The Sticking Place (1/6) By Kay Reindl Ruefrex@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: SA Spoilers: Memento Mori Timeline: The end of season four/beginning of season five All righty...this is my interpretation of where this show should go from the end of the fourth season to the beginning of the fifth. It won't go there, but it should. It's a solve for Scully's cancer (which should have happened next season anyway, dad-blame it) and a resolution to the Dark Mulder arc that everyone seems to be dismissing and/or ignoring. It's a big net for all the balls that have been dropped this season. And Lordy, there have been many. Mulder's theme song for this, by the way, is Lloyd Cole's wonderfully fractured Morning Is Broken. You go, Lloyd! DISCLAIMER Chris Carter and Co. (whoever is left on the writing staff) probably don't want to own these characters, because there are arcs and stuff...all that junk they seem to hate of late. However, Mulder and Scully DO belong to 1013, much as it pains me to admit it. LOGLINE The consortium finally gets its wish as Mulder and Scully are split up for good. * * * * * * * * * * June 28,1997 ********** "You don't understand, Agent Mulder. It's not malignant or benign. It just...isn't." The words moved in an endless loop through Mulder's mind. He could interpret every nuance of that hateful, rough voice as it triumphed over him. In his mind his hands reached up and squeezed themselves around that throat, his eyes watched the surprise flit across the face of his nemesis, and he had the strength to break the man's neck in one swift motion, hearing the satisfying crunch and tossing the body away just as the evil had done to his family and to his work. In his mind, Mulder won. He because a violent man, ruthless and dedicated. Not to his work, but to revenge. He would seek out and destroy, ravage innocents if he had to, to get to the truth. The truth no longer basked him in a warm glow. It scuttled down dark alleys, beckoning him with its hateful laughter, taunting him with its very nature. In his mind, the truth betrayed him. Faith was a cold dim light that flickered above him, not in him or even near him. In his mind... But in reality, he had never broken a man's neck with his bare hands. Not that he hadn't thought about it, or even tried. His hands were proving to be as useless as the rest of him. The buzz-clang of the door made him look up and his muscles inadvertently tensed. At this stage of the game, Mulder was ready for anything. Click. Click. Click. Thwack. Click. His sharp ears registered every sound. He analyzed and filed everything. Click. Click. Click. Mulder scrambled back against the wall and clenched his fists. Please, not today. Anything...please. No. Click. Click. The jingling of the keys made him close his eyes and he prayed that he would be able to resist. He muttered Hamlet's soliloquy under his breath, pleased that he remembered it but disdainful of what it meant to him. To be or not. To not be. You can't not-be. Well, fuck that, because Mulder wasn't. Scritch. Click. The low murmur of voices. The bolt sliding back. Thud-bang. The harsh light of the corridor washing in over him, invading his not-being. Click. Click. Shuffle. Thud-bang. The bolt sliding home. Click. He wanted more than anything to open his eyes, to acknowledge the person in front of him, but he couldn't. He was scared, he was scared to fucking death. "Agent Mulder..." The soft voice made him open his eyes in surprise. It wasn't her. Dear God, it wasn't her. Mulder's hands started trembling again and he fought for control. If anyone saw...he hastily grabbed the pillow from his bed, using it to hide his trembling hands and to separate himself from the tall blond woman. As usual, she was dressed impeccably. Mulder hadn't seen her in months, but she looked just the same. Just like a picture. The perfect spy. She noticed the move. She noticed everything, too. "I'm not here to hurt you," she said quickly, in low, soothing tones that made Mulder's teeth rattle. The medication made him too sensitive, too jumpy. He hadn't been quick enough to hide the pills this morning. "It's not malignant or benign. It just...isn't." Mulder stifled a whimper as the loop started again. Marita Covarrubias kneeled down and put a well-manicured hand on his knee. He jerked at first, but fought for control. It just...isn't. Just like him. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get to you," she said, gracefully pretending that he wasn't zonked on sedatives and completely out of his tree. "Do you know what they're giving you?" Go away...please just go away...go back to the light. Don't talk to me anymore. "What?" Mulder looked at her. He'd been mumbling again. The medication did that sometimes. Yesterday, he'd told the legion of Spanish soldiers that he'd really like to get some sleep. The orderly was in his room in three seconds, a large needle at the ready. The soldiers vanished, but the loop began. It just...isn't. "Agent Mulder, I don't have much time. Do you know what they're giving you? I'm having a hard time getting your medical records, and I don't think they'd be accurate anyway." "You have to be fucking kidding me," Mulder said viciously, his voice rough from non-use. Marita looked startled. "About what?" Mulder gestured to his confines. "Look at this. Look at me. They've got me where they want me. Why the hell should they try to drive me crazy with drugs when they've already -" He stopped and hugged the pillow again. He'd been here for two weeks already and was proud of the fact that no amount of sedative or truth drug or whatever would make him talk. They'd taken everything from him and what they hadn't taken, they'd pretended to take. They could do it, if they wanted to. That was the point. "You know that you're considered rather...unpredictable. Why should they take the chance?" Mulder glared at her. "Because I'm not in the game anymore. Because I get the lesson. I understood it, okay? I lost a week of my life because I went fucking nuts. What more do you need? Fuck, what more do they need?" He'd offended her delicate sensibilities. Like he cared. All he wanted was for her to get the fuck out. Maybe she could shack up with some other poor dumb schmuck who thought the truth was all about fluffy bunnies and pastel flowers. But it never was, no matter how much you wanted it to be. The truth was a fucking nightmare. Mulder had been dreaming the truth for years. Now he could live it. He could reminisce over his partner's pain and anguish at discovering she would die from cancer. He could remember the good times he and his father had, while his father lied a blue streak to a son he despised. He could relive the joy of his sister's abduction and the fun of being ignored by his distraught mother. Whoopee. Marita grabbed his wrist and Mulder looked at her, surprised. He pulled back sharply but she was incredibly strong and refused to let go. "You fucking listen to me. I know you've been through hell. No, I don't know what it feels like. Yes, I knew a lot of the things you had to learn on your own. No, I didn't tell you, because that wasn't my place. I didn't give a damn about you personally, Mulder, until I saw, first-hand, your dedication. And now I see you sitting in this rat-hole, believing that the little men are coming in through the walls because the goddam drugs tell you they are. That is unacceptable, Mulder. I'm sorry it's hard, but it is. That's life. It's not hard for me, though ,because I'm not giving anything up except my life. And let me tell you, I'd much rather risk my life than my sanity, which is what you do on a daily basis. I'm only asking you one fucking question - do you have any idea what they are giving you?" She still clutched his wrist. Mulder stared at her for a long, long moment, then he blinked through his drug-induced haze. "Larry Edmunds," he said, his voice quavering. She stared. "What?" Mulder pulled tentatively, and she let go of his wrist. He started to bring the pillow up, then slowly put it down. "Larry Edmunds. He killed himself by sticking his head in a gas oven because he thought the little men were coming in through the walls. He was trying to decapitate them with a spoon." Afraid, Mulder watched her. The corners of her mouth quirked, then she smiled and shook her head. "Sorry. Didn't mean to equate you with a loon." Mulder just nodded. Marita sighed. "Do you know what they're giving you?" "Oh. Uh...I don't. I'm getting Haldol, I think...but there's something else, a little blue pill...and I know that one's bad news, so I try to hide it." "What happens when you hide it?" Sadness flickered across Mulder's face. "I remember," he said softly. Marita stood slowly. She reached into her pocket and surreptitiously pulled out a crinkled envelope. Mulder's eyes noted the motion, but his expression didn't change. Marita stuck out a hand. Mulder hesitated, then took it. "Good to see you, Agent Mulder," she said. Mulder felt the crackly paper of the envelope. He palmed it, then picked up his pillow again. Marita knocked on the door for the guard, then glanced back at Mulder. "You could make it, you know, if you wanted it badly enough," she said softly. Mulder flinched, but didn't say anything. Thud-bang. Click. Click. Click. Click. Buzz-clang. Mulder put his face into the pillow and tried to shut out the world. * * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully's Journal Entry dated June 30, 1997 ********************* It's different here now. Not just because I no longer ride the elevator to the basement. Not just because I no longer have to be on my toes to refute Mulder's crazy claims. Everything is different. The bureau is different. It's more...it's safer