided that hanging sheets over the living room windows would draw too much attention, so she calmly informed Mulder that he had to stick to the back of the house for the next few days. The back rooms had not only drapes but shades as well, which Mulder tried to reassure Scully would make it impossible for anyone to see into the house. But she was like a bulldog on the subject. After darkfall, no electric lights. She didn't want to risk someone seeing two silhouettes against the window shades and figuring out that she wasn't there alone. Mulder sighed. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you had ulterior motives for keeping me stashed back here in the bedroom." She arched one eyebrow, not bothering to reply. He set the empty soup bowl on the dresser next to the bed and stretched out, clasping his hands beneath his head. "So, tell me what happened at the hearing." Scully set aside her bowl as well and tucked her legs up under her. "I told them the story we concocted." "Word for word?" She looked down at her hands as if her cuticles were the most interesting things she'd ever seen. "Sort of." "Sort of?" "I added a couple of things for effect." He arched his own eyebrow this time. "I told them that when you called to tell me about Dr. Arlensky, you pulled me away from a family dinner party my mother was throwing." "Why?" "Because I wanted to make it seem as if you and your obsessions were destroying every hope I had for a normal life." Ouch. He closed his eyes for a moment. "I also told them about the argument Bill and I had after I was pushed down the stairs by Kritschgau." "I don't imagine they were surprised." When he and Scully had figured out they were being scammed, she had become convinced that her brother's angry words had not been a coincidence. "Somebody planted those thoughts in Bill's head, Mulder." "I imagine the ground there was already fertile." As soon as the self-pitying words escaped his mouth, he regretted them. They sounded like he was fishing for a denial. Hell, maybe he was. Maybe he didn't want to think about just how damned close to reality the lie they had woven came. They WERE at odds. Had been from the beginning. He knew that Scully was unconvinced of the very things he was sure of---that there was intelligent life in the universe beyond earth--and that extraterrestrial influence was being seen and felt in their world even now. Her conviction that very human culprits were behind everything had not substantially changed over the past five years. The fact was, he and Scully had few points of consensus on this matter. But that had never seemed to matter after the first rocky weeks of their enforced partnership. Once he'd realized that Dana Scully was capable of using that fine mind to consider any number of unconventional theories, he'd begun to trust her to cover his ass and to keep him honest. He didn't need her to agree with him. He just needed her to tell him the truth. And she had. Or at least, that's what he'd always told himself. Until the goddamned cancer. As days had stretched into weeks, with no cure, no answers in sight, Mulder had begun to realize just how very little Scully did tell him. She hid nosebleeds from him, pretended she wasn't tired when he could see her hands shaking from exhaustion, never told him about the visits she made weekly to her oncologist. Just a few weeks ago, she'd hidden important information about a case from him because she was in deep denial about her condition. He searched her face now, looking for signs of pain or illness. She was milky pale, but she'd always been fair skinned. She'd had a long, stressful day--that could account for the purple shadows under her eyes. "Did you decide to tell them that your cancer had metastasized?" She looked up, met his eyes. "Yes. And I told them that I hadn't told you about it." Even though she insisted that her tumor was no larger now than it had been when it was diagnosed, the words still kicked him hard in the gut. Maybe it hadn't metastasized yet, but there was always that possibility, wasn't there? Hell, it was more than a possibility. It was a likelihood. They were living with a time bomb inside her, with no way to gauge how long they had left before everything they'd worked for and sacrificed exploded in their faces. Did Scully understand that? Did she understand that her cancer didn't belong to her alone? That it belonged to every person who loved her, who couldn't bear the thought of walking this earth if she were gone? He didn't think she did. He thought that she felt very alone in this fight against the demon lurking between the wall of her sinus and her brain. She shielded everyone else, tried to spare them with her silence and her strength. But in isolating herself, she was exiling those who loved her to a cold, dark territory. And he had the sickening feeling that if the cancer had, indeed, grown and spread, he would be the last to know. The lie she had told the panel was believable because it could so easily be the truth. And that scared the hell out of him. "I think they believed everything I told them." Scully fingered the hem of her pale green t-shirt. "I guess it's what they want to believe. That the X-Files division has been neutralized for good." She pressed her lips together into a thin, pale line. "You'll be pleased to know that everyone seemed shocked and dismayed by your death." He made a little huffing sound. "I'll bet." "Why now?" she asked. He arched his eyebrows, not sure what she was asking. "Why have they put on the big push to stop you now? You said yourself that you wonder if your ordeal in Rhode Island was part of a greater conspiracy. And now this." "I thought you blew off my theory about Rhode Island." His eyes narrowed slightly, remembering her cool wariness around him during those days following his flashback episodes after the deaths of Amy and David Cassandra. She'd been every inch Dr. Scully for at least three weeks, watching him like a hawk for any sign of trouble. Not that he could really blame her. He'd lost over 36 hours of memory--and regained a few memories that he didn't know if he could trust. Or wanted to trust. He'd pulled a gun on her, for God's sake, and for a brief, terrifying moment that drug-fuzzed night in Quonochontaug, he'd wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger and shut her up. He shuddered, wishing to God he could repress that memory for good. "I wasn't convinced--until now. But you were right--Dr. Goldstein's jail-cell suicide was too convenient. And the things you say you remember about the cigarette man and your family--they seem like...." She shook her head. "Manipulations?" he supplied. She nodded. He looked up at the ceiling, making a show of studying the smoked-glass light fixture. Scully had no idea how manipulative his new memories were. He hadn't told her everything, he thought, closing his eyes. He hadn't told her his suspicions about his mother and that black-lunged son of a bitch. "We must be getting close to something important," Scully commented, shifting beside him, rocking the bed. He opened his eyes to see that Scully had stretched out next to him on the bed, her hands clasped loosely over her flat stomach. Her eyes were closed. She looked so tired. He turned onto his side toward her, propping his head on one hand. His other hand moved restlessly in the space between their bodies, itching to reach out and touch the smooth, pale skin of her exposed throat. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss that slender white throat, to run his tongue over the delicate blue vein he could see pulsing just below her jawline. His body tightened pleasantly. He bent toward her, close enough that he could smell the remnant of her perfume. "Close to what?" he asked, not consciously meaning for his voice to come out in a low, seductive whisper--but not displeased that it had, either. Her brow furrowed slightly as if she were thinking, but she didn't open her eyes. "I don't know. I think that's what we have to find out." He lifted his fingers to her wrinkled forehead before he could think better of it. When she didn't immediately flinch at his touch, he began stroking the furrowed flesh, his touch light as a whisper. "The body in the ice was almost flawless, Scully. If it weren't just too damned convenient, I would have believed it." The corners of her lips upturned slightly. "I know." God, he wanted to kiss her right now, and it wasn't really a sexual urge. Well, not entirely. But it was more than just a surge of blood below his belt. It was also a surge of gratitude in his heart that this woman--this brilliant, kick-ass, take-no-shit-from-anyone woman--was also a woman of compassion and breath-taking loyalty. She knew every one of his faults and failings. She'd borne the brunt of his brushes with madness. And yet, here she was, still with him. In spite of the way he'd shattered her life. Suddenly the urge to kiss her turned into the urge to weep. He dropped his hand away from her forehead and rolled over, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He took a second to blink back the stinging moisture behind his eyes, then reached for the chowder bowls on the bedside table. "I'll clean up." She touched his arm. "You can't." He felt the bed shift behind him, and a moment later she was standing in front of him, gathering the bowls. She lingered for a moment, forcing him to look up at her. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight. "Dead men don't do dishes." He grinned in spite of himself, and her lips quirked just a bit in response before she left the room with the dishes. He stretched out on the bed again and lay there quietly, listening to the faint, comforting sounds of running water and clinking stoneware as he watched the light and shadows cast by the flickering candles play languorous games of chase across the ceiling. ************** 97 Vine Street Chilmark, MA The house had been left untouched for almost 20 years. Never sold, never rented to the scores of tourists who converged on the small island during the Season. It was a monument to memory, a relic of a time that had seemed so simple then--when, in truth, it had never been simple at all. The man who walked the halls of the long-neglected house did so in silence and darkness, accompanied by ghosts. He had a long memory, unclouded by time or other means. He remembered the house as if it were a part of his body. He navigated in the darkness with ease, his recollections shedding necessary light. He found the living room just as he remembered. The television was right where it had always been, an old, slightly battered relic of a backward past. He took a deep draw on the cigarette and almost smiled. Masters of a project so advanced, so world-altering that the aftershocks of their work would be felt for centuries--and yet they couldn't build a decent television. The girl had been sitting here. Right here. Clad in flannel because November nights were bitterly cold. Her thick, dark hair twisted into plaits down her back. At eight, she had been all arms and legs and an impudent, know- it-all grin that could knock a man off his feet. She'd called him Uncle Jamey. And the boy. What had the boy called him back then? It didn't really matter. In recent years, the boy had called him other names. Bastard. Son of a bitch. He supposed he'd deserved it. Time and exigency had dictated the rift between them. It was, like so many other things in his life, a necessary sacrifice. Every goal worth reaching required sacrifice, and he had given up many precious things to the cause. He drew another lungful of smoke. It soothed him like a lover's touch. His exhale released a curtain of smoke that shrouded him in tendrils of moonlit gray. He caught sight of himself in a mirror near the hallway door and moved closer, watching the smoke dance sinuously around his shadowy form. I am a ghost, he thought. He took another draw on the cigarette. End of part 3 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. Ah, heck--I've decided this is a series. So, archivists, at your leisure, archive "Funeral for a Friend," "Dead Man Walking," "True Lies" and this story under an umbrella title: BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS. I will repost the first three stories under this title. A special thanks to Missy Pennington for the use of a line found early in this piece. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "The Invisible Man" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ======================================================= "I'm not going to let this thing beat me. I've still got things to prove. To my family, to myself--but for my own reasons." --Dana Scully, "Memento Mori" ======================================================= Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA The light outside had begun to fade, painting the back bedroom with deep, purple shadows. Fox Mulder pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose and picked up his pen. "Fox Mulder was one lonely corpse," he wrote on the notepad. "It ain't easy being dead." He paused, pen still pressed to paper, and stared at what he'd written. What the HELL was he doing? He ripped the yellowed page from the notepad, crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room. It wobbled on the rim of the wastebasket, then fell onto the floor. He grimaced and let it lie. The point of putting pen to paper had been to chronicle the past few days, as if the retelling of events would somehow make them clearer, more logical. But he was too wired to concentrate. Scully had been gone too damned long. There were no grocery stores nearby, so Scully had gone to hit a few restaurants and pick up food for the next couple of days so that they wouldn't have to live off canned soup and crackers. But she left over three hours earlier. She should have been back by now. He stood up and paced in a tight, erratic circle. Four days had passed since his "death," and they were no closer to understanding who was behind the machinations that had brought them to this place. Someone had killed Michael Kritschgau in Mulder's apartment. Scully had feared--and Mulder hadn't dismissed the idea--that the bullet Kritschgau had taken was meant for Mulder. But why? Why kill Mulder now, after all he and Scully had been through for the past few years? Scully had cancer. She might well be dying--(he washed the word from his mind quickly, as if the speaking gave it power). If that happened, if he were forced to go on without Scully, the battle was lost. And "They" knew it. A soft whisper of metal on metal stopped his pacing and his whirlwind of thoughts. He listened as the front door of his father's house creaked open, heart beating more quickly at the realization she was back. In a moment, she would walk into this room, look at him with that half-quizzical, half-affectionate gaze of hers and ask him if he was okay. He held his breath in anticipation. The door clicked shut. Soft footfalls moved slowly into the house. And they were all wrong. Oh, shit. He glanced around the room, wondering if there were a safe hiding place anywhere. He had spent little time in this house--his father had moved here alone after the divorce, while Mulder had moved with his mother to Greenwich, Connecticut. Mulder had spent four weeks here every summer for four years, until he left to go to school in England. After that, it was a week at a time--then nothing but phone calls. Finally, even the phone calls were rare. He'd never considered this house "home." And he knew none of its secrets. Sounds out in the living room froze him in his tracks. Rustling of paper. Scrape of furniture moving. Clank of knick knacks being shuffled. The sounds of a thorough, efficient search. But beneath the professionalism, Mulder sensed an odd sort of desperation. An element of fear. And then, he heard another sound, soft and almost furtive. *Snick* Mulder's heart skipped a beat. A soft exhalation. More movement in the other room. And the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. The smoking son of a bitch was in the house. Mulder's first instinct was to walk right out to the living room and face the bastard, show him that he hadn't won yet. He went as far as to take a step forward when he realized he might be signing his death warrant--and Scully's. The sounds of searching moved closer to the room where he stood, still and wary. He had to do something soon or he'd be found. He glanced around the room again. He rejected the closet as the worst hiding place--The Cigarette Man was obviously looking for something, and he wouldn't leave the closet unsearched. Mulder doubted the man would leave any place unsearched. But he had to try to hide. And the only hiding place was right behind him. Under the bed. He moved quietly, catlike, dropping and rolling under the bed. His father's tastes had run to the simple and utilitarian; no dust-ruffles would shield him from prying eyes should the Smoking Man bend and look beneath the bed. But he was well-enough hidden from the casual observer. It would have to do. Dust floated around him, stirred by his rapid dash under the bed. He held his breath, letting the motes settle. When he next took a breath, it was a cautious, shallow inhalation. No dust tickled his nose. Thank God. The footsteps came closer. The bedroom door, which had stood half-shut, creaked open with a mild whine. From his under-bed hiding place, Mulder saw a pair of black wingtips move slowly, purposefully into the room. The pungent smell of tobacco smoke burned Mulder's nostrils. He took another shallow breath and willed himself not to cough. The sounds of searching continued. Drawers opened and shut. Bric-a-brac shifted. The closet door opened, and Mulder heard slightly muffled noises emerging as the Smoking Man surveyed the contents of that small storage room. Not much there, Mulder knew. A pair of water skis. Four old wool tweed jackets wrapped in plastic and guarded by mothballs. Six pairs of shoes lined up neatly. Every year, when Mulder rented out the house for the season, he made a trip up to the Vineyard to move his father's things up into the attic. And every fall, when the renters left, his ritual was to return those things to his father's room. It was a nonsensical thing to do, and yet he did it every year. This season, he hadn't lined up a renter. His mother wasn't hurting for income, and he'd had other matters to occupy his attention. So his father's things hung where he'd left them last October. And now, that black-lunged bastard was riffling through them with all the concern of a bargain shopper in a thrift store. Mulder clenched his fists and looked away from the feet standing in the open door of the closet. When he did, he saw something that made his heart skip a beat. The rumpled ball of paper he'd tossed at the wastebasket lay in plain sight. Oh, shit. The feet moved from the closet back out into the bedroom. The closet door shut firmly, and Mulder heard a soft exhalation that spoke of frustration. The Smoking Man was breathing hard--much harder than his exertions warranted. Was the tobacco finally taking its toll? Mulder wondered. If he'd had time to think about it, Mulder would find a certain poetic justice in the thought that the bastard might have a tumor. Eye for an eye, tumor for a tumor. But he didn't have time to think about it. Because the son of a bitch was walking slowly, steadily toward the wadded up paper lying by the wastebasket. If he opened it and read what Mulder had written-- The Smoking Man froze. Went utterly still. Mulder's brow crinkled with surprise. Then he heard the sound of the front door opening. Scully was back. * * * * * The smell of smoke hit her the second she opened the door. Dana Scully whipped her Sig Sauer from the holster tucked into the small of her back and checked the clip in one fluid movement. Then she walked slowly, quietly through the house, her heart in her throat. Mulder, she thought with every thudding pulse. Where is Mulder? She followed her nose toward the smoke. For the briefest of moments, she had wondered if her tumor might be affecting her sense of smell--olfactory hallucinations were a symptom of some brain tumors. But a glance around the living room had disabused her of that notion. The place had been tossed. Someone was looking for something. Or, more likely, someone. Slowly, she crept down the hall to the bedroom where she'd last seen Mulder. The door was open and she cautiously stepped forward, her Sig held at chin level, barrel pointed toward the ceiling. And immediately whipped forward into firing position, aimed right at the heart of the gray-clad man standing in the middle of the bedroom. He didn't flinch. Didn't freeze. Unhurriedly, he lifted his half-burnt cigarette to his mouth and took a long draw. His exhale created a cloud of silvery gray around his head, obscuring his eyes as he spoke in his oddly musical baritone. "You can put down the gun, Agent Scully. I'm unarmed." Her jaws were clenched so tightly she wondered if she might have broken a molar. She forced herself to relax slightly, loosen the rigid set of her mouth in order to speak. "If you don't mind, I'll hold on to it for a while. What are you doing here?" "Resurrecting old ghosts," was his cryptic reply. She almost pulled the trigger for that answer alone. But she steadied her twitchy finger. "Did you think you'd find them under the sofa cushions?" "I didn't realize you were staying here." She didn't believe that for a minute. "How did you get in?" The lock hadn't shown any signs of tampering. "I have a key." "Bullshit." His eyebrows rose slightly, a sardonic half-smile lifting the right side of his mouth. "I'm an old family friend, Agent Scully. Or didn't Agent Mulder ever tell you that?" Scully's skin crawled. No, she thought. He hadn't. Not in so many words. But she'd suspected it. "I'm deeply sorry about what happened to Agent Mulder. You must feel a terrible loss." Her nostrils flared as if she'd smelled something rancid. "I don't need your condolences." "Truly." The additional word was thick with the sound of truth. And somehow, that single word stretched Scully's control to the absolute limit. Her finger curled over the trigger. The small metal piece moved ever so slightly. "Get out." He didn't move. "I said, get out," she said, her voice rising. She didn't like the sound of it, the evidence of her control slipping. "I think it's time that you and I have a chat, Agent Scully." "I think not." She took a step forward. Her finger tightened on the trigger, moving it another hair closer to firing. "In fact, I can't think of a thing you might have to say that I'd want to hear. Ever." Her mouth curved into a mirthless smile. Her stomach clenched. For the first time since she entered the room, she thought she saw a flicker of fear in the Smoking Man's eyes. Good. "I could kill you right now," she said, pleased that her voice emerged calm and dispassionate. "Bury your body in the back yard, clean the place up. Nobody would even report you missing, would they? You don't exist. You're the invisible man." He gave no obvious sign of unease. But a tiny droplet of perspiration slid down his forehead. Scully's body surged with fierce satisfaction. She took a step closer. The barrel of her Sig was less than a foot from the Smoking Man's heart. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you." He stared back at her for a moment, then lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a final draw. Slowly, he turned and stubbed out the butt in an ashtray on the bedside table. He turned back to her, his expression calm. "Because I may know how to give you back your life." End of Part 4 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, eventual MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. Special thanks to Missy Pennington and Alanna Baker for playing editor for me---this section greatly benefited from their suggestions. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Face Off" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== "You can't expect the truth from a man who deals in lies." - Walter Skinner, "Memento Mori" ====================================================== FBI Academy Quantico, VA The body lying on the autopsy slab was a John Doe, one among many gunshot victims that passed through city morgues on a daily basis. At least, that's what Special Agent Joy Pennington had been told when the cadaver arrived at her section three days ago. Joy taught advanced pathology at the FBI Academy, a job she'd been assigned almost four years ago, when Dr. Scully had been reassigned to field duty. The cadaver was a teaching cadaver. Pennington knew Agent Scully in passing--Scully consulted with her from time to time, although the field agent preferred to do her own post mortem examinations. Pennington understood. She preferred to do her own autopsies, too. She possessed the built- in arrogance of the truly talented--she didn't think anyone could do the job better than she could. The cadaver was a male, between the ages of 35 and 45, dark hair and a long, relatively slim physique. Like all teaching cadavers, he was listed as a John Doe--the family had donated the body to science, the information card stated, after his death. Joy was not performing an autopsy on this body---that had already taken place, as evidenced by the sutured Y-incision that traversed the cadaver's torso. Currently, she was teaching the finer points of entry and exit wounds, which was why this particular cadaver had been delivered to her doorstep. Cause of death, according to the autopsy report, was a self- inflicted gunshot wound. Suicide. Entry wound on the right side of the cranium; an exceedingly destructive exit wound had taken off approximately 1/3 of his cranium, obliterating the lower left half of his face. Nasty, Pennington thought. But not suicide. The bullet path, according to the X-rays she'd taken when the cadaver arrived, showed a distinguishable downward trajectory. To have achieved that angle, the position of the hand holding the gun would have been awkward, to say the least. And suicides didn't take the awkward route, as a rule. The name of the medical examiner on the autopsy report was Dr. Ellery Hale, working out of the Fairfax County Morgue. Pennington glanced at her watch--a little over an hour until class. There was time to call Dr. Hale, see if he had more insight into this case. Things just weren't adding up, and Joy Pennington hated when things didn't add up. The phone was answered after two rings. "Fairfax County Morgue." "Dr. Ellery Hale, please." There was a brief pause before the woman spoke again. "I'm sorry--there's no Dr. Hale working out of this office." Pennington frowned. She looked at the autopsy report in her hand. Maybe there had been a mix up. She identified herself to the clerk. "I have a John Doe that came from the Fairfax County Morgue, and I have a question about it. Would it be possible for you to look up the autopsy file number and tell me the name of the medical examiner attending?" She gave the clerk the file number. After a long pause, the clerk said, "Agent Pennington, file #062863 is a 64-year-old black female. Is that the one you're looking for?" Pennington looked over her shoulder at the cadaver laid out on the slab behind her. "No, it's not. There must be some sort of glitch on my end. Thank you for your time." She hung up the phone and crossed back to the autopsy table, file tucked beneath her elbow. A frown creasing her forehead, she opened the file again and glanced over the autopsy report one more time. Something was definitely wrong here. She flipped to the final page, an attachment that would tell her which of her Academy supervisors had signed off on the cadaver. Her eyebrows rose slightly when she saw the name scrawled across the bottom on the form. Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner. What the hell did HE have to do with this? She frowned at the form for a moment, no longer certain what to do. If an A.D. had signed off on the delivery of the cadaver, something must be up. One of the first things her academy instructors had told her was that there were times when you simply did your job and asked no questions. This, no doubt, was one of those times, she thought, pressing her lips into a thin line as she looked down at the cadaver. Ah, what the hell. She'd never much cared for that lesson. She crossed to the phone and dialled F.B.I. Headquarters. * * * * * Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA "Give me back my life?" Dana Scully repeated the smoking man's last words slowly. A dull, hot ache had formed in the base of her skull, throbbing with every heartbeat. "It has come to my attention, Agent Scully, that your condition may not be irreversible." The man in the charcoal gray suit reached into his suit jacket. Scully's heart rate doubled--as did the pain in her head. She tightened her grip on the gun, waving it slightly toward him. "Don't you dare." He looked up, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. "I told you, Agent Scully, I'm not armed." He held open his jacket, showing her the pack of Morleys in his inside pocket. He withdrew the pack. Scully shook her head. "This is a non-smoking section. Put them back." The look of amusement on his face intensified, but his fingers twitched slightly, betraying his craving. He closed his jacket and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel. "I believe you are familiar with the work of the late Dr. Benita Charne-Sayre, are you not, Agent Scully?" She was. She'd had a couple of days in jail to read up on the virologist's papers on viruses the previous fall, when she'd been held in contempt of Congress for refusing to disclose Mulder's whereabouts. "Dr. Charne-Sayre was a virologist, not an oncologist. She wasn't doing cancer research." "She was a brilliant research scientist," the man said. "Her Variola virus study had led her to some rather startling discoveries regarding a certain vermiform organism found by miners in the Tunguska region--discoveries that Dr. Charne-Sayre theorized might one day revolutionize the way we treat malignant tumors." Scully was growing impatient. The longer this man stood here, spinning his web of lies, the longer she had to worry about where the hell Mulder was. But she couldn't turn her back on what he was saying. Not yet. "How did you come by this information?" He didn't answer. Instead, he looked around the bedroom. "Bill Mulder was a most unimaginative man." The king of the non sequitur, Scully thought. She clenched her jaws in irritation. The pain in her head flared in response. "His wife, however--" He glanced at Scully. "You've met Caroline Mulder, I believe." "Yes." His eyes softened slightly, a far-away look coming over his time- worn face. "Youth is wasted on the young, Agent Scully." Scully drew a swift breath through her nostrils. One more out- of-the-blue observation and she was going to drill a hole in the man's ugly blue and red striped tie--and the heart beneath it. "Cut the crap. Either tell me what you know about my cancer or get out. I'm not in the mood to play your games." The smoking man took a shuffling step to the right. Scully shifted with him, jerking her pistol in his direction. The smoking man settled and exhaled. "So distrusting, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder was no doubt an excellent teacher." Every time he said Mulder's name, his voice was like a rasp across her frayed nerves. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say about Agent Mulder, you lying son of a bitch. I don't want to hear his name cross your lips again. Understand?" An odd look hovered around his eyes. If Scully didn't know better, she might believe he honestly regretted Mulder's "death." But she knew better. She'd been there in New Mexico when the bastard cooly ordered Mulder's hiding place to be burned. And he was behind what happened to her sister. To Mulder's father. Behind her own abduction. The smoking bastard was like some fucking puppet master, yanking all the strings. Suddenly, the notion of just pulling the trigger and ending this whole nightmare once and for all seemed like the most logical act in the world. "I think I'm going to shoot you, after all," she said aloud. Her voice was low. Detached. It was an intonation she'd heard before--in Mulder's voice that awful night in Quonochontaug, when his demons had almost cost them both their lives. That realization should scare the hell out of her. But it didn't. "I don't think that would be wise, Agent Scully." "Why not?" She was warming to this notion with an ease that would be frightening if she weren't so damned tired of standing here, looking at this son of a bitch. "I have nothing to lose, do I?" "You're not suited for murder, Agent Scully. You have a conscience. You'd regret it for the rest of your days." A harsh laugh escaped her lips. "I don't have too many of those left, do I?" She met his gaze without flinching. "And I have a feeling it would be worth any minor discomfort the action gave me. So I think maybe you should leave now. While you can." He gave a little nod and moved toward the bedroom door. "I misjudged your fortitude, Agent Scully. I think perhaps we all did. But I do have information that you may find...enlightening." "Get out," Scully commanded, walking toward him slowly, forcing him to move out of the bedroom. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say. You've taken all of my peace of mind that you're going to get." Without turning back to face her, he said, "Perhaps you will be more willing to listen the next time we meet." Not if I see you coming, Scully thought. She followed slowly behind him, her arms beginning to tremble with weariness. The smoking man walked through the darkened house with no sign of hesitation. But Scully sensed an unaccustomed tension in him, evident in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his fingers clenched and unclenched as he walked. If her head weren't pounding like a bass drum, she might have taken time to wonder what had him on edge. But all she wanted now was for him to get the hell out of this house so she could find out where Mulder was and if he was all right. The smoking man paused on the porch, turning to face her. With an air of unconcerned defiance, he pulled a cigarette from the pack of Morleys from his pocket. He placed the cigarette between his lips and lit the tip, watching her through the hazy gray curtain of smoke. "Again, Agent Scully, my condolences on your loss." His lips curved in a gruesome parody of sympathy. Scully almost pulled the trigger then and there. She waited until he was down the steps before she closed the door and leaned back against it, closing her eyes. Pain scorched the base of her skull. But she gave herself only a second's respite before she pushed away from the door and headed toward the back bedroom. The soft sound of furtive movement drifted down the hall toward her. Mulder, she thought, relief washing through her in a cold wave. He had been hiding somewhere. "Don't come out," she said softly, her voice just loud enough to be audible in the bedroom. The sounds of movement fell away to silence. She stood in the hallway, still and quiet, listening to the faint hum of electricity coursing through the walls. Outside, the muted growl of a car engine rose, then fell and faded into the distance. The smoking man leaving, she thought. But she still didn't give Mulder permission to emerge from hiding. She listened, instead. She fancied that she could hear his breathing, the soft shush-shush of his lungs expanding and contracting. She imagined the adrenaline-rushed cadence of his blood pumping through his tense body. Ten feet or more separated them, but for a second, she could almost feel him right there beside her, the heat of his body enveloping her as he invaded her space and made it his own. Their own. Their connection was like nothing she'd ever known. It transcended mere attraction, mere companionship, mere affection. It was visceral, as if their lives were grafted together, bound by time and space and need and knowledge until they were too intricately intertwined to ever be separated again. It terrifed her. It thrilled her. Mulder's softened voice broke the thick silence. "Can I come out now?" She chuckled low in her throat. The sound surprised her--she had almost forgotten she knew how to laugh. "Yes." He emerged from the bedroom, his hair a mess, his clothing dusty. She'd never felt more like kissing him in her life. And at the moment, she couldn't think of one good reason why she shouldn't. She'd actually taken a step forward when Mulder spoke. "I think he may have been telling the truth, Scully. I think he has a good idea of what will cure you." His words stopped her short. She sagged against the wall. "He's a liar." "He's been known to tell the truth when it suits his purposes," Mulder said softly. His gaze searched her face, making her feel suddenly naked and exposed. "I'm tired of guessing whether or not he's telling the truth, Mulder," she said quietly. "And I'm tired of living my life--or what's left of it--because it suits someone else's purpose. I can't afford false hopes right now, Mulder. I can't go off on tangents, chasing phantom cures." She pressed her lips tightly together. The tiny movement sent a new flare of agony through her head and coursing down to her fingertips. Prickles of pain sparked along her nerve endings--so different from the earlier tingle of awareness Mulder's appearance had evoked. She couldn't hide her wince. Mulder was at her side in a second, his eyes wide with concern. "Scully?" "Just a headache," she assured him. His gaze was uncomfortably intense. "Maybe you'd feel better if you put this down now." He held out his hand. She followed his gaze to her right hand, which still clutched her Sig in a white-knuckled grip. She stared. She had forgotten she was holding the gun. "Mulder--" She swallowed hard and held out the gun. He took it from her, gently unfolding her fingers from the gun butt. "I almost pulled the trigger, Mulder. I knew exactly where to aim. And where I'd bury his body." His eyes were shadowed in the darkened hallway, but she didn't need to see his eyes to feel his intense gaze. "I told myself I was bluffing, but I don't think I was," she continued when he didn't comment. He shifted her gun from one hand to the other, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Finally, he clicked on the safety and tucked the Sig barrel-first into the front waistband of his jeans. Her mouth went dry. "I'm glad you didn't shoot him," Mulder said. She dragged her eyes away from his waistband. "Why? I can't think of one reason why I shouldn't have drilled that son of a bitch." "Because I think he knows something we need to know." He reached out and closed his hands over her arms. His touch was like a bolt of electricity--she jerked at their warmth. "Sorry." He loosened his grip, his hands fluttering up to her shoulders. "You're wound up tighter than a drum, Scully. No wonder your head hurts." After so many years, his touch should be as familiar as her own. But it wasn't. Every time seemed new. Magic. His hands didn't stir a firestorm of sexual heat, although sublimated passion simmered beneath each touch. Instead, his fingers seemed to melt through to her very core, to touch the woman no one else saw. Not even she herself. And he reached her so effortlessly, so thoroughly, that sometimes she doubted he even knew what it was he did to her. God knows, she never told him. God knows, he never asked. Amazing how a relationship could be so intimate and so distant at the same time. His fingers closed over her shoulders, pressing the taut muscles he found there. Squeezed and rolled the aching bands of tension, making her groan against her will. "Did I hurt you?" His voice was a whisper in her ear. "No," she admitted. They were drifting toward the bedroom. His hands continued working on her neck and shoulders, not too gentle, not too rough. One kind of tension was beginning to melt away, while another was building, pooling inside her. "I left the food in the floor by the door. I should go get it." "It'll keep." She didn't know what was about to happen, and she wasn't certain she gave a damn. Darkness spilled into the room, chasing away the last of the daylight. Scully shut her eyes against the gloom and let Mulder guide her deeper into the bedroom. Her thigh bumped against something. The bed, she thought, feeling the mattress give. His breath stirred the hair behind her ear. "Lie down, Scully." Her mind painted vivid pictures from those three low, whispery words. *Lie down, Scully.* Her body beneath his, soft to his hard. *Lie down, Scully.* Opening to him. Taking him into her. *Lie down, Scully.* Heat spread through her belly and into her thighs. Her limbs became pliant, too heavy to support. The bed beckoned, commanded her acquiescence. Without another thought, she obeyed. End of part 5 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. Again, special thanks to my tag-team editors, Missy Pennington and Alanna Baker. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Internal Affairs" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== "She's a problem. A much bigger problem than I was led to believe." - Alex Krycek, "Sleepless" ====================================================== Walter Skinner's Office Washington, DC Night was falling, cool and blue, outside the window of Walter Skinner's fourth floor office in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building. None of the reports he looked through now were in need of such scrutiny; they were an excuse not to go back to the empty, impersonal Crystal City apartment he called home these days. Outside the door to his inner sanctum, the faint sounds of Kimberly closing up shop for the day helped temper his sense of isolation. When she knocked on the door and stuck her head into the office, he looked up with a smile. "I'm about to head out, sir, but an Agent Pennington is here," Kimberly told him. "She says she needs to see you." His smile faded. Damn it, that M.E. from Quantico. He'd been dodging her phone calls all afternoon. He hadn't been able to bring himself to have Michael Kritschgau's body cremated--he'd already burned one body to cover up the truth, and that was his limit. So while Scully had scattered the ashes of a lab monkey over the beach on Martha's Vineyard, Michael Kritschgau's body was delivered to the Quantico morgue in hopes that the teaching M.E.s would simply use the cadaver in their classes and then give it a proper burial. Unfortunately, it appeared that Agent Joy Pennington was one M.E. who didn't go with the flow. He sighed. "Send her in." Might as well get it over with. The door opened and he stood. And stared. She wasn't the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen--her hair was an ordinary blond, more ashy than golden, worn in a short, no- fuss bob that probably fared better under a scrub cap than a more stylish cut would have. Her green eyes were a little too large for her face, her nose a bit too snub and sprinkled with freckles. But she had a body that could knock a man on his ass. Tall--eye level with him despite modest two-inch heels. Long, long, long legs, stretching forever beneath a slim gray silk skirt that ended a couple of inches short of her knees and hugged her flared hips. Her blouse was a dusty-rose silk shell that whispered across her full breasts as she held out her hand to him. "Sir." He took her hand. Almost forgot to shake it. A small smile flirted with her lips for a moment, as if she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. Thank God this woman was hidden away in the morgue at Quantico. Give her a job at a field office, and the whole damned section would probably grind to a halt. "What can I do for you, Agent Pennington?" Skinner asked, impressed as hell at how steady his voice sounded. "I'm sorry to barge in on you without an appointment, Assistant Director Skinner, but for some reason, I couldn't get anyone to return my phone calls. I received a teaching cadaver at the Academy yesterday afternoon. A John Doe, six feet, 170 pounds, dark hair, gray eyes." She put her briefcase on the empty chair nearest her and retrieved a file. "I always arrange for X-rays of any cadaver that comes in--and on this body, I found something interesting." She handed Skinner a neatly typed report. "On the autopsy report, the cause of death was listed as 'suicide.' But these X-rays, and a further examination of the body, led me to the conclusion that the head wound this John Doe suffered was not self-inflicted." Damn, Skinner thought, even as his body tightened pleasantly at her display of intellect. "Perhaps you're mistaken." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't think so, sir." He glanced over the report. Slight downward trajectory in the bullet wound--whoever had killed Kritschgau hadn't done the best job he could have. First mistaking his target, then bungling the suicide set-up--lucky for this guy that Scully had decided to let Mulder stay "dead." The guy probably didn't even know he'd screwed up the job. "I'll get in touch with the M.E. on record, give him your report. Good work, Agent Pennington." He put his hand on the small of her back and gave her a slight nudge forward. Beneath the soft silk, her skin was warm and firm. The tightness in Skinner's body was swiftly going from pleasant to almost uncomfortable. Pennington slipped away from his touch and turned to face him. "Sir, why did you sign off on the cadaver delivery report? That's not usual procedure--an A.D. getting involved in low level protocol." "Agent Pennington, it is not your place to question my procedures," Skinner barked in his best drill sergeant voice. She was undeterred. "And whose would that be? Dr. Ellery Hale's? I called the Fairfax County Morgue to talk to him, but the clerk said there was no Dr. Hale connected to the morgue." Her small, rounded chin jutted out. "With all due respect, sir---something is not right about this case, and it's my duty--" "Your duty, Agent Pennington, is to obey the orders of your superiors." Sweat trickled down the back of Skinner's neck. He was starting to sound a little too much like that smoking bastard for his own peace of mind. "As for the alleged discrepancies on the autopsy report, maybe you misread the signature." "It was typewritten below his name." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "SIR." "Perhaps it was a typo." Damn, she had him scrambling like a two bit shyster. His stomach was beginning to burn with anxiety. Her full pink lips pressed together in annoyance. "I don't think so, sir." Her words were polite, but he heard the real message in her tone. "Don't bullshit me," was what she was really saying. He'd had the bad fortune to send Kritschgau's body to an agent who actually gave a damn about truth and integrity. Time to pull rank and end this. "Agent Pennington, I will take care of the matter. It is now the business of my office. Thank you for calling it to my attention." Let it go, Pennington. Just let it go. Her eyes narrowed. He could tell she had no intention of letting it go. But he didn't give her the chance to argue, ushering her politely but firmly to the door. She turned in the doorway, her green eyes glittering with anger and something else Skinner couldn't quite make out. "Thank you so much for your time and attention, sir." Fuck you, sir. Skinner's mouth twitched with the completely inappropriate urge to grin. Another good reason this woman didn't belong in the field--she had the lousiest poker face he'd ever seen. But any thought of smiling faded before she was out of sight. Skinner had a sinking feeling that Joy Pennington wouldn't let go of her suspicions so easily. He'd have to arrange for the removal of Kritschgau's body from the Quantico morgue. No, he amended. He couldn't pull anyone else into this mess. Only he, Scully and Mulder knew the truth about whose body the Alexandria Police had found in Mulder's apartment. They couldn't afford to involve anyone else. He frowned, knowing what that meant. God, he hated morgues. * * * * * Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA Though dusk was stealing the last of the light from the western sky, Scully hadn't yet pulled down the shades, and the fading light filtered through the filmy white curtains, painting Scully in rose and saffron. She lay supine, her eyes closed, her face like sun-splashed porcelain, her hands folded over her flat abdomen. Her body barely made a dent in the queen-sized mattress of his father's bed. Sometimes, Mulder forgot how tiny she was. Her delicate appearance was deceptive, he knew. She was strong and brave and fierce. But right now, she was in pain. Head pain. He couldn't think the words without bowing to the truth of her cancer. It existed, hovered in her head and over their lives like the sword of Damocles. And even though she said her headache was from tension, that her words to the FBI panel had been lies, that her tumor hadn't grown-- --he still wondered. What if she was keeping it from him? It wouldn't be the first time "I'm fine" had been a lie. He took a deep breath and started to kneel on the bed next to her. But as he did so, an image filled his mind--Scully's small, firm ass cradled between his thighs as he straddled her. Every movement pressing his groin against her.... He stopped short at the edge of the bed. "Uh, Scully--sit up." Her eyes flitted open and met his gaze. "You just told me to lie down." "I changed my mind." He bit back an embarrassed grin. One red eyebrow twitched upward, but she did as he asked, tucking her legs up Indian-style. "I was just getting comfortable," she grumbled. He knelt behind her on the bed. "You won't regret this." "Promises, promises." She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, but he caught her head between his hands and gently made her look forward. "This jacket's gotta go," he murmured, sliding the gray silk suit jacket over her shoulders. And began to question the wisdom of that act when he saw that all she wore underneath was a thin white tank-tee. The shoulder straps were three narrow strings, leaving him in no doubt of a very disturbing fact. Dana Scully was not wearing a bra. Okay, he could do this. He was the king of sexual self control. But his hands trembled anyway when he reached down to unclip her holster from the back waistband of her gray silk trousers. He pulled her Sig Sauer from the front of his jeans, ignoring the little quiver that shot through his groin as the barrel of the gun ruffled the line of crisp, dark hair beneath his navel. He tucked the gun into the holster, set them both on the bedside table and turned back to Scully. Where to start, where to start? He touched the trapezoid muscles at the top of her shoulders. They were hard as rock. He curled his fingers, digging into the muscle. Scully released a low groan of pleasure. The sound jolted through Mulder like a bolt of electricity. God. Okay, he could do this. Breathe, Mulder. He dug his thumbs into the ridge of muscle between her shoulder blades. She released a soft sigh and rolled her back slightly, leaning into his touch. God. He had to get his brain out of his zipper. This wasn't for him, wasn't about what he needed. It was for her. It was about comfort and security. It was about letting her know he could give her something besides worry and pain and loss...something besides a fucking death sentence. God knows, he owed her more than he'd ever be able to pay. She seemed determined to stick by him in their quest, despite everything---and he didn't have the guts to fight her on it. But the least he owed her was some comfort. A respite. Besides they had things to talk about--not the least important of which was the unwelcome visit they'd received from that smoking son of a bitch. Underneath the bed during Scully's face off with the smoking man, Mulder had had time to think. And he'd realized something about the smoking man's visit. Something that might be important, if they could just figure out what it meant. He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts "Scully, we need to talk. Actually--I need to talk, and I need you to hear me out." She went very still for a moment. "Okaaaayyy...." "I was thinking about the cigarette man. Why he was here." "He was looking for you. Maybe he suspects you're still alive." Mulder shook his head, even though she couldn't see the gesture. "No, I think it was something else that brought him here." "Something else?" "Yeah. Didn't he seem a little--nervous--to you?" "He had a gun pointed at his heart." "It was more than that." Mulder remembered the strange sense of tension he'd felt emanating from the smoking man while he searched the bedroom closet. He had almost smelled the man's desperation. "I think he was looking for something. Something he thought he would find in this house." "Mulder--" He circled his thumbs against her taut shoulder blades, eliciting a gasp that effectively silenced her. "I had a few minutes to watch him before you got here, Scully. I know what I saw. The bastard was sweating." "What could he find here? And why wait until now to look here for it? Your father died over two years ago." "Maybe he didn't know he needed it until now." He frowned, the words sounding lame even to himself. "I'll admit, I don't have all the answers here. But I think there may be more going on here than we think." She didn't answer. "No comment?" She shrugged, her shoulders sliding under his hands. One of his fingers tangled in the shoulder strap of her tank-tee, pulling the fabric tight over her breasts. From his position above and slightly behind her, he got a marvelous view of her nipples tightening under the thin cloth. God. He swallowed hard and pulled back, looking at the wall across from the bed, where the last dying rays of the sun painted apricot streaks against the sheet rock. There was more they needed to talk about. One more thing that the smoking man had said to Scully. He knew she didn't want to hear it. And he didn't really want to say it. But it couldn't be avoided. "I also think he might have been telling the truth when he said there may be a way to cure your cancer." Scully expelled a harsh sigh. "Mulder--" "Somebody gave you that tumor, Scully." "We don't know that." "We do. You know it, Scully. You're a scientist-- you've seen the evidence---those women in Allentown, all with the same exact type of tumor---it's not a coincidence, nor is it a fluke of nature. Someone did that to those women. Someone has done this to you. And I'm betting someone knows how to fix it." "I'm not dancing to that man's music, Mulder." He stroked her upper arms, not putting much pressure on the muscles, just caressing, soothing. "I'm not suggesting that you do. I'm just saying that maybe he gave us some clues we can work with. He mentioned a virologist." "Dr. Charne-Sayre," she supplied. "You explained to me about the genetic markers you think were implanted in every person who ever had a Smallpox vaccination. And Dr. Charne-Sayre was an expert on the Smallpox virus." "I'm not denying that she had something to do with that particular conspiracy. But I can't see how her studies into Variola viruses could possibly tie into oncology." She sighed, her shoulders shifting beneath his hands. He kept his gaze focused on the wall, but his mind supplied a vivid image of her breasts rising and falling with the sigh, the small peaks of her nipples whispering softly against the thin cotton. He closed his eyes. The image remained. Focus, Mulder. For God's sake, focus. "You're the scientist, Scully, so I'll bow to your wisdom on this." She went very still. She's speechless, he thought. Do I bow to her wisdom so seldom? Of course he did. He was a know-it-all sack of shit. But he was working on it. "I just want you to promise to give it some thought, okay? Maybe he wasn't telling the whole truth, but something he said may be the clue we need to figure this whole thing out and get you well." She seemed to sag a little, her head hunching forward. "I know you believe we'll find a cure, Mulder. I find a lot of strength in your belief." (don't say it don't say it don't say it) "But we both have to face the fact that there may not be a cure." "Scully--" She hunched further forward, her elbows leaning against her thighs. "Even if it's a test those bastards put me through, we have no guarantee that they had a cure. That may have been the whole point of the experiment for all we know." His hands moved restlessly over her back, stroking the ridges of her spine through the soft cotton. She was so much thinner than she used to be, he realized, his fingers delicately probing the sharp edges of her vertebrae. Was she eating right? Getting enough sleep? He kept up the litany of mental questions--anything to ignore the words she was saying. If he didn't acknowledge the possiblity that there would be no fourth-quarter miracle play, he could deny that such a possibility existed at all. His hands moved on their own, gently manipulating tight muscles, soothing them. Her words died away in the twilight-darkened room, leaving a cool, thick silence punctuated only by the sound of cotton brushing against silken skin and the harmony of their soft breathing. She grew pliant beneath his hands, her body sliding back against his. He shifted slightly, allowing her to settle firmly between his thighs. The position made his legs ache, but he didn't care. Pain was penance, and he had a lot of penance to do. "You're pretty good at this, Mulder." she murmured. Her words were slurred with weariness. "Where'd you learn to do this?" "It's one of the few good things I brought out of my misspent youth." He moved his hands down her arms, massaging her forearms, wrists, hands. He gave attention to each finger in turn, enjoying her soft sighs of pleasure. For now, it was enough, he thought. He was making her happy in this place, this time. It would all change soon-- it always did. But it was enough for now. He slid his hands back upward, giving special attention to her biceps and triceps. She made a low, murmuring noise deep in her throat and lowered her head, her chin resting against her breastbone. Her hair spilled forward, baring the lily-white nape of her neck. His fingers went still against her arms as he stared at that patch of revealed flesh. The delicate ridge where her neck met her shoulders was like a magnet to his gaze. For a month or so four years ago, that ridge of flesh and bone had haunted his dreams--and a few of his waking hours as well. It was a reminder, then as now, of a cramped make-shirt cell in Icy Cape, Alaska, where he and Scully had learned the first in a long line of lessons about trust and partnership. She had been afraid--terrified, he amended, remembering her wide eyes and quivering chin when she had walked into his small, cramped prison and told him that they'd found a way to kill the parasite she and the others suspected he was harboring. He'd let her examine him for signs of the parasite. Her first tentative touch had sent a spark of electricity coursing through his tense body. He'd closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sensation. By the time she finished her exam, he was skating on the thin edge of control. Her small, embarrased chuckle had done him in. As she'd turned to leave, he'd grabbed her, more roughly than he'd meant to. She'd gasped, and he immediately loosened his grip, gentling her as if she were a frightened mare. He'd brushed the hair from the nape of her neck, baring it to him just as it was bared to him now. He'd closed his hand over her neck, his palm curling around that small ridge of bone and muscle. His hand closed over the ridge now. Her skin was hot silk beneath his fingers. Slowly, he stroked her neck, smoothing away the last of the tension in her neck and shoulders. She melted against him, her back curving into his abdomen, fitting their bodies together like spoons. His body's response was instant. As tightly as her buttocks fit against his groin, she had to be feeling it, too. But she didn't move. Didn't pull away. His heart scampered like a wild thing in his chest. He went still, his mind reeling with the sudden jumble of thoughts and sensations. He was hard and growing harder, his erection pressing against her backside. He could hardly draw a full breath now. And still, she didn't move away. Didn't even try. And the soft, silky, oh-so-tempting nape of her neck was inches from his face. He couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to. And he didn't want to. At the moment, he couldn't think of one good reason why he shouldn't kiss that slender white neck. So he did. Soft. Pliant. Hot against his lips. He closed his eyes, a soft groaning sigh rumbling in his chest. He moved his lips over her flesh, tracing the curves and planes of her neck. He flicked his tongue against the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. She tasted salty-sweet. Somehow, he'd known she would. He kissed the tender flesh beneath her ear, wishing she'd arch her neck a bit, give him better access to the soft underside of her chin. But her head remained bowed, chin to chest. Mulder drew his lips away from her neck. "Scully?" She didn't respond. "Scully?" he murmured again. Nothing but the slow rise and fall of her breathing. She was asleep. Mulder groaned, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling as he fought to get his body back under some semblance of control. Smooth, Mulder. You're such a red hot lover that you knock 'em out cold. Stifling a self-deprecating chuckle, he gently moved away from her, catching her as she slumped when he removed the support of his body. She stirred then, making a soft, mewling sound of protest. He soothed her with wordless murmurs, helping her into a more comfortable position in the bed. She didn't open her eyes when he covered her with a crocheted comforter. He moved away from the bed, retreating to a neutral corner to calm his straining body. That had been close. Really close. Even after he'd realized she was asleep, he'd considered waking her up and finishing what he'd started. But would she have wanted him to? He remembered her surprising response when he greeted her at the door the day before, the way her hands had clutched his ass and pulled him against her. Nothing remotely platonic about that action. But she hadn't followed up. Hadn't so much as sent a flirting glance his way since then. She'd just been cool, level-headed Dr. Scully, in control. Always in control. He wanted to see her lose control, he realized with a flicker of surprise. He wanted to see her give it all up, to let it go. He wanted her to lose control with him. Not with some fucking nutcase in Philadelphia who heard voices coming from his tattoo. With him. He looked across the room. Night had finally swallowed the last of the daylight, and he could barely make out her still, sleeping form against the pillows. But his memory supplied the missing picture. The moon-pale skin and copper-fire hair. The small, firm breasts and flared hips. His chin set with childlike determination. Mine. End of part 6 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: Mild R for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. Thanks go to Missy Pennington, Jenn Francis and Alanna Baker for their editing help. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Close Encounters" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== "You can hide the truth, but not for long." - Fox Mulder, "Fallen Angel" ====================================================== Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA Dana Scully woke in an unfamiliar place. Not an unusual occurrence, given her background and the nature of her job. She blinked away the sleep blurring her vision and stared at the ceiling above her. It was high and smooth, washed with flickering gold and shadows. She looked down at herself, at the gray and crimson afghan covering her prostrate body. Memory seeped through the cobwebs of sleep. She was on the Vineyard. With Mulder. She stretched slowly, spreading her fingers and toes. Her arms rose toward the ceiling, muscles clenching, lengthening with her stretch. A low, groaning sound of pleasure/pain rumbled from her throat. A soft intake of breath answered her. Scully turned her head to the left, toward the noise. Her heart caught. Mulder sat a few feet away, in a low, boxy armchair too small for his lanky body. He was slumped low, his jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, bare feet flat on the floor. His lean, bare torso glowed like burnished gold under the flickering caress of a half-dozen candles positioned around the room. His arms trailed over the sides of the chair, fingertips almost brushing the floor. His chin rested against his chest as if he were napping, but his eyes were open. Looking at her. For a moment she couldn't catch her breath. She just stared back at him, her heart jackhammering somewhere in the vicinity of the throat. He sat up in one slow, graceful motion, arms sliding forward to rest on his thighs. His hair was damp--from the shower?--and she watched in rapt fascination as a single rivulet of water trickled slowly down the furrow of dark hair bisecting his lean torso and plunging beneath the unbuttoned waistband of his faded jeans. Scully swallowed. Hard. "Hungry?" Mulder asked. She stared at him, unable to think of a coherent reply. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Conceited bastard, she thought without rancor. Of course, the way he looked now, he had every right to be. She forced her gaze away from him, knowing that sleep and his naked torso so nearby had effectively stripped her of her precious self-control---and she needed it back before she leapt across the room and pinned him to the chair. Not that it would be a BAD thing.... But she'd be damned if she'd make it that easy for him. She cleared her throat and fussed with the crocheted afghan covering her legs. She looked down at her wrist and remembered she'd left her watch on the bathroom counter that morning after her shower. "What time is it?" "Almost ten." "At night?" She felt as if she'd been asleep for days, not just a few hours. "Yeah." Mulder rubbed his jaw, his palm making a whispery scraping sound against his stubbled cheeks. "So are you hungry or not?" She rubbed her eyes to get rid of the last vestiges of sleep. "You didn't go out and get the take out food I dropped, did you? You know you're not supposed to go to the front of the house after dark." He shrugged. "I didn't turn on any lights. Anyway, the food was ruined--spilled everywhere when you dropped it. I had to clean up the mess." She cut her eyes at him. "Is that why you took a shower?" His sly smile sent a shiver through her. "Maybe." Okay, this is serious, she thought. He's really laying it on thick now. No playing around. She didn't know whether to run screaming from the room or run straight to his arms. She settled for middle ground and kept talking. "So if the take-out was ruined, why did you taunt me with the prospect of food?" "Because I made dinner." "You cooked?" He shrugged and smiled. "I opened some canned spaghetti and popped it in the microwave." "In the kitchen? Where God and everybody could have seen you?" He made a little face. "I didn't turn on the light Scully." "You cooked in the dark?" He nodded. She stared at him for a moment, not sure whether to laugh or cry. He'd gone to so much trouble-- In the dark-- "Are you sure it's spaghetti, Mulder?" He chuckled. "I'm sure." He nodded toward the window on the other side of the bed. Scully turned her head and looked. Atop the small writing desk next to the window sat a bowl of still-steaming spaghetti with meatballs. On the same tray stood two tall glasses of iced tea, dewy with condensation. She rolled off the bed and padded, barefoot, across the hardwood floor to the desk. The spicy aroma of the spaghetti belied its "straight from the can" origin. Her stomach growled audibly. "I like a woman with a healthy appetite." Mulder's spoke right behind her, his breath tickling her ear. She gave a little jerk in reaction to his unexpected nearness, then relaxed slightly, her breath escaping in a shuddery sigh. But she didn't drop her guard completely; there was no mistaking the sexual overture in either his words or in the silk-over-sandpaper murmur in which he'd uttered them. Verbal foreplay. She kept her back to him, unwilling to concede the victory to him just yet. She could play this game, too. And win. Ignoring the gooseflesh sprinkling her arms, she reached for one of the spaghetti noodles. "Well, you're gonna love me tonight, Mulder." Slowly, deliberately, she turned to face him. She lifted the spaghetti noodle to her lips and sucked it into her mouth, then licked the sauce from her fingers, her eyes never leaving his face. "Because I definitely have an appetite." His swift intake of breath was music to her ears. Hiding a smile, she turned back to the bowl and reached for another noodle. His hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist. The light but firm pressure on her flesh sent her pulse hurtling into overdrive. "Why don't we try this the conventional way?" he murmured, his voice a bit unsteady. So, she thought, we can dish it out, but we can't take it, huh? She retreated to the bed, perching on the edge as Mulder spooned spaghetti onto two plates. "I managed to salvage some French bread from the take-out dinner," he said over his shoulder as he placed bread slices on the plates with the spaghetti. He turned and gave her one of the plates, then went back for his own. He seemed to glow in the flickering candlelight, as if his body were on fire from within. Scully scooted back against the headboard to make room for him on the bed. He sat across from her, at the foot of the bed, his plate on the sheets in front of his crossed legs and his glass of iced tea cradled by his thighs. Smart move, Scully thought, eyeing the position of the glass against the fly of his jeans. You'll need that, big guy, when I get through with you. If she thought about it for a while, Scully knew she'd talk herself out of this dangerous new game they were playing. So she just didn't think about it. As many tough, unpleasant lessons as her cancer had taught her over the past few months, it had also taught her about savoring every moment life allowed--making every minute count. She didn't know how much more time she and Mulder would have together--whether it would be measured in days and weeks rather than months and years. All she knew is that she couldn't afford to bargain away today for a tomorrow that might never come. Sitting on this bed with a rumpled, damp, half-naked Fox Mulder, Dana Scully had never felt more alive. The air between them vibrated with life and love and the promise of pleasure. Her skin tingled with it. Her body hummed. She wouldn't trade it for all the logic and reason in the world. "Ooo--almost forgot." Mulder set his plate safely to the side and handed Scully the glass of tea that had most recently rested between his legs. "Hold this for me, please." He swung his long legs over the side of the bed. Scully stroked her palm over the glass and admired the sight of Fox Mulder on the move. She had always appreciated the way he looked in a suit--his body was lean and well-proportioned, and he wore clothes well. But as good as he looked in Armani, he looked incredible in MulderSkin. Scully had always found his back especially fetching--long and toned, with just enough muscle mass to be sexy but not so much that he looked like a body builder. He swam for exercise, and it showed in his narrow hips, wide shoulders and strong legs. He circled the bed to the cherrywood nightstand near the closet. "What gourmet Italian dinner is complete without music?" he asked, shooting her a smoldering look that made every nerve ending in her body sit up and take notice. He fiddled with the dial for a moment until he found a clear channel. An oldies station from the sound of it, she thought, as she made out the chorus of "Brown Eyed Girl." Mulder returned to the bed and sat down--closer to Scully than he had been before, she noted with a mixture of amusement and anticipation. His knees brushed against hers, sending little sparks of awareness skittering up her legs into her lower belly. He held out his hand. She stared at him, not sure what he wanted. "My tea," he said, his soft, sexy voice tinged with amusement. Coloring, she relinquished his glass. Her fingers were damp from the condensation on the outside of the glass; she rubbed her wet fingers together absentmindedly, her attention occupied by the sight of his lean throat bobbing as he gulped down several swallows of tea. They talked sparingly as they ate, but the tension between them was thick and almost audible, like a low-level hum crackling around them in an electric cloud. Scully had always been drawn to Mulder in an almost tangible way---steel to magnet, tide to shore. But this--this was something she'd never felt before. Not with anyone else. Not to this extent even with Mulder. She felt--free. Free to take what she wanted just because she wanted it. In some strange way, the cancer had given her back a part of her life she'd lost along the way. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cleaned off her plate and gone back for seconds. Not since the cancer--she knew that much. The cancer had changed almost everything about her life. But her appetite really WAS strong tonight, double entendres notwithstanding. "Mmm...thanks, Mulder." He reached across and rubbed her chin with his thumb. "Missed a spot." He put his thumb to his mouth and sucked off the dollop of sauce. Scully took a slow, none-too-steady breath. She dragged her gaze away from Mulder's and looked at the remains of their dinner. "I should go wash up." Mulder rose. "I'll do it." "Mulder--" "I'm just going to put the dishes in the sink to soak---I won't even turn on a light." He took her plate from her, his fingers lingering against hers for a moment. Then he loaded the tray and carried it from the room, giving Scully a long look at his jean-clad butt. When he was out of sight, she leaned her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes. God. Suddenly full of restless energy, she opened her eyes and slid off the bed, padding across the carpet to the large window facing the woods at the back of the house. Even though a light rain obscured the house behind a silvery veil, she knew it probably wasn't a good idea to raise the shade. But tonight was a night for taking chances. At least, the chances she thought could make her happy, even if for just a little while. She could hear him, just down the hall. The water was running, echoing the rainfall outside the window, an almost subliminal hum punctuated from time to time by the muted clink of cutlery and stoneware. It was funny---he was out of sight, a long way out of her reach, and yet she felt his presence like warm, phantom arms around her. She had always felt him this way, she realized, her mind traveling back over their years of partnership. She'd felt him at her bedside when she was in a coma, not expected to live. She'd felt him when everyone had thought him dead. Sadness settled over her as she stared out the window into the dark, rainwashed night. How will I leave him behind? The sounds from the kitchen ceased, and Scully felt him nearing her, his pace slow and languid. Like this night would last a lifetime. For the first time since she'd awakened, she felt a glimmer of doubt. Was it fair for her to seek her happiness, knowing that she couldn't give Mulder any guarantees? He had lost so much already, and Scully knew that her own death would be a horrible blow to him. But would it be exponentially worse if they became lovers? Would he have that much more to mourn? She didn't know. She wasn't sure it was her call to make. She felt the moment he entered the room, as if the secret, pulsing tide of her body was pulled to his shore. She closed the shade, shutting out the night, and turned to watch his silent, unhurried approach, her pulse like thunder in her ears. Could he hear it, too? Did it echo in his own ears? For a moment, she fancied that he could. Her breath caught in her chest, went still for a moment as he bridged the remaining distance between them. Music from the radio circled them, catching the rhythm of their need. Aaron Neville, begging for the truth. "Tell it like it is..." Mulder stopped with his shoulder next to hers. She lifted her gaze to his face and found him looking beyond her to someplace only he could see. Then, his head turned and he pinned the full intensity of his dark gaze on her face. She drew a swift breath. His hand reached across to clasp hers, pulling her around and into his arms. She molded to him as if they had been formed of the same element, two parts of one living sculpture. Their bodies instinctively began to sway with the music, as if it was the most natural thing on earth. Maybe it was. Aaron Neville's raspy voice whispered in her ear. "You know life is too short to have sorrow... you may be here today and gone tomorrow... so you might as well get what you want So go on and live... go on and live..." Go on and live.... She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead against Mulder's throat. His skin was surprisingly soft and so warm. When he pulled her even closer, folding himself around her as if to take her inside him, she melted against him without a thought of resistance. From a very early age, she had fought a constant battle for independence and self-sufficiency. With her father, her mother, her brothers, her counselors. Jack Willis had wanted to guide her, control her career and her life in equal measures. And even Mulder had seemed to want to call the shots of her life-- overprotecting her, shielding her from the danger he faced without blinking. She had thought it was a sign that Mulder didn't really respect her judgment or the work she did. But she was beginning to understand that Mulder's fierce determination to keep her safe was for his own sake as well as hers. Instead of a sign of his disrespect, it was a sign of just how essential she was to his work--and to him. And finally, she was beginning to admit to herself just how essential he was to her. She rubbed her nose against the hollow of his throat, breathing in the clean smell of soap and water and something darker, richer--something intensely male. She inhaled his essence, filled her lungs with him. "There is nothin' I can do about it... Tell it like it is... I won't leave I won't leave... I won't leave you child..." She spoke the words silently against his throat. I won't leave you. A shudder rolled through him and into her. He drew back from her, cradling her face in his hands. His gaze overwhelmed her; she closed her eyes and drew a shivery breath. Kiss me, she thought. Pleaded. Prayed. Mulder's mouth slanted across hers, hard and hungry. She gasped at the sudden onslaught, lips parting. Their tongues met and parried, sharing an intimacy both new and ancient. She felt as if their souls had danced this dance for all time, and yet there was a palpable sense of newness to this kiss, this rhythm of yearning bodies. She slid her hands up his back, tracing the contours of his spine, the flare of his shoulderblades. She smoothed her hands down his rib cage, over the small of his back. Her fingers tangled in the loose waistband of his jeans for a moment, then slipped beneath the denim. She closed her hands over the twin curves of his buttocks, savored the heat of him through the warm cotton jersey boxers he wore. Squeezing gently, she urged his hips into the welcoming softness of her belly. His breath exploded into her mouth, and the response of his body was fiercely evident. The waiting was over. She backpedalled toward the bed, bringing him with her, anchored by her hands on his ass and her lips on his. Her thighs hit the edge of the bed and she fell back, pulling Mulder with her. He caught himself with his arms to keep from landing his full weight atop her. She stared up at him, her breath bursting from her lungs in short, rapid gasps. Time stood still. Then he bent his head to her again, his lips closing over hers. This kiss was different---slower, more thorough. Lingering, nipping, suckling--he brushed his lips against her chin, her cheeks, planted soft, sweet kisses on her eyelids and the tip of her nose. Her heart swelled to bursting. She returned his kisses, relinquishing control inch by inch to the flood of passion sweeping over them. Mulder closed his hand over her breast, his palm circling gently, stroking her through her cotton chemise. She moaned at the answering tightness of her nipple. "Girl you know I love you... why... so long so long so long so long.... Oh my darlin' baby nothin' I can do about it..." His hands moved up to her face, stroking her cheeks. He rose over her, gazing down at her as if to memorize every freckle, every lash, every tiny line of her face. In his desire-darkened eyes, tiny twin flames flickered and danced--reflections of the candle on the bedside table, Scully thought through a haze of passion. Or was she seeing something else---something as magical and mystical as what was happening between them now? He lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips softened beneath the tender, almost reverent caress. Heat spread through her in great, velvety waves. He breathed her name against her lips. "Scully, I--" A shrill chirping sound sliced through the fog of passion. They both froze. It was Scully's cell phone. End of part 7 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Catch-22" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== "(I'm)...where I've always been--standing on the line that you keep crossing" - Walter Skinner, "F. Emasculata" ====================================================== Walter Skinner's apartment Crystal City, VA By the third ring, Walter Skinner was beginning to worry. By the fourth, he'd begun to sweat. On the fifth ring, Dana Scully answered. "Scully." Her breathing was harsh and slightly labored, and Skinner tightened his grip on the phone, a half-dozen horrifying scenarios running through his mind. "Scully, are you okay?" "Uh--yeah. Just had to run for the phone." She schooled her voice with the ease of a professional. "Is something wrong, sir?" Skinner ran one large hand over his jaw and willed away some of his own tension. But too much nervous energy had built up over the past few hours of waiting. He had debated calling Scully as soon as Pennington left his office, but he knew that he would have to call her right before he headed out on his mission, and he didn't want to bombard her with phone calls. "I'm afraid we have a situation, Scully. Agent Pennington from Quantico visited my office today with a report she wrote up on the John Doe that showed up at her office yesterday afternoon. It seems that she has found indications that the suicide victim may actually have been murdered." For a moment, there was only silence on the other end of the phone. Then Scully's voice, low and controlled. "What was your response, sir?" "I thanked her for the information and told her my office would take care of it." Again, there was a long pause. Scully in Mulder-mode, Skinner thought. Suspicious, carefully choosing her words to preserve her secrets in case anyone was listening. She had changed so much in the years since she'd been paired with Agent Mulder. Not all for the better. "Do I need to come in, sir?" She sounded tired, he thought. The cancer, taking its toll, no doubt. Skinner closed his eyes, fighting the paralyzing sense of guilt. "Sir?" Scully's voice penetrated the fog of self-condemnation. Skinner opened his eyes. From the mirror at the end of the bed, a haunted man stared back at him. Eyes dark with regret. Black- clad body tight with tension. "If you don't hear from me in four hours, you'll know that the situation has gone beyond my capacity to deal with it. You can decide then whether to come in or continue with your time off." "Okay. I understand, sir." Skinner sighed and hung up the phone. Hang in there, Scully, he thought. God knows she'd been through more hell than anyone deserved. Abductions, almost losing her partner twice, the death of her sister--not what she bargained for when she gave up a career in medicine to follow this path, he'd be willing to bet. But she was no quitter. Skinner admired that about her, even as he regretted it. If she'd only walked away three years ago-- He shook his head, pushing the thought away. If there was one thing that Walter Skinner had learned in forty-seven years of life, it was that dwelling on the mistakes of the past was an almost certain way of guaranteeing regrets in the future. He'd been guilt-tripped into repaying an old debt to his old field partner Duane Barry--and Scully had ended up paying for his ill-advised penance. Her abduction, her cancer--as much his fault as anyone's. It was the driving reason behind his deal with the smoking man to find a cure for Scully. And now, they were all paying the price for that bit of penance as well. He lifted his black knapsack to his shoulder and glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost midnight. One more lie to go, he thought. He hoped it was finally the last. * * * * * Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA Mulder sat hunched on the side of the bed, his forearms braced against his knees. He glanced at Scully, who sat next to him in an almost identical position--except her feet didn't reach the floor. "So this Pennington--is she going to keep her mouth shut?" Scully nibbled her bottom lip, and he looked away, his body still too aware of her for his sense of peace. Oh, to go back to where they had been five minutes ago, her small body beneath his, soft and welcoming. That cupid's-bow mouth warm and pliant against his lips. Her husky voice, murmuring his name.... "Mulder, Pennington is one of the best M.E.'s I've ever worked with. If I couldn't do an autopsy for some reason, I'd want her to do it. She's not going to let it slide." He clasped and unclasped his hands. "Even under direct order from an A.D.?" Scully turned her head and pinned him with her intense gaze. "Would you?" He shook his head. "No." "Neither would I. And neither will Pennington." Sighing, he leaned back on the bed and braced himself with his arms, staring at the ceiling overhead. Shifting patterns of gold and shadow danced languorously over the sheet rock. "So we're about to be found out." She nodded. "I think so." She mimicked his lounging position, close but not touching. "We knew it was temporary." "I know." He moved his hand until his knuckles brushed against hers. Her small hand slipped into his, fingers twining. Warmth spread through his body in a slow, gentle wave. "I just wanted to stay dead one more hour, you know?" She chuckled, a low, rippling sound that vibrated through him. "Only an hour, Mulder? And I had such hopes." He grinned at the ceiling. It was good to hear her laugh. It was good to be here with her, touching, communicating in ways they never had before. He steered his mind away from the dangers circling them like vultures, content to live utterly in this moment. To hear her slow, susserative breathing and smell the sleepy-sweet warmth of her body. Her thumb stroked lightly over the tender skin of his inner wrist. "I know it sounds crazy, but in a way, I'm glad all of this happened. I think we needed time to step back and think." He didn't know if she was talking about their work or their changing relationship. He wasn't sure it really mattered--their professional and personal lives were so intertwined, there was little point in trying to differentiate between them. She was his partner in everything. He couldn't imagine it any other way. He turned his head and looked at her, his lips still curved in a half-smile. She turned her head and met his gaze. Electricity buzzed between them like a low hum. It's always been this way, he thought. From the first day I turned around to see her standing there, prim and pressed and too fresh-faced for words. He'd been sure he'd send her screaming from the basement within a few, carefully orchestrated minutes. Pull out the Spooky act and lay it on her. God, she'd been so cool. Amused, intrigued and stubborn as a mule. He'd been the one who'd left the office first, beating a hasty retreat because she was starting to get to him on so many levels he couldn't seem to draw a steady breath. Every day with Scully was like the first day. There was always some new way she surprised and amazed him. Did she know that? No. Because he never told her. "Scully--" "Mulder, about tonight--" Scully's voice trailed off. He studied her expression, the sound of her voice, but he wasn't sure what she wanted to say. "What about it?" She frowned, her forehead crinkling with thought. "I don't know if we're being wise. Maybe it would be better to pretend this was some sort of circumstantial aberration. I mean, even if we weren't partners and I didn't have cancer and a dozen shadowy conspirators weren't trying to kill us--" "--we'd still find a way to be with each other," he answered for her, his voice displaying a confidence that belied the nervous quiver in his belly. "We always do. That has to mean something." "We have problems, Mulder, and becoming lovers won't solve them." She was right. They both had serious problems. Scully was a long way from being as open and honest as he needed--half the time he felt like he didn't even know who she was because she played her emotional cards so close to her vest. And he was a walking advertisement for therapy, himself. Obsessed to the point of self-destructiveness, single-minded and self-absorbed--hell, his whole childhood might well be a lie. His mother was hiding a secret so terrible she'd risk the life of her own son to keep it. His father had been murdered to keep those same secrets--assuming that Bill Mulder really WAS his father. How could he offer himself to Scully when he was such a mess? And yet, how could he deny her--and himself--what they both wanted and needed? The connection between them was the one source of joy in his life. It grounded him, kept him sane. And he'd begun to realize that their bond was also the source of Scully's strength and stamina during these bleak days in the shadow of her cancer. Being together, sharing every part of themselves, letting pleasure drive away the darkness--how could that be wrong? He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. "The problems we can work on, Scully. I'm willing to try if you are. What I'm not willing to do is to pretend that what happened here tonight didn't." She brushed her thumb against his lip. "We're tempting fate, Mulder." "It's what we do best." He released her hand and rolled onto his side so that their bodies touched. "How much time do you think we have before Skinner's next call?" "Four hours?" He slipped his hand beneath the hem of her thin tank-tee, splaying his fingers across the velvety heat of her abdomen as he bent to kiss her. Four hours was plenty of time, he thought, losing himself in the heat of her answering touch. All the time in the world. * * * * * FBI Academy - Pathology Division Quantico, VA Joy Pennington brushed a wispy strand of blond hair out of her eyes and peered at the computer screen. She'd been in the pathology department for several years now, but at one time, like all good FBI agents, she'd undergone investigative training. Not so different from what she did as a medical examiner, really-- think of a mystery as a corpse; open it up and take it apart, piece by piece, until you find something that's not supposed to be there--or don't find something that IS supposed to be there. The John Doe in her office was supposed to have come from the Fairfax County Morgue. So she checked the databanks of Fairfax County in search of a suicide victim fitting the general description of her mysterious cadaver. That's when she'd found something rather interesting. There HAD been a gunshot suicide in Alexandria, Virginia. An FBI agent named Fox Mulder. Was this John Doe actually the body of Spooky Mulder? Pennington had heard about his suicide, of course--everybody in the Bureau had. But the story she'd heard was that Mulder's partner, Dana Scully, had arranged to have the body cremated. Someone--maybe Danny in Records and Information?