somehow, more...benign. That's a word I can use now, and it doesn't refer to me. In actuality, it never did. It's as if the X-Files never existed. Just as I am handed my physical life back, my intellectual life is taken from me. Is it a fair trade? When I see the joy on my mother's face, it is. When I greet Assistant Director Skinner in the hallway with an innocent smile and he smiles innocently back, it is. When I go home at five o'clock and don't have to crawl through sewers or air ducts chasing after mutants, it is. I have a life now, but I don't. It's a life you can see on the surface and it's gleaming and glistening and wonderful, but when you delve you find...nothing. A wasteland. A void. How can I be and not-be at the same time? The paradox almost takes my breath away and it very nearly drove me to quantum mechanics for the answer, but I came to my senses. Mulder would say - I have to stop that. We worked together for four years. We lived through hell. Literally. And we...survived? I survived. Mulder...I have to stop that. I shouldn't stop that; that's what this journal is for, to sort out my thoughts. I did the right thing. Everyone agreed. Everyone. It was right. Mulder had no say in the matter. Well...that's not fair. Mulder was the matter. But as usual, his path was chosen for him. How could someone so alive and singularly himself be so handicapped and railroaded by others, myself included? Is this blame? Is that what's happening here? I've been dealing with my guilt. But it's almost as if a separate part of me, my fourth-dimensional self, is pointing the accusing finger. YOU did it, Dana Scully. YOU consigned your wonderfully alive partner to a life of imprisonment. YOU did it. YOU. YOU took his life away, just as he tried to give you yours. If only I knew...if only he'd told me that he was having trouble. I do not have cancer. I am not going to die. Something about that broke him, and I don't know what it was. Dammit, I think about Mulder and my world goes back into the toilet again. Mulder's needed help for years. Good, Dana. This was inevitable, right? If Mulder had stayed in the basement by himself, would he be on Thorazine now? Do I really and sincerely believe that? How much of the last four years can I rationalize? Given time, maybe all of it. But I can't let that happen. I won't. My world view almost imploded as my partner disintegrated before my eyes. I was too obsessed with maintaining my balance as he went off-balance in an attempt to find his precious truth. And he was too obsessed with his truth to see my precarious position. In the end, we killed each other. But he suffers more for it. Of that, I am absolutely certain. Mulder always suffers more. * * * * * * * * * * May 7, 1997 Seven weeks earlier **************** She looked better. Mulder tried to tell himself that but in reality, his partner looked drawn and worn. She'd been through too much and they kept piling it on her and she kept piling it on herself. She needed to work. She wouldn't take the treatments. She was going to die. She'd accepted that. He hadn't. They fought. Constantly. The Smoking Man paid Mulder a visit, just knocked on his door and waited patiently for Mulder to open it. The Smoking Man was very, very unhappy that Mulder had discovered another clinic with another group of clone refugees. Mulder knew the Smoking Man would make him pay, but he'd never imagined... "What the hell do you want?" Mulder growled. The Smoking Man smiled that seemingly disinterested little smile, took out his package of Morleys and with a practiced motion, shook out a cigarette. He kept his beady eyes on Mulder as he brought the cigarette to his lips, lit it, and breathed in a lungful of smoke. Mulder intentionally coughed. The Smoking Man didn't seem to care. "You've got the world on a string, don't you Agent Mulder?" "Get the hell out of my apartment," Mulder said, ignoring him. "But I have information for you, Agent Mulder," he said in that rough voice. Mulder clenched his fists and imagined popping the Smoking Man in the nose. "I don't give a damn. There's nothing you can say that I could possibly want to hear." The Smoking Man blew a smoke ring. "It's about Agent Scully," he said, then he watched the reaction satisfactorily. He smiled cagily. "I knew there was one thing that would always get your attention. But it isn't just one thing, is it? It's also your sister, and your mother, and your precious truth." Mulder took a step closer and batted the cigarette out of that hateful mouth. It fell to the floor, smoldering. "You've done enough," Mulder replied, his voice low and controlled. The Smoking Man blew his last lungful of smoke into Mulder's face. "You came to visit me once, to kill me. Or at least, that's what you told yourself. What you were really doing was giving up your soul for the truth and I showed you how powerful I was by not letting you. Your mistake, Agent Mulder, is that you care." "Of course I care. It's inhuman not to." The Smoking Man laughed sharply. "How righteous you've become, Agent Mulder! And you consider yourself human. I used to consider myself human too. I used to strive towards humanity. But humanity didn't want me. And it doesn't want you. All you can do is to hurt those you surround yourself with. They are your Achilles heel, Agent Mulder." Mulder turned away. "Enough with the pseudo-psychological crap. If -" "I didn't come here to spar with you. I came to tell you that this time, you've lost." Mulder turned around again, eyes blazing, fingers itching for his gun. "I keep losing, don't I? At least that's what you tell yourself. You have to believe that, or you couldn't continue. But I will always be here, you son of a bitch, waiting for you to slip up, looking for the answers that will destroy you." "A pretty speech, but empty. We've strayed from the point. When you came to see me, you wanted to know why we took Agent Scully and not you. You wanted to know why we returned her. What could we possibly have to gain by giving her back to you, when we refuse to return your sister?" Mulder flinched, and the Smoking Man took a casual step towards him, eyes boring through the back of Mulder's skull. "We had everything to gain, Agent Mulder. You see, you are strong. So strong that we would have to physically do away with you to rid us of your presence. But Agent Scully...she is not strong." "The hell she isn't." "Not as strong as you. Not as dedicated or as committed to the truth as you. The perfect spy, one might say." Mulder stared at him, unmoving, horrified. "I made a promise, years ago, to your father. He begged that I protect you. Foolish young man that I was, I agreed. The problem is, I don't go back on my word. So I must protect you, even as I find other ways of destroying you. Your father signed Agent Scully's death warrant. Your father murdered her sister and himself. Your father is responsible for you becoming like me." The wind howled through Mulder's mind but he clamped down, telling himself that this was a fucking mind game, planned out by this devious son of a bitch days earlier. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, Mulder believed him. That part of himself that took the blame for Samantha's abduction, hell, for Scully's abduction, nodded in agreement. That was the first time Mulder's hands started to tremble, to shake when he was nervous or angry. "My father is responsible for his own sins," Mulder said through clenched teeth. "Believe that if you must. But know this, Agent Mulder - Agent Scully's abduction served more than one purpose. You pride yourself on knowing what you believe but in reality, you want to believe. You don't yet, do you? You pride yourself on the strength of your convictions, on your tenacity. Agent Scully is a bright, brave young woman...but her Achilles heel, I fear, is physical. We own her, Mulder. We owned her righteousness when we sent her to you, and we own her now, again. Just as we own your sister's physical form, we own Agent Scully's soul." Red flitted across Mulder's eyes and he threw himself at the Smoking Man, knocking him down with a vicious punch to the jaw. The Smoking Man fell and didn't try to defend himself. Mulder hit him again, then hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the door. "Get out, you son of a bitch. If I ever see you here again, I will kill you. That is a promise. If I even suspect that you've been anywhere close to Agent Scully, I will kill you." The Smoking Man coughed. "The fractured hero. Keep up the facade, Mulder. I don't have to get close to Agent Scully. We are as close to her as we need to be." Mulder shoved him out the door, slammed the door shut and leaned against it, trying to stop his hands from shaking. * * * * * * * * * * (continued in part two) From Ruefrex@aol.com Fri Apr 04 18:59:45 1997 Subject: The Sticking Place (2/6), by Kay Reindl From: Ruefrex@aol.com -------- The Sticking Place (2/6) By Kay Reindl Ruefrex@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: SA Spoilers: Memento Mori Timeline: The end of season four/beginning of season five * * * * * * * * * * May 20, 1997 *********** The Sanders case had been a mess from the start. Desiccated bodies, drained of blood the throats torn out. Bodies left in small, filthy apartments, in stairwells, in laundromats. When Mulder saw the bodies he saw Kristen Kilar's wide stare, her defeated demeanor. He saw her accepting her fate. Then his partner would flip open her notebook and he'd see the same thing in her. One day, after a particularly harrowing murder, he'd seen Melissa in her pink sweater, trying to keep her head above water but knowing she was doomed. Accepting her fate. He got so dizzy that he sat down on the steps of the brownstone and put his head