--had told her that Scully was taking the ashes to Martha's Vineyard to sprinkle them there. Pennington stared at the information pulled up on screen. Everything SEEMED to be in order--the death certificate, the autopsy report, signed by... Hmm. The mysterious Dr. Ellery Hale. Pennington frowned and minimized that window, pulling up an internet search engine. She tapped in the name "Ellery Hale." Moments later, a list of links appeared on her screen. No "Ellery Hale," but there were several links to a "George Ellery Hale." Not a medical examiner, though. George Hale was an early 20th century astronomer. She clicked on one of the links and skimmed the page. He'd built the Palomar Observatory in San Diego. Interesting. Sounded like Fox Mulder's kinda guy. She sat back for a moment, drumming her fingers on the computer table in front of her. What it really sounded like, she realized, was a fake name. On a fake death certificate. Attached to a fake autopsy report. What the hell was going on? She shut the search engine window and pulled up the morgue database again. She was about to type another search parameter when she heard a noise. Soft. Furtive. She withdrew her hands from the keyboard and cocked her head. The hair on the back of her neck sprang to attention. There it was again. A soft sound--the slightest brush of rubber against tile. One of the Marine guards, coming to check the offices on rounds? She didn't normally work past midnight, so she didn't know what the security procedures were. Maybe she should call out--God knows, she didn't need one of those leathernecks bursting into the office, telling her to spread 'em. A reluctant grin curved her mouth. Then again, it had been a while since her last date.... Another noise. Closer. Sneaky--there was no better word for it. The sounds she was hearing weren't coming from a Marine guard on patrol. Someone was sneaking around outside the autopsy chamber, where the cadavers were stored. Pennington inched her desk chair backwards, wincing at the soft rattle of the ball bearings in the caster wheels. She rose as quietly as possible, reaching for the right top desk drawer, where her service pistol was located. The drawer opened almost silently, to her relief, and she quickly extricated the S & W 9mm from its holster. She checked the clip and the chamber as quietly as she could, then rose and slipped off her pumps. Her stockinged feet were noiseless against the cold tile floor of the office. Where the hell were the guards, anyway? Lying upstairs in a pool of their own blood? She heard no movement now. Perhaps the intruder had heard her, as well. She took a couple of steps toward the doorway leading into the hall which connected her office to the autopsy chamber. On the other side of the autopsy room was the director's office--and the manual alarm she could activate, since the intruder had apparently bypassed the automatic security system. Joy paused for a moment to get her panicked breathing under control. Think for a second, Pennington. What would someone want in a room full of dead bodies? Suddenly, she heard a low, tight voice in her head. The memory of A.D. Skinner's voice this afternoon in his office. "Agent Pennington, I will take care of the matter. It is now the business of my office." Take care of it how? she wondered now, as she inched her way toward the autopsy room. Send a couple of goons in the middle of the night to whisk the mysterious cadaver away? If she'd left at six thirty with all the other pathology department staff, would she have arrived in the morning to find John Doe gone? No doubt. And all the proper paperwork would be in the departmental files. Hell, it was probably there already. Joy pressed her lips together in annoyance. The A.D. had been short with her--condescending and rude. Treating her like some greenhorn agent with her head up her ass. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Agent Pennington. I'll take care of it, Agent Pennington. Don't worry your little head about it, Agent Pennington." Bastard. She tightened her grip on her S & W and slipped into the semi- dark hallway. The autopsy lab was right across from the pathology office; she sidled up to the glass front door and gave a sidelong glance inside. At the far end of the morgue room, where she'd left the body of John Doe in a cooler drawer, a bluish light gave off a dim glow. She could barely make out a shape behind the light--she got the impression of a thick, solid body, probably male, dressed in black. She took a deep breath, counted to three to steady herself, and burst into the lab, gun drawn. "Don't move, motherfucker, or I'll blow your ass to Mars." The blue light froze. "Put down the light." She had moved away from the doorway, into the shadows, carefully avoiding the narrow beam of blue light a few feet to her right. When the intruder didn't respond immediately, she repeated herself, her voice rising with adrenaline surge. The intruder obeyed the second time, lowering the light to the floor. A murky blue puddle of light fanned out in a circle around the flashlight. "Now, slowly, remove any weapons and put them in the light where I can see them." A thick-fingered, definitely masculine hand entered the puddle of light and put a very large 9mm automatic on the floor. Joy released a shaky breath at the sight of the weapon. A gun that size could leave a very big hole. She moved slightly to her left, toward the light switch by the door. She slapped at the switch, and bright light flooded the room, revealing the black-clad body of Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Holding an even bigger gun leveled at her chest. As her breath caught in her throat, Skinner took a long stride toward her. His expression was unreadable, save for a slight curve of his lips. "I think, Agent Pennington, that you and I are going to have to have a long talk." End of Part 8 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "The Price of Silence" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== X: "Don't unlock doors you're not prepared to go through." Scully: "What's that mean?" X: "Just this--protect the mother." ====================================================== Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA Mulder had always admired her hands, the strong, deft fingers that could fire a large gun or fly over a computer keyboard with equal ease. He'd watched her at work in the morgue, those practiced hands moving with a mixture of speed and reverence as she chronicled the travesty of wrongful death. Her hands had bound his wounds and bathed his fevered brow, and if a doctor in Alaska was telling the truth, those hands had plucked him from almost certain death. But Scully's hands had never touched him the way they were touching him now, caressing, stroking, branding him as her own. She curled her fingers in his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead, following the path of her fingers with her lips. Soft, sweet kisses. She lifted her mouth away and looked down at him, a half-formed question in her passion-darkened eyes. Then her jaw jutted forward in an expression of determination he'd seen a hundred time. She rose up onto her knees and reached for the hem of her tank top. And swayed drunkly forward, throwing out her hands to catch herself. Mulder's heart stuttered for a moment, then kicked into high gear as she sprawled forward, her hands thudding against his chest. He caught her, scrambling to a sitting position. "Scully?" She put one hand to her forehead and released a shaky laugh. "Whoa." "Are you all right?" His hands fluttered around her head and shoulders, somehow unwilling to find a final resting place, as if his touch could make her shatter. "I'm fine," she said, catching his restless hands in hers. "Just a head-rush--I rose up too quickly." He frowned, unconvinced. Her forehead creased. "I said I'm fine, Mulder." "Maybe we should find a doctor--" She sat back, her lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance. "I don't need a doctor, Mulder." He bit his lower lip and looked at her, not sure if he dared believe her. "God, I hate when you look at me like that." She pushed away from him, turning her back. "I'm sorry, Scully, but--" His breathing was still ragged; he forced himself to take slow, steady breaths to calm his racing heart. "It's all you see when you look at me, isn't it?" Her voice was toneless, free of inflection. "Of course not." It wasn't, was it? There were days that went by when he didn't think the word "cancer"--when he didn't awaken in the middle of the night in a cold sweat from a dream about her death. Days when he didn't wonder about blood chemistry levels and MRI results. Days when he didn't spend every free moment searching the Internet for the latest trends in oncology. "I'm going to go wash the dishes, Mulder." She scooted off the bed and headed for the doorway before he could react. Damn it! He pounded his fist into the pillow next to him and rolled off the bed in pursuit. She reached the kitchen just before he did and whirled around to face him. "You're not supposed to be out here in the open." "Too fucking bad." He moved into her body space, stopping just short of touching her. Her back was against the kitchen counter, giving her nowhere to go. "What do you expect from me, Scully? Do you think I can just turn off my memory at will and forget about what's happening to you?" "I expect you to respect my ability to take care of myself," she countered, eyes flashing though her voice was low and deceptively calm. "I told you I was fine. That should have been the end of it." "Why, because you said so?" "Yes!" He slammed his hand against the counter. "No!" Her eyebrows rose in disbelief. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He took a step back, surprised by the sudden surge of rage screaming through him like a flood of fire. He shook with it. He swallowed hard, tamping down the riot of emotion. "I feel so alone sometimes, Scully--even when I'm with you." Her lips trembled, an unspoken question hovering there. He took another couple of steps backward, until his back met the kitchen wall. He sagged there for a moment, his gaze locked with hers. "I'm sorry." She shook her head. "I guess this is my cue to ask what YOU expect of ME." "I don't expect anything," he lied. "Bull shit." He managed a weak half-grin. "Okay, I expect you to tell me the truth, even when it's something I don't want to hear and you don't want to say." "You think I'm hiding things from you. About the cancer." It wasn't a question. He tried to lie again, but he couldn't. "Yeah. I guess I do wonder about that." "I'm not. You know everything I know about the tumor." She said it so simply. And he wanted desperately to believe it. "Why can't you believe me, Mulder?" She closed her eyes and sighed. "You're so willing to believe any outrageous paranormal theory that comes your way, but when it comes to trusting the people closest to you, you're such an agnostic." He shook his head, denying her words outwardly even as he acknowledged the truth of them inwardly. "You're the only one--" She held up a preemptive hand, and his words died away. "If that's true," she said, "why do you continue to doubt my word?" His stomach roiled. He didn't know how to answer. She opened her eyes. "Okay, if that one is too hard for you, tell me this. Why is Assistant Director Skinner suddenly willing to break into the morgue at Quantico to steal a body--and why do I get the strange feeling that this isn't the first time he's played cat burgler?." * * * * * The Mulder Summer House Quonochontaug, RI A long time ago, she'd sworn she'd never come here again. She had broken that vow not so long ago and barely lived to regret it. And now, once again, she was here in this place of dark memory, tempting fate and God. Caroline Mulder gathered her dressing robe more tightly around her, shivering slightly. The night was still and quiet, dark as only a rainy night can be. No moonlight broke through the mist, and across Quonochontaug pond, the lights from other summer homes had blinked out hours ago. She was utterly alone in the world. Moments passed, ticking away like sands in an hourglass. The quiet engulfed her in a cottony shroud of isolation. Fox, she thought, testing the word, waiting for the sharp slice of inevitable pain. There. Hard, ragged agony. It stole her breath for a moment, and she bared her teeth in a bitter smile. Thank God she could still feel something. She didn't believe the stories about his suicide. If she knew nothing else about her son, she knew that he would not take his life. Fox had been murdered, for reasons known only to those who'd chosen to end her son's relentless questions once and for all. She had known it would happen, hadn't she? It was what she'd tried to protect him from for years. Deflecting his questions, trying to convince him to look forward, not backwards. Keeping the truth from him, hidden by lies and lapses. But he would not be deterred. He was like his father that way. Relentless. Salty wetness trickled down her cheek. She lifted her hand to her face, surprised. She'd thought she'd cried herself out. Outside, rain fell in a whisper. Behind her, the soft, rhythmic tick tick of the grandfather clock near the door kept time, reminding her of every fleeting moment left to her to right the wrongs she'd allowed to happen in the name of the Project. It had seemed so simple back then. So exciting, to be part of history. She had, within her hands, the capacity to change the world forever. Now, that knowledge, that responsibility, hung heavy on her old shoulders. Her work with the project had taken everything from her---James, Bill, her daughter---and now, her son. Of course, to be fair, the project had given him to her, too. She smoothed her hand over her abdomen. Odd, the clarity of her memories about some things. She remembered everything about her pregnancies---the three long months of queasiness, the swelling of her ankles, feet and belly, the way even the mild New England heat made her feel sapped and weak. And she'd loved every precious moment, because her babies were miracles. Miracles of her own making. She thought, then, about Dana Scully. Dying of a rare form of cancer. Looking for a miracle of her own making. Nobody had told Caroline about the tumor. But she wasn't stupid. She had seen the signs. And she heard things, still. She wasn't as out of the old loop as everyone thought. She had kept track of the Project over the years. She knew about the women in Allentown. A group of men in Bartlett, Tennessee. Various groups in Homasassa Springs, Florida--Eugene, Oregon--Dillon, Colorado. Dozens of people in of dozens of towns, big and small, spanning the country like a huge connect-the-dots drawing. By-products of the Project. There was one small consolation to Fox's death. He had never learned that the very project which would soon claim the life of his partner was the very same project that had given him his own life. Of course, what she had done all those years ago would seem like nothing so very special in this day and time. The procedures she'd pioneered for the project over three decades ago were, for the most part, commonplace today. It was one of the few ways she was able to keep her sanity these days--remembering that her work hadn't all been bad. What she'd discovered--the procedures she'd perfected in a series of top-secret, painstaking experiments--had changed the world. Mostly for the better. But they'd also claimed a price. A high, high price. What would Fox have done, she wondered, if he'd discovered that the procedure that had left his partner with cancer and a barren womb was the very procedure Caroline herself had dreamed up forty years ago? She'd never know. Not now. But maybe she could help figure out a way to fix what horrors her work had wrought. Maybe she could help Dana Scully heal herself. And in the process, maybe Caroline Mulder could find her own redemption. She wrapped her robe more tightly around her and started to turn away from the window. Then she heard it. A bright light flared and faded to a soft orange glow. A wraith of smoke rose, barely visible in the low light. She swallowed hard, hating herself even as her heart leapt eagerly at the sight of him. "Interesting, how we seek out old ghosts at times like these." His voice was low, oddly musical. It rasped a little, from the cigarettes or maybe just from age. The sound was as familiar to her as her own pulse in her ears. "You've taken everything from me, James. What more do you want?" He moved deeper into the room, fingers pinched around the cigarette. "Answers, Caroline." She turned away. Old habits went only so far. "I think Fox may be alive." She shuddered. "Go away, James." "I would think that would come as good news to you, Caroline." "I want to believe my son is alive. But he's not." "Agent Scully is hiding something. I think it may be Fox." Caroline pressed her forehead against the window pane. The glass was cool and damp. "Have you been tormenting her, too?" "I went to see her." "Why?" "Because I wanted to offer my condolences on her loss." Caroline closed her eyes. "Leave her alone. Let her have whatever peace is left to her." "She doesn't have to die, you know." Caroline turned from the window and looked at him. He was nothing but a smoke-rimmed shadow in the darkness. "What do you mean?" "Do you think the project stopped when you left?" He drew on the cigarette. The orange tip flared briefly. "We found a way to counteract the effects of the radiation." Excitement blossomed in Caroline's belly. "Then why haven't you cured her?" "Because it doesn't work that way. You know that." The excitement faded into a thick, hot queasiness right below her rib cage. "You mean there's a price to be exacted." "There's always a price." "What IS the price for Agent Scully, James? Was it my son's life?" "No." She heard the quiver in his voice. God, she thought, it never changes. He still thinks of Fox as his own, even after all these years. Maybe she could use that to her advantage. She turned back to the window, staring out across the misty pond. "Cure her, James. Whatever the price, cure her." "It's not entirely my call, Caroline. You know that." "You owe him, James. You owe Fox that much." The silence behind her stretched and grew. She could almost feel his guilt and pain. She thought maybe she was the only person in the world who even knew he could feel such things. Then, the air behind her changed somehow. Grew dark and thick. When he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard with bitterness. "I didn't create the Project, Caroline. I'm not the monster." Her stomach clenched into a hard, hot fist of regret. No, you're not, she thought. I am. End of part 9 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. Extra special thanks to Missy Pennington, who wrote about half of this. No lie. {{{{{Missy}}}}} BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Point of No Return" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== "I have lied to you, and I won't make excuses for those lies...but there's a reason that I did what I did---one that I think you're in the unique position to understand. I advised you against a certain course of action some time ago...concerning Agent Scully. I didn't follow my own advice." - Walter Skinner, "Zero Sum" ====================================================== FBI Academy Autopsy Lab Quantico, VA This whole thing had gotten completely out of control, Walter Skinner thought as he stared down the barrel of the S & W Joy Pennington held in her slim, not-too-steady hands. Two bodies, two cover-ups--was it ever going to end? Damn the smoking son of a bitch.... Pennington's eyes were wide with disbelief. "You want to chat now? You weren't in such a hurry to discuss things with me this afternoon." "Put down the gun, Agent Pennington. Now." To his surprise, she didn't comply. "You first, sir." Sir? He almost laughed at her shaky bravado. "I said put the gun down, Agent Pennington. That was an order, not a request." Her hand twitched, but she didn't put down the gun. Her breathing was rapid and unsteady. "What are you doing here?" "I work for the Bureau, Agent Pennington. I have every right to be here." She nodded at his apparel. "Dressed like that?" The ribbed fabric of his black turtleneck felt scratchy against his throat. "How I dress is none of your concern. Now put down the damned gun and maybe I won't put you on report." Her nostrils flared slightly, but her hands came down, lowering the gun. "You wanted to talk to me, sir?" She lifted her chin. He slowly dropped his gun to his side. He thumbed the safety shut and crouched to return the gun to his ankle holster. He picked up his service weapon and put it in the holster at the small of his back. "I came across a request for further investigation into the matter of the John Doe you brought to my attention this afternoon. Filed AFTER we discussed it. By you." He scowled at her, using every bit of hard-ass ex-Marine intimidation in his arsenal. "Did I not tell you this afternoon that my office would handle the matter?