between his knees. "Mulder? You okay?" "Yeah," he answered without looking up. She'd said the words but her voice sounded...flat, uninvolved. She hadn't pressed, hadn't worried. He heard the click of her shoes as she turned on her heel, heard the clack-whap of the door as she'd gone back into the building. That had been the first time Mulder remembered being so sensitive to sound. He sat on the steps for what seemed like forever, unable to rid his mind of Melissa's dead stare, Kristen's tight smile, or Lucy Householder's peaceful face as she, too, gave up her life to her fate. Mulder's holy trinity of the defeated. "We're done in here, Mulder. You need anything else?" He still didn't raise his head. "Don't think so." He felt her hesitate, felt the other cops move around him as they walked down the stairs. "Well...are you ready to go then?" He wasn't sure he could stand up, but he made a concerted effort and only swayed for a moment. She was down the stairs, already walking away from him. Mulder spent the entire night in the bathroom, throwing up. * * * * * * * * * * May 22, 1997 *********** Their "vampire" had killed again. This time, he'd taken a ten-year-old girl and ripped her apart, displaying her remains in an old, creaky warehouse. When he walked in, Mulder felt like he'd stepped into his own heart. Mulder knew Scully had had a bad night. He'd heard her moving around, in between his bouts of vomiting. He didn't know if she'd heard him but if she had, she didn't care. And he didn't blame her. He WAS a lot of work, that he'd definitely admit. He'd told her that, a few days ago, and she'd just stared at him. He'd made the crucial mistake of asking her if her irony gene had been removed. The temperature in the car had gone down fifteen degrees. Mulder walked the warehouse, taking everything in. Be the killer. Feel the victim. He remembered Bill Patterson's teachings and wondered if maybe, this time, he might try going all the way. He'd never really profiled a vampire before. Actually, he'd been a little disappointed that nobody had consulted him about the vampire cult in Kentucky. Shit, was he the expert or NOT? Mulder could see that the case was unnerving for Scully. She stared with wide eyes out of a pale face, talking to the police and trying to avert her eyes from the scene. Everything meant death to her. They investigated death as she died. Mulder's eye caught a shiny object. He bent down and picked up a small silver cross. The cross itself had obviously been ripped from a chain around the little girl's neck. Mulder almost laughed. Faith had made the vampire angry. It hadn't deterred him; it made him want to prove himself all the more. He has dominion over God, over faith. Fuck your faith. That's what he was saying. And another piece fell into place. * * * * * * * * * * May 23, 1997 *********** He prowled, stalking his prey. They nattered on about inconsequential things, talking and braying to each other in loud, obsequious tones of voice. Oh, would they be afraid if they knew he was here. What big teeth you have...idiots. He singled one out from the herd and shadowed it, making its heart quicken as he let it hear his footsteps. It walked faster. It still thought it could get away. Naïve creature. It was bound to be the hunted, and it was beholden to him. With every thrust of its heart, his hunger grew. He waited until he could no longer stand it, until he would howl with madness unless he fed, and then he pounced, joyously ripping through flesh and sinew and cartilage, tasting the salty blood as it poured down his throat. Mulder sat up quickly, heart pounding, the sheet twisted in his fists. He gasped for air, then staggered to his feet and into the bathroom. He could taste the blood from where he'd bitten his lip. He splashed cold water on his face with trembling hands. He froze suddenly at a sound. Crying. He turned, his hair spraying sweat and water over the mirror. Sobbing. Quietly, he left the bathroom and crept towards the door that divided his room from Scully's. She was crying. The latch didn't quite catch and he slowly, oh so slowly, pushed the door open. It was dark in her room, too, but the light from the moon shone directly onto her bed. He could see her, curled up, arms wrapped around herself, trying to stifle the sobs. From him? Or from herself? He wished he could comfort her now, but he couldn't. He didn't know how. They just didn't know each other anymore. Mulder softly closed the door and slid down the wall, putting his ear to the door and closing his eyes. * * * * * * * * * * May 25, 1997 *********** The jangle of the phone woke her and she jumped, fumbling blindly for it. "Scully." It was the SAC. Another murder. Scully hung up, then yawned as she got out of bed. She crammed her arms into her bathrobe and turned the knob of the connecting door. She opened the door a crack, intending to yell to Mulder that they had to get on the stick, but she stopped as she saw him, slumped against the dresser by the door, fast asleep. Heart pounding, Scully stared at him. Goddammit, he'd heard her crying last night, hadn't he? She pushed the door open all the way and nearly took his arm off. He jerked back and stared at her. "Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry in the least. When had she become such a furious bitch? She was sorry; she'd meant it. But she didn't know how to talk to him anymore. Hell, she hadn't even been compelled to check up on him when she'd heard him heaving his guts out the night before. She never questioned him about these frequent dizzy spells. Fuck you, Mulder, I'm fucking dying here. "'S okay," he said, his voice heavy with sleep. He slowly got to his feet and swayed for a moment. He grabbed the dresser for support and put his head down to clear it. He looked back at her. She bit her lip. He ran a hand through his hair. "What is it?" "Another one." Mulder stared at her. "Shit, he's escalating." "No kidding." "Good to see that irony gene has returned." Scully had no comeback for that one and even though each insult was slung with vicious intent, the old familiarity was still there. It made Scully feel safe. It also made her give Mulder the dirtiest look imaginable as she closed the door and went to get ready. * * * * * * * * * * He would be the bait, the prey, the sacrifice. He would be anything he needed to be so they could catch this fucker. She tried to be the voice of reason. The killer had mainly gone after women. He reminded her about Donnie Pfaster, she reminded him about John Lee Roche, and they stared angrily at each other. She pulled her trump card - she was dying. And he just blew. Every cell in Mulder's body screamed at her. He screamed until his throat was raw, hurling every vicious insult he could think of in her direction. For her part, Scully didn't even blink. She just listened as he emptied himself of the poison he'd been consumed with. It ate away at him like the tumor that ate away at her. And like the cancer, it spread. And it wasn't pretty, it wasn't delicate, it just was. She was proud of her pragmatism; it nearly drove him mad. He hit things when he ran out of words, just pounded the walls with bloodied fists. And she stood there, watching, listening, accepting. She could say things back to him, hateful things, but that wasn't who she was. She kept it in, filed it away, feared for the day when she couldn't do that anymore. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Crash. He kicked and punched furiously, trying to get her to talk to him, to work with him, to believe him. I want to believe...you naïve son of a bitch, she thought. Believe this, you fucker. Death. A horrible, painful, unjust death. I believe it. Now you believe it. If you believe it, maybe we can talk. But he wouldn't. That wasn't who he was. Finally, after tearing through everything in the room not nailed down, his anger abated. And his nausea returned. She sat on the floor, holding his head, the doctor in her trying to comfort him. "It's okay, Mulder. Take it easy. Just take a deep breath. It's okay..." The words came automatically, but the compassion wasn't there. She knew it wasn't, and he was too far gone to care. What she really wanted to do was strangle him, shove him out of her life forever. He pulled away from her and started to stand, but was hit with a wave of dizziness that made his knees give. He hit the ground with a thud and Scully held him down as he tried to get up again. "Goddammit, Mulder, just lie there for a minute, okay?" Scully took a deep breath, then gave him something. "You're too close to this case, you know. You need to step back." "Fuck the case," he said, his words slurred. A flash of fear went through Dr. Scully. He wasn't old enough for a stroke, but his mother...she tried to calm him down in earnest. "Mulder, you have got to relax. Just relax. Forget about the case, all right? Forget about everything. Concentrate on your breathing." Scully felt his pulse. A mile a minute. He listened to her, though, and she felt him relax. He sighed and closed his eyes. She felt for a pulse again. Much better. Slower. Calmer. He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I'm okay now," he said quietly. He pulled away from her and sat up. He handled it pretty well. "Mulder, what the hell is wrong with you?" she asked. Mulder leaned his head against the table. "You didn't deserve that. I'm sorry, Scully. I'm sorry I got so angry." Scully felt the tears rise. He hadn't sounded this sincere in months. She reached out a hand then hesitated, pulling it back again. Not yet. "Oh, Mulder..." she could think of nothing to say. She saw the same look in his eyes that she was sure he'd seen in hers. Compassion. Partnership. Friendship. A closeness there