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "How, sir, if you don't mind my asking?" "I do mind." He stole a glance at the clock on the wall of the autopsy lab. 1:14 a.m. He had loaded the virus into the lab system about eight minutes ago. Two more minutes and any files opened that day would be scrambled to gibberish. And he had no doubt Joy Pennington had opened the John Doe file at some point today. All he had to do was stall her for two more minutes, and then he could simply walk out of here with the body right in front of her, and she'd have no way of proving anything. He'd learned a thing or two from the old bastard about losing evidence. He clenched his jaw. Not a lesson he was proud of--but occasionally, it came in handy. "I did some research--on my own initiative." Her eyes narrowed even further. "I checked the databanks of Fairfax County in search of a suicide victim that fit the general description of John Doe--in case the file number had been entered incorrectly." She took a few steps deeper into the lab, and he noticed that she was barefoot except for sheer nylon stockings. Her feet were long and elegant, her toenails painted pearl-pink. He dragged his gaze away from those toes and met her eyes, which gleamed with something very like triumph. "Found something interesting, too, " she added. "There WAS a suicide reported in Fairfax County in the last few days. An FBI agent named Fox Mulder." Skinner didn't even twitch, but his insides coiled into a hot knot. So she'd put things together quicker than he'd expected. He didn't know whether to admire her or to wring her long, elegant neck. He slowly crossed toward her, the rubber soles of his black shoes making faint screaking sounds on the polished tile. He paused a few feet from her, leaning against the cool steel of an autopsy table, and crossed his arms over his chest. Her gaze faltered for a moment, then her chin came back up. "One of your agents, wasn't he, sir?" "Yes." He stole another glance at the clock. Less than a minute to go. "Sir...." She pressed her lips together. "Why are you here, sir? In the lab? Nothing here but bodies." "Got turned around in the dark." He didn't plan to give her any answers, and as an A.D., he was in the unique position to pull rank with abandon. He'd never been above throwing his weight around when he needed something accomplished. He wasn't about to stop now. He pushed away from the autopsy table and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Agent Pennington, you may go back to your work now." Her eyes widened in surprise. "Sir?" He turned to face her, hands on his hips. He was a big man who knew how to use his size to make a point. The way Pennington's eyes widened and her lips trembled apart assured him the point had been received. He lowered his voice to his most authoritative growl. "I assume you were working on something, or you wouldn't be here at this time of night. You may return to your work, Agent Pennington. We'll pretend this incident never happened, and your superiors need never know you pulled your gun on an assistant director of the FBI." Fire leapt in her green eyes, and color rose in her cheeks. For a second, Skinner couldn't catch his breath--she was magnificent in her rage. But he shoved aside the sudden surge of attraction, taking control of himself with practiced ease. Pennington wasn't able to muster the same degree of composure; her voice trembled when she spoke. "And I suppose no one has to know that you were sneaking around the autopsy lab in the middle of the night, either?" He gave her a look of sheer contempt, hoping it would be enough to conquer what was left of her spirit. "I came to retrieve the John Doe. As I told you this afternoon, my office will oversee the matter from here. You are the one out of line here, Agent Pennington." And as of right now, he added silently with a final glance at the clock, you don't have a shred of evidence to prove there ever was a John Doe. He moved toward the bank of steel cold storage drawers that lined one wall of the autopsy bay. Pennington moved in front of him, blocking his path. "Sir, is it a normal procedure of your office that the Assistant Director himself comes to retrieve a cadaver?" God, she wouldn't roll over and play dead. At any other time, Skinner would find that fact incredibly exciting. But not now. His lips thinned in annoyance as he brushed past her and continued toward the drawers. He found the one he was looking for and gave a strong tug. The drawer almost flew open; there was little resistance. Skinner's stomach sank before he even looked into the compartment. The ease with which the drawer had slid out of its bay had already clued him into the truth. The body was gone. * * * * * Bill Mulder's house West Tisbury, MA Scully didn't know what she had expected. A quick, glib denial, maybe. A sudden dawning of suspicion in his eyes. A persuasive argument that would quell her rising feelings of unease about their situation and A.D. Skinner's part in it. Anything but the look of pure, unadulterated guilt that washed over his face as he dropped his eyes and looked at the floor. "My God. You know something, don't you?" She stared at him, willing him to deny it. But he didn't. He just kept staring at the floor, as if the gray-speckled tile was the most riveting thing he'd ever seen. She took a deep, shaky breath, fighting the surge of fury that flooded every inch of her small body. "You know something and you're keeping it from me? You son of a bitch! How can you stand here and accuse me of not being honest with you when you've been keeping secrets from me about this?" "It's--" He cleared his throat and began again. "I would never do anything to hurt you, Scully. You know that." Her heart sank. It was worse than she imagined. "What have you done, Mulder?" He shifted from one foot to another, hands clenching and unclenching. "*I* haven't done anything.." "But Skinner has?" She swallowed hard. Mulder didn't answer. He just kept shifting from foot to foot, as if he wanted everything and everyone to simply go away and leave him alone. Too damned bad. She grabbed his arm, stilling his nervous movement. "What? What has he done?" His gaze rose reluctantly to meet hers. "He--he covered up a crime." "My God." She stared at him, disbelieving. "And you knew this and never told me? What were you thinking?" Tears stung her eyes, merely exacerbating her anger. "You BASTARD! How could you keep that from me?" An answering spark of fire flickered in his eyes. "I did what I had to do! And if you want me to apologize about it, forget it. I'm not sorry!" She had to be losing her mind. It was the only possibility. How could Mulder have done this? How could he have accused her of keeping things from him when-- She released his arm and took a shaky step backward. Focus, Dana. One thing at a time. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "What exactly has Skinner done, Mulder?" "I don't know any more details. I don't want to know any more details." His voice was low and hoarse. "Tell me what you DO know. Is the smoking man involved?" "I think he must be," Mulder admitted. He looked down at the floor again. A chill passed through her. "So...what? Skinner went to the smoking man and---what? What did Skinner do?" "He made a deal," Mulder said through gritted teeth. She stepped back. "A deal." She stared at him, not understanding. "Skinner's at the morgue in Quantico right now, stealing the body of a man who took a bullet for you--and now you're telling me he's made some kind of deal with that black lunged bastard? Why? Why would he do that?" Mulder lifted his head and met her puzzled gaze. The truth shone in his eyes, and she felt as if she'd just been kicked in the gut. Her mouth went dry. "He made a deal...for me?" Mulder shook his head. "For us." Her brow wrinkled. She shook her head. "I don't--" "I went to him. I asked him to set me up with the smoking man. That bastard knows how to cure you, Scully. You heard him say so himself. I wanted to deal. Skinner talked me out of it." It was suddenly so clear. Everything--the looks that had passed between Mulder and Skinner from time to time, the way he'd cut them slack time and again--the way he'd put himself on the line to help her cover up Kritschgau's murder to buy Mulder a little more time. "He made the deal himself." Mulder nodded. Silence descended for a long, pulsing moment. The Scully found her voice again. "Why? Why would he do that?" "I don't know, Scully. I don't care. If Skinner can get you the cure, I don't care how it happens." He didn't care, but she did. "Mulder---we're trusting Skinner with your life! And he's in the smoking man's pocket!" "He won't betray us." "Oh no -- of *course* not. He's a paragon of virtue, truth, and honesty." She shook her head. "How do you know that what almost happened to you wasn't part of Skinner's deal?" "Scully, he put his ass on the line to find a way to cure you. That makes him a fucking saint in my book." "But what has he done, Mulder? What crimes have been committed for my sake? And do you really think I would have allowed that to happen if I'd known?" "No, I don't. I know you wouldn't have allowed it. That's why I never told you." She was shaking now--whether from anger or fear or a combination of both, she couldn't say. Her voice was low and unsteady. "You had no right. Neither one of you had the right to make that decision for me. My GOD, Mulder--how do we know that your life isn't the price Skinner has to pay for the cure?" His gaze was so intense, she almost felt it like a physical blow. "So be it." She took a couple of steps backwards and came up short, her back to the kitchen counter. "Damn it, Mulder--do you think I could live with myself, knowing the cure came at the cost of your life?" "What do you expect from me, Scully? You expect me to sit by and watch you die when I know that there's a cure?" He shook his head violently. "I can't. I've done it before, Scully. I've sat by your bedside waiting for you to die, scared to death that your next breath will be your last. I've walked into a fucking morgue with the certainty that I was going to find your body behind the blinds. I'm not gonna do it again. Not if I can stop it." He crossed the kitchen and grabbed her arms, his grip so tight, his gaze so urgent that she gasped. "Why are you so damned accepting of this? I don't understand you, Scully! Don't you want to live?" She felt hot tears trickle from the corners of her eyes. "I put a price on my life, Mulder. A high price. But this--" She gave a little shake of her head. "This is a price I'm not willing to pay. And if you respect me at all, you'll respect my decision about this." He shook his head, tears glistening in his eyes. "I can't do it, Scully. I just can't do it." He lifted his hand to cup her cheek. His touch was warm and achingly tender. She responded to him involuntarily, turning her cheek into the curve of his palm. "I feel like every day of my life, I'm still walking into that morgue, waiting for the moment the blinds open and I have to say, 'yes, that's Scully.' And I can't do it anymore." Tears spilled down his cheeks. His voice emerged, choked and ragged. "Please don't ask me to do it anymore, Scully." She stared into his glittering eyes and saw his heart, broken and bleeding for her. Her heart shattered in response, and she reached out and touched his bare chest, her palm flattening over his heart. "Mulder--" He fell into her arms, a slow crumbling of a man who had borne a weight of fear and grief for much too long. She pulled him to her, bearing his weight, bearing his need one more time. But this time was different. This was for her. He buried his face in her neck, his tears burning her skin. She stroked his hair and murmured wordless comfort, her own tears spilling with cathartic abandon. Weight lifted from her heart, and for the first time in a long time, Dana Scully realized that somehow, some way, she was going to beat this thing. She wasn't going to wait for the smoking man to finish playing his games with Skinner, either. She'd find her own damned cure. She was going to live. She stroked Mulder's cheek, her fingers tracing the wet path of his tears. "It's okay, Mulder," she whispered against his throat. "I'm right here. Do you feel me here with you?" She lifted her face and brushed her lips against his jawline, tasting his tears. Slowly, tenderly, she followed the salty trail to his eyes and kissed away the unshed tears lingering there. She felt his shuddering response. Gently, she touched her mouth to his. She erased the evidence of tears with her lips, seeking and receiving his answering kiss. His mouth moved against hers, parting to breathe her breath. She deepened the kiss, her tongue gently dancing against his. He responded in kind, thrusting, suckling, his arms tightening around her. Suddenly, there was no gentleness in this kiss. This was raw, aching need, and she felt it as deeply as he did. She needed this. She needed him. His hands moved over her back, sliding over and under her cotton chemise, branding her skin with urgent heat. He slid his hands lower, cupping her buttocks, squeezing, pressing her firmly into the cradle of his thighs, letting her feel the undeniable evidence of his own need. Then he lifted her up and set her down on the edge of the sink. Without thought, she opened her thighs, and he moved urgently between them. She gasped at the feel of him, so hard, so alive. She tangled her fingers in his hair and urged him on as he rained kisses over her face and throat, the curve of her neck, the tendons of her shoulders. He moved lower, his mouth dancing seductively across the soft rise of her breasts through the thin cotton chemise. He pressed his mouth against one nipple and suckled through the fabric. Fire raced through her body, settling firmly in the softness that cradled his growing erection. "Think we can make it to the bedroom?" she asked. God, was that her voice? So raw, so needy. "No," he groaned against her breast. "Fine. Whatever." She reached for the button of his jeans. She was shaking, her fingers trembling as she fumbled with the buttons. Damned 501s! Her heart was racing like a thoroughbred, and her ears were ringing-- Wait. That wasn't her ears.... She released a soft, shuddering sob. "No!" Mulder groaned and drew away with a growl. "Where is my FUCKING GUN?" She gave a soft moan. "I don't know, but mine is on the night stand. Please use it." The cell phone continued to ring. Mulder's head dropped and he reluctantly moved toward the bedroom. Scully followed, her gait none too steady. She dropped onto the bed with a soft sigh. Mulder sat beside her. She reached for her cellphone, gripping it tightly. Maybe if they ignored it--She glanced at Mulder. He sat hunched forward, still breathing hard. She felt a moment of sympathy for him-- interrupted in the middle of passion twice in one night. She knew just how he felt. She sighed and hit the power button. "Scully." "We have big problems," The sound of Skinner's voice sent a little ripple of dread through her. It was almost like she was talking to a stranger now, she realized. A stranger she couldn't trust. "What kind of problems?" she asked. "The body is gone." She sat upright. "Gone?" "It's not here. And no one here at the morgue seems able to tell me why." The smoking man, she thought. He knows. Or at least, he suspects. Probably had one of his flunkies snatch the body for their own post-mortem examination. Time had just run out. End of part 10 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Lies My Father Told Me" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ====================================================== "If people were to know of the things I know, it would all fall apart." - Cigarette Smoking Man, "One Breath." ====================================================== The Alix Louise Rhode Island Sound Eve Wentworth peered into the early morning mist, wishing her hands were steadier at the wheel. Not that she could be blamed for a little shakiness; it wasn't every day that she was awakened at two a.m. by a dead man. She glanced over her shoulder at the couple topside. Her old friend Fox was currently doubled over the side of the boat, losing whatever it was he'd had for dinner the night before, while the woman he called Scully rubbed his back soothingly. Eve stared at them for a long moment, letting the fact of their presence sink into her sleep-fuzzed brain. She hugged the reality to her heart. He's alive. There hadn't been time for celebration. The story Fox and his partner told had been a spare, urgent tale of murder and mistaken identity. If Fox had been the sole teller of the tale, she'd have been sure he was pulling a fast one on her. But the haunted look in his partner's eyes had assured Eve of the tale's veracity, and she hadn't hesitated when they had asked for her help. She sighed and turned her attention back to the wheel of the boat. They were about twenty miles off the coast of Rhode Island now, making decent time. They'd be in Newport by 7 a.m., barring any complications. Fox had wanted to get off the island as soon as possible--he didn't have the luxury of time to wait on the ferry to Woods Hole, he'd explained, gently but firmly brushing aside her embarrassingly weepy reaction to his resurrection. Explanations didn't matter, in the end. He was alive, and he was her friend. Maybe one of the only real friends she'd ever known, even if they hadn't talked in years. He'd made her bizarre childhood bearable, and she'd do anything for him. She heard soft footfalls behind her and turned her head to see Dana Scully descending the steps down into the pilot room. "He's not a good sailor," Dana murmured, a wry smile touching her lips. "Never was." Eve smiled, too, remembering more than one boat ride she'd shamed him into over the years of their childhood. "That rough patch we hit a few minutes ago didn't help much." Dana settled onto a nearby bench. "I almost lost everything overboard on one of those swells--had to dive for my bag to keep it from flying off the deck. I lost my hairbrush and a compact, I think." She flashed a wry half-grin. "But the weather's clearing finally." Small talk, Eve thought. How's the weather? Hot out, ain't it? She had a feeling that the red-haired FBI agent played her emotions very close to the vest. Given the circumstances Dana and Fox had outlined to her during their hurried preparations for the boat trip, Eve doubted she herself could have remained so calm and level-headed. But Dana exuded an air of steadiness and control that was comforting to be around. Eve liked her, she decided. She liked what she saw in Dana's eyes when she looked at Fox Mulder, the love and acceptance that shone there. God knows, her old pal Fox could use a little unconditional love in his life. "We'll be in Newport by 7:00 a.m.," she told Dana. "There's a twenty-four hour rental car agency near the marina where we'll dock. From Newport, it's only 30 miles or so by car to Quonochontaug." Dana's expression faltered for a moment, but she rapidly regathered her control, a mask of neutrality falling over her features so quickly that Eve wasn't sure she'd seen the brief look of sadness. What's waiting in Quonochontaug? Eve wanted to ask. But she knew that Dana wouldn't answer. Unsteady footsteps approached, and both women turned to watch Fox gingerly navigate the steps leading down into the pilot room. "How you feeling?" Eve asked, gazing at him with a mixture of mischief and affection. He gave her a dark look. "Never better." Dana rose and took his arm, helping him keep his balance as he settled onto the bench. She sat beside him, her body close and somehow protective, despite her diminuitive size. "Eve tells me we're only an hour or so out of Newport." He cut his eyes at Dana. "ONLY an hour?" She smiled slightly. "Maybe you should try to get some sleep-- you've been up all night." "So have you." His voice lowered to a warm whisper that sent a little shiver down Eve's spine. She could only imagine what it was doing to Dana Scully. "No, I had that nice nap, remember?" Fox's voice dropped another level. "You need more." Silence descended, tweaking Eve's curiosity. She glanced at the couple on the bench. They were gazing at each other, eyes searching. What are they looking for? Eve wondered. What will they find there? A stab of envy sliced through her. The pilot room of the Alix Louise was small and close, and Fox and his partner were less than three feet from where Eve stood at the pilot's wheel. But she'd never felt more alone in her life. * * * * * FBI Academy Quantico, VA Joy Pennington was no weeper. As her father, Captain Robert Pennington of the Memphis Police Department, was fond of reminding her, "there's no crying in law enforcement." But staring at the garbled symbols, numbers and letters on her computer monitor, Joy had to fight back the tears. It was gone. All the evidence was gone. No file on John Doe. No file on a suicide victim named Fox Mulder. Nothing. Damn it to hell! A.D. Skinner had done it. She wasn't sure how--maybe he'd sent a virus through the system before he'd broken into the autopsy lab. Apparently, he'd managed to do something similar to the computer files at the Fairfax County Morgue, because their database no longer had record of a suicide victim named Fox Mulder. Son of a friggin' bitch. She was left with no clues to follow. Certainly nothing to present to the Office of Professional Conduct. She'd looked for the hard copies of her files on the missing John Doe and discovered they were nowhere to be found. She had also checked with the Marine guard station to get a look at the video surveillance tapes for that evening. Not so much as a glimpse of Walter Skinner's broad shoulders and chiseled features. He'd seemed to have everything covered. A reluctant smile curved her lips. Well, everything except the missing corpse. THAT had thrown the big bastard for a loop. And maybe, just maybe, there was still SOMETHING she could get her hands on to prove that the Assistant Director was up to the crown of his beautiful bald head in a cover up. No sir, she was NOT through with Assistant Director Skinner yet. Not by a long shot. She looked at her watch and was surprised to discover that it was almost six a.m. With a sigh, she shut down the computer and grabbed her purse. She was due back into the office in a little over two hours; she barely had time to rush home for a quick shower and change of clothing. By the time she got back, the director of the department would be in, wondering what the hell had happened to his files. Pennington wasn't sure what she was going to tell him. Truth was, she probably didn't have to tell him anything at all. He had been out of town for the past three days, consulting on a case, and she hadn't had the chance to tell him about the mysterious cadaver. As far as she could tell, only a couple of files had been destroyed by whatever it was that had garbled the John Doe file beyond recognition. Only the clerks who'd accepted delivery of the body a couple of days ago would know anything about the cadaver--and it wasn't likely they'd remember enough details to be of any help. It was as if John Doe had never existed. * * * * * Mulder Summer House Quonochontaug, RI The road to the Mulder Summer house was still strewn with the loamy detritus of the previous autumn, leaves now crushed and faded from sunlight and the winter cold. Scully had been here once before, on a night she'd prefer to never remember--but knew she'd never forget. She and Mulder had made pretty good time from Newport, navigating the winding roads to the Rhode Island coast with relative ease. Traffic had been light, and the sun was already climbing the sky by the time they'd picked up a rental car for their journey. Mulder had dozed on the way while she drove, weakened by his bout of seasickness. She was glad to let him sleep; he needed the rest and she needed the time to prepare herself for the next few hours. Mulder hadn't told her what he expected to find at his father's old summer house, but she knew it had something to do with the twisted memories he'd experienced a month ago right here in Rhode Island. Strange memories he couldn't decipher, featuring his parents, his sister and the smoking man. Scully hadn't been able to make much sense of what he'd told her--nor had he. But whatever it was that he was remembering had left him so tortured that he had willingly submitted to a dangerous memory-retrieval therapy that had almost cost him his life--and hers as well. Through the trees, Scully could make out the sparkle of Quonchontaug Pond in the golden morning light. A beautiful, peaceful-looking place, she thought, slowing as she neared the tall, weathered palisade that surrounded the Mulder summer place. But somehow, she doubted there had ever been much peace in this place. A silver sedan was parked just off the road near the gate, she noted with some surprise. Had Mrs. Mulder rented out the place without telling her son? Scully reached over and touched Mulder's cheek, gently rousing him from sleep. "We're here, but we're not alone." He sat up and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the car. His puzzled expression faded into a mild frown. "That's my mother's car." "Your mother?" He nodded. "What would she be doing here?" There was no humor in his smile. "Repressing old memories?" Scully pressed her lips together, biting back annoyance. Caroline Mulder had a lot to answer for, and one of these days, Scully hoped she was the one who got to ask the first question. "You sure you're ready for this?" "Yeah." He nodded, his expression relaxing into sad resignation. "It's cruel to keep her in the dark any longer." Ironic, Scully thought, since she's been keeping you in the dark for decades. She parked the car at the gate, just behind the silver sedan, and cut the engine. Mulder started to unbuckle his seat belt, but she stilled his movements with her hand over his. "No matter what happens here, Mulder--we're going to be okay." He met her gaze with such intensity that she felt the air whoosh right out of her lungs. He turned his hand palm up and closed his fingers around hers. He gave a little nod and let go, unbuckling his belt. Scully unfastened her own and stepped out of the car. Rain had fallen the night before, leaving a slick film of moisture over the pine needle carpet covering the path to the summer house. Her shoes slipped on the leaves, and Mulder put his arm around her to steady her. He kept his arm there, warm and secure, the rest of the way to the house. She allowed herself to enjoy the feel of him at her side, for once not trying to distance herself from his support. It was okay to let him be strong, sometimes. After all, in a few minutes, he would face his mother, whose lies and evasions would send him into an emotional free fall. He would devolve into a scared, wounded twelve-year-old---and then it would be her turn to be strong. She followed him up the steps to the summer house, her nerves jangling slightly as he rapped on the front door. The door had a large window set into the top, giving Scully a view inside the murky interior. She saw Caroline Mulder enter the foyer and lift her eyes to the window. She saw the woman falter to a halt, her eyes wide and shocked as she saw the face of the son she'd presumed dead. Caroline seemed to float forward to the door, her gaze never leaving Mulder's face. She fumbled with the lock, making the doorknob rattle, before finally flinging it wide. "Fox!" He released Scully and caught his mother as she swayed forward. "It's okay, Mom," he murmured in a ragged voice, burying his face in her neck. Scully kept her hand on the small of his back, feeling his body shudder slightly as his mother's arms tightened around his shoulders. "You have to stop doing this, Fox." Caroline's voice was faint, watery. Scully felt the strange compulsion to look away from the sight of their tearful reunion, as if she were an interloper invading their privacy. Caroline Mulder was the first to pull away. She released her son and looked past him, pinning her tear-sparkled gaze on Scully. When she spoke, her voice was tight with anger. "You knew he was alive at the memorial service, didn't you?" Scully nodded. "How could you let me believe my son was dead?" "I asked her to." Mulder put himself between Scully and his mother. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mulder--we just felt that we had to keep everyone in the dark for a little while, until we could figure out what was happening." "I don't understand any of this." She sounded so confused, so out of the loop---but every instinct Scully had was screaming that Caroline Mulder knew a hell of a lot more than she let on. Scully moved her hand lightly over the small of Mulder's back, offering silent support. "Why are you here?" Mulder asked his mother. Caroline looked reluctant to answer for a moment. Then she sighed softly and folded her arms over her chest. "After the memorial service, my cousin took me to her house, but I couldn't stand to be with people telling me how sorry they were for my loss. They didn't know anything about my loss. So I got in my car and started driving. This is where I ended up." Mulder reached out and touched his mother's cheek. "I'm sorry." Scully squelched the desire to give him a little shake. Didn't he understand that his mother was manipulating him with this story? Or maybe he did understand--but didn't care. Maybe to Mulder, a manipulative show of love was better than no love at all. She touched his back again. "I'm sorry, Mulder, but I don't think we can linger here too long--" He looked at her and gave a slow nod. He turned back to his mother. "I need to take a look around." "For what?" "I'm not sure. I just need to look around." Caroline's brow wrinkled. "But you just got here--you haven't explained anything about what happened to you--" Mulder glanced at Scully, silently asking her for help. "Mrs. Mulder, I'll explain it all while Mulder takes a look around." He flashed her a look of gratitude, gave his mother one last little hug, and headed out of the living room toward the back of the house. Caroline watched him go, then turned to look at Scully. "I can tell you're upset with me." Scully arched one eyebrow, surprised that the woman would be so direct. "I'm concerned about Mulder. The more he learns about his past, the more he realizes how much of it is missing to him. It's torturing him, and it has to stop." "You think I can make it stop." "Can't you?" Caroline Mulder stared at Scully for a moment, her gaze clear and unyielding. Then she turned and crossed the room to the window facing out on Quonochontaug Pond. "Have you ever considered that Fox can't remember the past because it would be more hurtful to him if he did?" "How could it be more hurtful than what he's living through now?" Caroline didn't answer. Scully pressed her lips together in anger. She crossed to stand in front of Mrs. Mulder next to the window. "What do you know?" Caroline Mulder turned her head and pinned Scully with a gaze as intense as her son's. "I know that you have a nasopharyngeal tumor of the type that has already killed eleven women in Allentown, Pennsylvania." Scully's bit back a gasp of surprise. She blinked, forcibly regathering her wits. "Mulder told you?" She shook her head. "No." Oh, God, Scully thought. Just how involved IS she?" "There is a cure." Scully's throat seemed to close, refusing to let her speak. "I don't know exactly what it is--but it has to do with radiation exposure you received during the time you were missing." Scully's stomach clenched. The superovulation Mulder had told her about--the clone tanks he'd seen in the Lombard Research Facility--for a moment her mind shut down and all she knew was a hard, keening agony. She hadn't wanted to believe it was true. There had to be another explanation--some other interpretation of the things Mulder said he saw and heard. Something besides the thought that she had been so cruelly violated, robbed of something as precious as the ability to create and nurture new life-- Caroline Mulder's hand closed around Scully's arm. "I'm sorry-- I'm so sorry." Her voice was low and sincere. "I can't change anything that happened--but I can assure you that there IS a cure--and I think that you can find it if you look in the right direction." Scully shook her head, trying to clear away the heavy fog of sorrow. "How do you--?" "It's not important. Listen to me--you've heard the name Benita Charne-Sayre, have you not?" Scully nodded. "She was a virologist. But she's dead." For a moment, a look of pain flashed across Caroline Mulder's face, but it was gone in an instant. "Her work in virology was only a small part of the projects in which Benita was involved. You have to find out more about her work--especially the work that wasn't in the public eye. I believe the answer lies in her research." Scully looked at her warily, afraid to believe. "Why should I trust you?" "Because I have no reason to lie to you about this. If I wanted you dead, I could keep my own counsel and you'd be dead in less than a year." Caroline's grip on Scully's arm tightened. "But if I know nothing else, I know that losing you would kill my son, and nothing in this world could ever bring him back to me." Scully swallowed with difficulty, teetering on the edge of belief. Cancerman had mentioned Dr. Charne-Sayre as well. Could the truth be hidden in her research, as Mrs. Mulder insisted? Could she truly find her own cure? Mulder burst into the room before she had a chance to ponder the question further. His eyes flashed with anger as he strode across the room to them. "What the hell is going on, Mother?" Caroline looked up, puzzled. "Fox?" He grabbed her arm and turned her toward the window, lifting one hand to point. "What is he doing here?" Scully followed their gazes, and her breath froze in her chest. The smoking man stood outside, his back against the trunk of a sprawling hemlock tree, a cloud of smoke rising like dancing spirits around him. "I thought he had gone." Caroline Mulder turned away from the window, her face an unreadable mask. Only her eyes showed any emotion; they blazed with a mixture of pain and hatred. "I told him to go." For a long, thick moment, Mulder stared at his mother in silence. Then his jaw tightened and he turned toward the French doors leading out to the back. Scully caught his arm. "Mulder, wait--" He shrugged off her hands. "I can't." He pushed open the French doors and strode outside. Scully turned to look at Mrs. Mulder. "How can I believe a word you say now?" The older woman stared back at her with a sad look of resignation. "Because you don't have the luxury of disbelief." Scully let Caroline's words sink in for a moment, then she turned and followed Mulder outside. End of Part 11 DISCLAIMER: All who appear within belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and the Fox network. This is all about spoilers---"Gethsemane" in particular. So run away now if you haven't seen it and don't want to be spoiled. Category: X, A, MSR Rating: R for adult themes, situations and language. All other information withheld at author's request. BETWEEN TWO TRUTHS: "Crossroads" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com ________________________________________ "It is wonderful...the persistence of life...." Gulag prisoner, "Terma" ________________________________________ Quonochontaug Pond glimmered like a jewel in the morning sun. In mid-May, the summer season hadn't really begun, but a few boats skimmed the water, leaving long, undulating ripples in their wakes. Bird song filtered in from distant trees, but a thick hush had fallen over the grassy yard between the summer house and the water, where the smoking man stood facing the pond, one shoulder pressed against a hemlock tree a few yards from the water's edge. Fox Mulder walked with single-minded control, fighting back the rush of white-hot rage that urged his feet to fly across the carpet of pine needles and kill the man where he stood. He could still feel the imprint of Scully's strong hands on his arm, holding him in check. For once in his life, he listened to her calm, reasoned voice in his ears, pleading for him to stay focused. He had questions he wanted the bastard to answer, once and for all. Steady as she goes.... The smoking man turned slowly as Mulder's footfalls reached his ears. His eyes narrowed in his well-seamed face, then widened with a look of utter surprise. To Mulder's horror, the surprise turned into something very like delight. Mulder clenched his fists and thrust them into the pockets of his jeans. He couldn't look at the son of a bitch. Not if he wanted to hang onto the thin thread of control holding him together. So he looked at the ground, where the smoking man had already dropped two cigarette butts and crushed them under his toe. "Long night?" Mulder's voice was dry and edgy. The man dropped another cigarette to the ground. The glowing ash ignited a couple of blades of grass briefly before the old man snuffed it out with the toe of his black wingtips. "Welcome back to the world of the living, Fox." "We're not on first name basis...yet." Mulder dug his fingers into the soft lining of his pockets. "We have a bit of catching up to do, don't we?" The smoking man was silent for a long, thick moment. A soft "snick" heralded the acrid odor of tobacco smoke. "You used to call me Uncle Jamey. But you don't remember that, do you? "Not without a dose of Special K and a couple of holes in my head." Mulder pushed at one of the cigarette butts with the toe of his tennis shoes, kicking it a few feet away. "Not that I have time for strolls down repressed memory lane. You have something I need." "Really." He sound surprised. And vaguely amused. Mulder plunged ahead. "You have a cure for Scully's cancer, don't you? Isn't that the deal you made with Assistant Director Skinner?" The cigarette man took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled, veiling his face with smoke. "My discussions with Assistant Director Skinner are not any concern of yours." "Like hell, they're not. He's only dealing with you because of Scully. You have a cure, don't you?" "I believe there may be hope for Agent Scully, yes." The thin thread of Mulder's self-control snapped. He jerked his hands from his pockets and grabbed the lapels of the smoking man's jacket. "Don't bullshit me, you sick son of a bitch. If you know how to cure her, you tell me now." For the briefest of moments, the older man looked afraid. But he schooled his expression so quickly that Mulder wasn't sure that look of fear had really been there. "Everything has a price." Rage flooded through Mulder, staining his vision red. His fingers moved upward in a swift, involuntary movement to circle the old man's throat. He stopped himself just before he exerted any real pressure. Taking deep, gulping breaths, he forced himself to let go and step back. "Go fuck yourself." There was a small, staccato sound from the smoking man. Mulder looked up and caught the tail end of a smile creasing the older man's well-lined face. "You think of yourself as the noble savior of mankind, don't you? As if your truth will save us all. There's no difference between you and me...Fox. We both do what we have to do. But your way will cause the deaths and suffering of far more people than mine." The man pulled a pack of Morley's from his suit pocket and knocked out a cigarette. He clutched it between two fingers, studying it for a moment. "In a war, Agent Mulder, casualties are inevitable. It's the humane man who wins the battle with the least bloodshed." "You call yourself a humane man?" Mulder asked, shaking with disbelief. "You can't win, Mr. Mulder. The best you can do is limit your losses." He put the cigarette between his lips, lit the tip and took a long draw. His next words emerged in a cloud of smoke. "I can help you do that." Mulder laughed, but there's no humor in the sound. "Oh, I see---'Join me on the Dark Side, Luke.'" Silence fell between them. Thick. Angry. Mulder broke the quiet, moving closer. He bent forward, his face in the smoking man's face. His voice emerged low and lethal. "Who are you? Who are you to my mother?" The man blinked, though not another muscle in his face so much as twitched. Then slowly, he took a step back and lifted his half-burnt cigarette to his lips. He took a long, slow draw and exhaled. "Agent Scully is a brilliant, beautiful woman, Agent Mulder. I marvel at your self control." Mulder took a step forward, his fury barely in check. His voice came out in a low rasp. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now." "Do you know how to cure Agent Scully, Fox?" Mulder's vision narrowed to a pinpoint in a sea of bitter black. "Do YOU?" The smoking man's lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. Mulder grabbed him and gave him a hard jerk. "Tell me, you motherfucking son of a whore!" The smile on the old man's lips broadened to a feral, mirthless grin. "Nothing is as black and white as you seem to think, Fox. Not even I." Mulder felt a shudder of revulsion. How dare the bastard deny his evil? "How many people have died because of you and your 'cause'? Ten? Hundreds? Thousands? What did Deep Throat die for? What did X die for? What is Scully dying for? Is it Purity control? The fucking bees? What are you protecting?" He grimaced in disgust. "You destroy everything you touch, don't you? You're a walking plague." "How ironic that you choose that term." The smoking man jerked out of Mulder's hold. He straightened his jacket and tightened his tie, his gaze never leaving Mulder's face. "Sometimes, Fox, the very thing that would seek to destroy is what heals instead." Mulder hit him before he realized that was his intention. His fist connected with the old man's mouth with a satisfying crack. The smoking man reeled backwards, stopped from falling only by the thick trunk of a towering pine. Mulder didn't give him time to recover, lunging forward and jerking him upright. "Don't pull that Obi-Wan shit with me, you sorry son of a bitch. You tell me what you know--now!" A hand closed over his wrist. Small, soft--but strong. "Let him go, Mulder." He gave a little start of surprise and turned to look at Scully, who held his arm in her small, strong hands. "He knows how to cure you, Scully!" "I don't want his help, Mulder. I don't need it. And neither do you." Her expression was inscrutable, but he saw the tightly-controlled anger in her eyes. "It's time to go."" Gently but firmly she loosened his grip from the smoking man's suit. Her presence flooded through him, drove away the black shadows that dimmed the edges of his sight. The world around him crept back into focus--the glimmer of sunlight on the pond, the sharp scent of crushed evergreen needles, the sounds of people laughing and calling across the water. Mulder felt the rage slowly seeping from him as Scully's hands guided him safely away from the cigarette man. She pushed him around the side of the house, murmuring soft directions that he only half heard but obeyed on instinct. He felt drained and dull-witted suddenly, robbed of the adrenaline rush that had temporarily revitalized his sagging strength. He was tired. Except for a quick nap in the car between Newport and Quonochontaug, he'd been without sleep for over twenty-four hours now, and his day hadn't exactly been uneventful. He slumped in the passenger seat of the rental car, closing his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. How much longer could they run around in circles before they lost the will to run? How long before time ran out for Scully? "I have to tell you something, Mulder. Something you're not going to want to hear--" "My mother's involved, isn't she? In whatever this is we're trying to uncover." Scully was silent for a long moment. Mulder wearily turned his head, opening his eyes to look at her. She looked back at him with a mixture of sadness and surprise. "I think I've known that for a while now," he admitted. "I just didn't want to face it." "She told me there's a cure for my cancer." THAT caught him by surprise. He arched his eyebrows slightly. "She confirmed your theory about the radiation exposure during my abduction." Scully's expression was tightly controlled, but nothing could mask the look of pain and anger in her eyes. Mulder didn't miss the fact that she actually called it an "abduction." He reached across the seat and closed his hand over hers. She turned her hand palm up and returned the clasp. When she spoke, her voice was a little stronger. "Then she said something strange, Mulder. She said I need to look into the research of Dr. Benita Charne-Sayre." "That's what the cigarette man said, too, Scully." A little seed of inspiration was beginning to sprout deep in Mulder's brain, although he couldn't quite see the full shape of the idea yet. "That has to mean something." "It could mean they're both lying to us, trying to lead us away from the truth." "I don't think so, Scully--" He shook his head, trying to rush the progress of the burgeoning hunch forming in his mind. "We both have suspected for a while that Dr. Charne-Sayre may have been involved in the conspiracy. What if she was trying to develop a cure for the cancer?" "Mulder, she was a virologist, not a cancer researcher." Scully stopped in the act of cranking the engine. She frowned slightly, but he could see the rapid-fire thoughts going on in her head. She looked down at the steering wheel for a moment, still lost in thought. Then slowly, he saw her whole demeanor start to change. It reminded him of something that had happened on their first case--Scully in a rain-washed graveyard, looking up at him in slowly-dawning understanding. She looked up at him now, that same look of wonder in her eyes. "Of course! A virus! The cutting edge of gene therapy research utilizes viruses to stimulate the production of healthy genes in cancerous areas of the body and to arrest the development of the mutated genes." A slow, almost giddy grin spread over his face. "That's it, Scully. That's got to be it." He'd been reading all the available information on cancer therapies, and most of what she was saying sounded familiar, although he didn't really understand how all of it worked. "In the course of her virus research, maybe Dr. Charne-Sayre discovered that a particular virus was more effective than any other to stop the progression of the cancer?" "I have to admit, that makes sense, Mulder." She still wore that slightly dazed look. "But it must be something new, Mulder--an older virus would have already been tried. Maybe Dr. Charne-Sayre was experimenting with Level 4 viruses or something--something like Ebola Zaire that is far too dangerous to use--maybe she had found a way to deactivate the destructive effects of Ebola or some similar virus in order to facilitate its use--" Mulder's stomach coiled as a brand new thought occurred to him. "Or maybe it's a brand new virus---something completely alien to current scientific knowledge." Scully's brows drew into a shapely V over her nose. "Alien?" "Black Cancer, Scully." It was starting to make some sort of horrible sense. "Dr. Charne-Sayre was doing research into the substance we found in the Tunguska rock, Scully. Why? Why would a virologist be involved?" "Because she suspected that the substance contained a virus." Scully sat back against the driver's seat. "My God, Mulder. This really could be the answer." "It has to be." Excitement rose in him like a bubble. "But there are questions, Mulder--like the whole process of making a virus work as a vector. And we both saw the deadly effects of the vermiform organisms on the NASA-Goddard researcher. Even if the virus Dr. Charne-Sayre isolated IS the perfect virus for stimulating the production of healthy P53, isn't the cure as deadly as the disease it's trying to cure?" The smoking man's words came back to him. "...the very thing that would seek to destroy is what heals instead...." "What?" He had spoken the words aloud, he realized. "Something the smoking man said. I think maybe he was talking about the Black Cancer." Mulder gently caught her chin and made her look at him. "And if that's so, there's a way to combat the effects of the virus, Scully." Her brow wrinkled slightly as she followed his leaps of thought with the practiced ease born of experience. "The vaccine they gave you." "Yes." He nodded. "We don't have the vaccine, but we know it exists, and so does the smoking man--" "We may not need it," Scully interrupted, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. He lifted his eyebrows in silent question. "When they put you through their sick little tests, Mulder, they did us a big favor. Because now, the antibodies are in your blood." A slow smile curved her lips. "The truth isn't just in me, Mulder. It's in you, too." * * * * * East 46th Street New York, NY Outside the dark-paneled office, sunlight washed the busy streets of New York City with golden light, turning the windshields of the cabs and cars below into shiny jewels. Carter Christopher stared at the glittering sight without seeing it, his mind 250 miles and two years distant. He hadn't realized how much he would miss her. Their relationship had been between two level-headed adults too old to believe in fairytales and romance. There had been no protestations of undying devotion and eternal love. They had been compatible. They had been attracted to each other. They had been well suited, physically and emotionally, for their particular sort of companionship. But now that she was gone, he felt a hole inside him. A hole uniquely her shape. Behind him, a phone rang in the room, and he slowly turned his head in the general direction of the sound. Ray Leone took the phone from the major domo and answered. With a silent sigh, Christopher crossed to the armchair next to the armoire and sat, gazing up at a nearby wall, where a neatly framed photograph hung with a decided air of nonchalance. Nothing drew the eye there to its presence--the frame was simple and dark, the photograph itself not particularly well-composed. But SHE was in the photograph, and he found himself looking every time he passed nearby, just to see her face. The photo had been taken at a private celebration a little over two years ago--Benita had just isolated the virus in the organism that had been found in the Tunguska rock, and she had been giddy with the certainty that the virus might hold the answer to the problems the Project had been fighting for decades--how to harvest the necessary genetic material without dooming the source to a certain death. Benita had made this particular question her baby. She wasn't blind to the necessity of their work--but she had been determined to attenuate any ill effects of the experimentation. Her idealism had been one of her greatest qualities. She had been so hopeful about the possibilities offered by the new virus. She had glowed that evening during the celebration, her beauty like a beacon in the dark, smoke-hazed room. And when the others had left that night, she had stayed with him. It had been the beginning for them. But she had never lived to see the fruition of her research. And now, the research was all he had left of her. Leone's voice cut through his dark musings. "Gentlemen, the reports of Agent Mulder's death are greatly exaggerated." Carter Christopher listened to the disturbing news and felt absolutely nothing. Across the room, Gordon Howard made a sound of disgust. "Again?" Christopher looked around the room, taking in the frowns, the worried furrow of brows. His gaze settling on Ray Leone's heavy-jowled face, he spoke one word. "How?" Leone gave a little shrug. The movement rippled through his portly body. "I don't have all the details. But he's just made contact with our *friend* in Washington." Finally, Christopher felt something. His lip curled in revulsion. "I suppose our *friend* was delighted at the news." Leone didn't reply. Morgan Glen moved from his seat near the doorway to stand by the desk near the center of the room. He leaned against the heavy oak desk and crossed his long arms. "So, what happens now?" No one spoke for a long, tense moment. Then a voice cut through the silence. His own voice, Carter Christopher realized with some surprise. "We wait," he said. * * * * * Lancer Arms Motel Wilmington, DE Room 121 at the Lancer Arms Motel was like a hundred rooms Scully had rented over her years as Mulder's partner. The door was a rusty red color, chipped and peeling--no different from any other door on the first floor of the shabby motel--except for the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging on the doorknob. "Subtlety, thy name ISN'T Mulder," Scully thought. She shifted the sack of hamburgers and fries to her left hand and inserted the room key into the door lock. It opened after a bit of concerted jiggling of the door knob, and Scully slipped inside. She stopped in the doorway, staring with a mixture of disbelief and secret pleasure. The tiny, shabby motel room was lit by the dancing flicker of candles. On the scuffed pressboard dresser, on the tiny bedside table, on the cramped little sink just inside the cramped little bathroom. Even atop the ancient, decidedly-not-cable-ready television with the built-in radio currently playing a Chopin nocturne only slightly marred by static. Mulder sat in the middle of the bed, naked to the waist. The shower he'd taken while she went out for food seemed to have driven away the last of his weariness. Or maybe it was finally having some hope again. God knows, discovering a new avenue of investigation had done wonders for her own sagging spirits. She crossed to him in an unhurried approach that belied the accelleration of her pulse. Dropping the bag of burgers on the bed, she perched on the edge, cocking one eyebrow for effect. "Where'd you get the candles?" "Stuck 'em in my pockets while we were packing." "Be prepared, huh?" He nodded, a sexy glimmer in his eyes. God, he could unravel her with one look--it had been the hardest thing to fight early on in their partnership. There had been times when he'd pinned her with that wicked gaze and she'd been lucky to remember her name. She would've liked to say she'd built up a bit of immunity to him over the years, but the current state of her nerves proved that notion wrong. He leaned forward, his eyes still locked with hers. The intensity of his gaze was almost a physical thing, making her squirm as surely as if he were touching her. "Are you hungry?" She swallowed with difficulty. He leaned closer. "I am." Okay, she thought--here comes the Mulder punchline. He'll reach out for the hamburgers-- His arms snaked out and circled her, catching her completely off guard. With a gasp, she fell against his bare chest. The heat of his skin penetrated her soft jersey sweater, warming her breasts. The sack of hamburgers slid off the bed onto the floor and lay there, ignored. Mulder's hands drew slow, gentle circles over her back. "Is this okay, Scully?" "Mmm hmm," she murmured, incapable of a more cerebral response. His lips--his beautiful, beautiful lips--curved in a hint of a smile. "Just 'Mmm hmm'?" His playfulness was contagious. She allowed herself a little smile in response. "Mmm hmm, Mulder?" He chuckled low in his throat, darting a quick, sweet kiss against her chin. "I've always been attracted to your eloquence, Scully." She nipped at the soft underside of his chin in reply. He gasped softly, spurring her heart rate to new heights. He had shaved after his shower, leaving his chin and jaw smooth and soft. She let her hands roam where they would, fingertips exploring the contours and textures of him. His skin was silky, a tactile feast. His muscles were toned and flexible, giving just a bit but not too much beneath the pressure of her touch. She closed her eyes and saw him with her fingers, enjoyed his beauty on a different level. With languorous patience, she traced the twin cords of muscle down either side of his spine, then explored each ridge and dip of his vertebrae. It took a moment to realize that he wasn't really touching her in return, only holding her loosely as she took her own sensual journey of his body. She opened her eyes and met his smoldering gaze. Understanding and pleasure shone there, and for a moment she was overwhelmed by the realization that he was allowing her to set her own pace, to find her own pleasure in whatever way she wanted. There was no denying that at times, Mulder could be a single-minded, self-absorbed jerk. But when he got it right--he REALLY got it right. She kissed him, a soft, nipping kiss, lips barely brushing. He responded in kind. She kissed him again. More pressure. Lingering. His lips parted and his warm breath filled her mouth. He tasted of mint toothpaste, she noted. Sweet and fresh. She darted her tongue against his and he parried with his own. Her body began to grow warm, heavy and languid. An ancient, primal rhythm undulated through her, throbbing like a pulse. She threaded her fingers through his thick, dark hair. It was still damp from the shower; a rivulet of water trickled down his neck. She dragged her mouth away from his to follow that track of moisture, running her tongue along the glistening path. His hands settled low on her back, the touch somehow familiar and new at the same time. She moved her lips up the column of his throat and whispered in his ear. "Tell me what you want, Mulder." A little quiver ran through him. "What?" His voice was raw and hoarse. She drew back and looked at him, smiling slightly at the deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. "I want to give you something, Mulder. Whatever you want. Tell me what you want." He stared at her, his throat bobbing slightly as he swallowed. She could see a million thoughts clamoring for dominance behind his murky eyes. Then his lips curled into an devilish smile. "Anything?" A frisson of alarm darted through her for a moment as it occurred to her that Mulder was a very imaginative man. But she gathered her nerve and nodded. "Anything." His hands moved lower on her back, dipping beneath the hem of her sweater. His touch seared the tender skin of her spine. "You're sure?" he asked. She swallowed with difficulty. "Positive." He smoothed his hands up her back, stroking in light, ascending circles. He paused long enough to unlatch her bra, then tangled his fingers in both jersey and silk, lifting away her clothing. He tossed the garments aside and sat back slightly on his knees, just looking at her. She colored slightly beneath his dark, intent gaze. Was she what he had thought she would be? She had lost weight over the past months, more than she needed to. Her skin had lost some of its healthy glow, and she was even more pale than usual. Was he disappointed? As if he read the questions in her gaze, he leaned close, his warm breath drifting over her breasts. His tongue flicked her right nipple. Electric pulses raced through her, setting off an explosion of heat and moisture between her thighs. She arched her back slightly, and he responded by taking her nipple between his lips and tugging lightly. He suckled gently until her nipple grew pebble hard, then he kissed a heated path over the hollow between her breasts and lavished her left breast with the same single-minded attention. Sensation shot straight to her core. Mulder slid his hands down her back, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her soft cotton leggings and cupping her buttocks. He slid her pants downward with a twist of his wrists and tugged them off, kissing lightly across her thighs and over her knees as he accomplished the task. Oh, God, she thought as his tongue lightly stroked the tender flesh on the inner part of her knee. Now comes the hurricane. The tornado. The cell phone. As his fingers inched slowly up her thighs, she held her breath, anticipating the inevitable. But nothing happened. Scully didn't tempt fate. She shifted her hips forward toward the edge of the bed, meeting his searching fingers halfway. Gently, he stroked her, deft fingers moving with delicate determination. He explored her sensitive flesh, pressed and teased, his gaze locked on her face as if searching for the exact touch that would bring her the greatest pleasure. He played her body with a virtuoso touch, building her need to a fierce crescendo. She arched her back, giving him greater access to her body. He responded by lowering his mouth to her. She gasped at the sensation, and her eyes flickered shut--but not before she saw the look of triumphant pleasure that crossed his features. Wet, hard heat glided over her flesh, sending shudders through her. A low groan rumbled from her throat as tingles spreading through her entire body. She threaded her fingers through his hair, as if to anchor herself to him, for she felt as if she were spinning out of control and one more whirl would send her flying into a million shards of light. Madness crept up on her in dark, shivering waves. Her muscles tightened, strained for release as an explosion built inside her, slow and rumbling, gathering force as it rippled from the center of her being. She shook with its impact, shattered into a cloud of shimmering sensations. She came back to herself slowly, her body still rippling with pleasure. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she forced them open anyway. She found Mulder's gaze on her, his eyes bright with moisture. His dazed expression must surely mirror her own, she thought, staring at him in wonder. "That's what I wanted," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "That's all I want." Her arms felt like lead, but she lifted them anyway, pulling him down into her embrace. The crisp hairs on his chest rasped lightly against her breasts, teasing her sensitive nipples to hard peaks. She cradled his hips between her thighs, the hard ridge of his erection straining against her softness through his jeans. Sliding her hands inside his waistband, she pressed him more snugly against her, rocking her hips just a bit. The unmistakable response of his body rekindled an answering heat in her own, she noted with a mixture of surprise and delight. Nothing better than a bonus.... Mulder kissed her throat and rocked his hips hard against hers. A jolt of pure, white-hot sensation rocketed straight to her brain, and she gasped. Mulder's warm chuckle vibrated against her neck. "Nice, huh?" And he did it again. The jeans have to go, she thought, her hands already moving between their bodies to find the zipper. Mulder shifted to give her better access, and her nerveless fingers somehow managed to find the tab and move it safely downward. She pushed, Mulder wriggled, and suddenly his flesh met hers. They both went utterly still. In the spooling silence, Scully felt the staccato rhythm of her pulse adjust to match his. Their heartbeats merged until she wasn't sure if she was feeling her own pulse or his. She wasn't sure it mattered anymore. Mulder moved first, swiftly untangling his legs from his jeans and boxers. He stared at her for a long, heart-stopping moment, then reached over to the bedside table and picked up a small foil packet lying next to the cracked porcelain lamp. With a little flicker of pain, she realized that what he was trying to protect her from would probably never happen to her. Not if what Mulder had discovered at the Lombard Research Facility was the truth. She blinked back the unexpected moisture that pooled in her eyes, not wanting Mulder to see her pain. He didn't deserve to bear the burden of her sorrow. Not now. Not like this. His task accomplished, Mulder lowered his head and kissed her lips, softly, sweetly, driving away the lingering sadness and filling her with anticipation. His breath mingled with hers, his tongue tracing the outline of her mouth. Settling one more soft kiss on her lips, he shifted, his hips gliding forward. He entered, stretched and filled her. Air spilled from her lungs in a hot rush. She clutched at his shoulders as he began to move in slow, deliberate strokes. The pressure began to build inside her again, blooming and flexing and rolling. She moved with him in the ancient dance, instinct eclipsing intellect. Once again she felt her control slipping away. But this time, there was something more. This time, Mulder was along for the ride. She smiled the secret smile of a woman discovering the extent of her own power over the man she loved. She arched as his rhythm increased, wooing him, welcoming him, branding him with her indelible mark. He swept her up in his hurtling descent toward release, and suddenly he was the one with the power, every touch, every stroke, every whispered, incoherent word igniting her inner core until she soared upwards in a vortex of pure, shimmering light. * * * * * Mulder held Scully in the soft glow of candlelight and wondered what to say to her. He was afraid anything he said would break the spell and make her disappear like smoke in the wind. But the silence was almost worse--it wrapped around them like a blanket of tension. Was she regretting what just happened? Was it less than she had expected? He wasn't a novice at making love, but somehow with Scully, it was brand new territory. With her, every detail seemed a matter of utmost importance, because he wanted it to be good for her. Right for her. Only the best for Scully. The silence stretched. Tightened. Finally, he could stand it no more. "You're beautiful." As soon as he said the words, he felt stupid. Not only was it the worst cliche in the world---it wasn't even accurate, because beautiful wasn't an adequate word. He didn't know if an adequate word existed. How could he describe the way Scully wrapped herself around every single strand of his soul until he didn't know where he ended and she began? She moved and stretched, her limbs twining with his. Her gaze met his, a twinkle of amusement lighting the depths of her blue eyes. "So are you." His tension eased a bit, and he managed a chuckle. "I didn't break anything, did I?" She kissed his chin. "You're good, Mulder---but don't get full of yourself." He dropped a kiss in her hair. She smelled good--warm and sunsplashed, as if she'd just come in from a walk on the beach. He had never really thought of Scully as having a signature fragrance, but this scent would do just fine for him. She was a daughter of the sea. She curled her fingers loosely in his chest hair and rubbed her chin against his breast bone. "You know, I kept expecting my cell phone to ring again." He gave a guilty little start. She lifted her head and looked up at him. "Mulder?" He hadn't gotten around to telling her yet, had he. Hmm.... "Mulder, where's my cell phone?" He licked his lips. "At the bottom of the Rhode Island Sound." Her brows peaked. "At the bottom of...." "It sleeps with the fishes." She tugged at one of his chest hairs, evoking a little sparkle of pain. "Ow!" "Did it get to the bottom of the Rhode Island Sound all by itself?" "Scully, what exactly are you suggesting? That I would cavalierly toss a piece of expensive communications equipment overboard just because it had proven to be annoying and disruptive in the past?" She tried to hide her amusement, but he was getting good at reading her these days. "Did you?" "As I recall, I was losing my dinner at the time." "It went overboard when my bag went flying across the deck, didn't it?" He nodded. "I wasn't in any shape to mention it at the time, and then later...." His light mood darkened, the unbidden and unwelcome image of the smoking man's face rising like a ghost between them. Scully cradled his face between her small, strong hands and kissed him, driving out the demons--for a while, at least. Drawing away, she nestled in the curve of his arms, the tip of her nose pressed against the hollow of his throat. Her soft, sleepy murmur hummed against his throat. "If you ask me, Mulder, that phone got exactly what it deserved." He smiled, drinking from her strength, wrapped in the armor of their recent discoveries and newfound hope. There was a cure--even Scully believed it now. And they had a place to look, for once. It was a better life he was returning to now than the life he had left before. He allowed that knowledge to bolster him, keeping the darkness at bay for one more night. The End. End Notes: I know I left a lot of stuff hanging, but this story was always meant to be a bridge to Season Five, not a solution to all our problems or an answer to all our questions. I still think I gave you more answers than CC ever does. ;) HUGE thanks go to the MulderGlasses crew, the IP, and all the wonderful people who've been reading along with me and asking nicely--and sometimes not so nicely --for more. And may Scully's cellphone rest in peace.