that hadn't existed in what seemed like forever. Easy familiarity. "Before you ask, and I'm sure you will, I've already seen a doctor," he said, surprising the hell out of her. "The day my forehead met the very sharp corner of my coffee table. He ran all those ridiculous tests and found nothing wrong. He said it's...stress." Scully felt the tightness in her chest and hid her resentment. Of course he was stressed. "Did he give you anything?" "Uh...yeah. Sleeping pills." Off her look, he added, "Which I've been taking for two weeks." Scully nodded slowly. "Well...it seems like it's getting worse." Scully watched as his face closed off again and once more became foreign to her. Dammit. The gulf arises. "And this surprises you?" The sarcasm was back. Fox Mulder, champion at keeping people at arm's length. Fuck you, Mulder, I'm fucking dying here. Scully got to her feet. She hesitated, then helped him up. He weaved for a moment and she offered her shoulder for support. Tentatively, he accepted, then was able to stand on his own. "The doctor said the pills might make me dizzy," he said, explaining so she would get off his back. Scully knew the drill. "And I've got another appointment in two days." My, he could still read her like a book, Scully thought. "Fine," she said. It was the only response she could muster. "Hey, Scully..." She turned and looked at him. God, she hated when he did the vulnerable puppy-dog thing. "Uh...thanks." Sincere again. Scully smiled at him. "Anytime, Mulder." He looked like he wanted to say more, so Scully waited. "Scully, are you...I mean...is there...?" He couldn't continue. "I'm better than you right now, I think." That was right, that was appropriate. Scully watched as Mulder just melted. "Great. Good. I'm glad to hear that. I really am, Scully...I -" "I know you are, Mulder. Should we go catch our killer?" She was still batting a thousand. His features relaxed and he held the door for her, for the first time in what seemed like forever. * * * * * * * * * * (continued in part three) From Ruefrex@aol.com Fri Apr 04 19:00:01 1997 Subject: The Sticking Place (3/6), by Kay Reindl From: Ruefrex@aol.com -------- The Sticking Place (3/6) By Kay Reindl Ruefrex@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: SA Spoilers: Memento Mori Timeline: The end of season four/beginning of season five * * * * * * * * * * May 26, 1997 *********** It was impossibly strong. Mulder heard his gun clatter to the ground as it lifted him by the throat. Choking, Mulder stared into the hateful, glittering eyes of a killer. It smiled, revealing yellowed fangs. Mulder struggled ineffectually. Mulder was going to die. His heart pounded. Thud-thud...thud-thud...thud-THUD...his world was going gray. He could feel the vampire's rough skin as it lifted him higher, enjoying watching its prey struggle. Blindly, Mulder raised the hand that held the silver cross and clapped it to the vampire's chest. Its expression changed slowly. I want to believe...Mulder prayed fervently. Mulder hadn't prayed since Samantha had been taken, but he prayed now. He heard a crackling sizzle and smelled rotting, burning flesh that made him gag. The vampire's grip loosened and then finally, he dropped Mulder and clutched hands to his chest. Mulder hit the ground hard, ignoring the pain that shot through his left leg, and scrambled backwards, reaching for anything he could use as a weapon. His hand closed around a wooden broom handle. Again, Mulder prayed that the legend was right. Poetic license could get him killed. He snapped the broom handle over his good knee as the monster advanced towards him, shrieking in devilish anger. Mulder thought about getting up but his leg was killing him, so he stayed where he was and grasped the broom handle firmly, ready to thrust it into the monster's chest. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners...it leaped at him, snarling, and with all of his might Mulder shoved the jagged end of the broomstick into its chest. The monster froze, then poof. Disappeared. Ash rained down on Mulder, covering him. He sat for a long moment, breathing heavily, trying not to think about the fact that once again, he had no proof. He had to start carrying a Polaroid camera with him on the extremely weird cases. Click click clickclickclick...thud thud thudthudthudthud...crash...reinforcements were coming. Using the other end of the broomstick, Mulder got to his feet. He tested his leg. Not too bad; sprained ankle, probably. Hopefully. Scully was first on the scene. She stared at him with that pale gaze that meant she had been fucking terrified, was glad to see he wasn't dead, but would be giving him what-for later. "Jesus, Mulder..." was all she could muster. Mulder held up the cross. "I think so." Scully couldn't stop the smile. She noticed him leaning heavily on the broomstick. "You okay?" "I think I sprained something." Without saying anything, Scully maneuvered next to him and slung his arm around her shoulders. Mulder refused the crutches, preferring instead to limp out of the emergency room. Scully glared at him but he was ready for her. "Hey, they gave me the option," he said defensively. Scully rolled her eyes. "Idiots." She held the car door for him, then got into the car and started the engine. She turned to look at him. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, in a voice laced with worry. Mulder grinned at her, more okay than he'd been in weeks. And she looked...tired. Worn. But her eyes were bright and healthy. She looked better. "Sure, Scully, I'm fine." She nodded, then shook her head and drove out of the parking lot. Mulder leaned his head against the back of the seat, hearing the thrum of the engine and wondering when all of this sensitivity to his surroundings would just go the hell away. For the first time in weeks, they had worked like a team on this one. They had even compromised, both offering themselves as bait. Given Mulder's penchant for attracting disaster, it wasn't too surprising that the vampire had zeroed in on him. All I need is a little rest, Mulder thought, and things will be back to normal. But they won't, his little voice said. Scully is dying. She may look good now, she may be having a string of good days, but you saw her at the hospital. You saw how sick she was. You saw the x-rays. She's dying. Things won't be the same. Scully will die and maybe you'll find Sam, but she'll be broken, like Lucy, Kristen and Melissa. The Smoking Man was right. This hurts you more. "Mulder." He jerked awake. "Do you want any help up the stairs?" Mulder turned and looked at Scully, trying to focus. "Oh, uh, no. Thanks. I'll be fine." Scully gave him a long, searching look, then nodded. "Okay. Stay off your feet for the next few days. I'll bring those files by tomorrow." "Thanks, Scully." "That's what partners are for, right?" Mulder grinned at her and fumbled his way out of the car. * * * * * * * * * * May 27, 1997 *********** Scully juggled the stack of files, wishing she'd thought of bringing a box. Maybe Mulder had one around. There was no way she was going to be able to get the files out the door, down the hall and into the car. If only Mulder had mentioned that he wanted her to bring every X-File known to man... She found a perfect box shoved into a dusty corner (typically Mulder) and went in search of a box cutter, hoping to remove from the box whatever Mulder had ordered. Last month he'd ordered some kind of chronometer that was supposed to detect missing time. Scully pulled Mulder's desk drawer open and began rummaging through it. Her hand stopped as she felt the smooth outline of a glass vial. Puzzled, Scully pulled it out. Whatever was inside it had disintegrated. What scared Scully half to death, however, was the fact that the piece of tape circling the vial had her name on it. SCULLY, D. The date on it was after her abduction, during the time she'd been missing. Scully's hand shook and her mind raced as she tried to imagine what was in the vial, and how in hell Mulder had gotten a hold of it. She held the vial up to the light, staring at the milky substance within. What the hell was it? Her throat began to close up as images from her abduction flashed through her mind. She'd been remembering more now, which was one of the reasons she had been so terse with her partner. She tried to tell herself that she didn't blame him but she knew a part of her did, the part of her that was selfish and hateful and negative. The cancerous part. Whatever was in the vial, Mulder had decided not to show it to her. He'd kept it, secretly. Secrets. They didn't keep secrets from each other. They trusted only each other. Didn't they? Scully's fist closed around the vial and she carefully put it in her pocket, then found the box cutter and closed the desk. * * * * * * * * * * May 27, 1997 *********** Mulder paced as well as he could on his swollen ankle. He looked at his watch for the billionth time and swore under his breath. Scully was four hours late. She didn't answer her phone and her cell-phone was switched off. Suddenly making a decision, Mulder grabbed his keys and limped out the door. "Mulder! I need your help!" Scully's plaintive plea began an endless loop in Mulder's brain as he pulled up to her apartment building. The revolving lights of the police cars spread their ghastly hue across the building, marking it. No. No no no no no. Not again, God, please. No, not again. He ignored the pain in his ankle and sprinted for the door, taking the steps two at a time and shoving a uniformed officer out of his way. He didn't even bother flashing his badge. Scully's elderly neighbor stood in the hallway, tearfully telling police about the crashing noises she'd heard, the shriek that had been cut off. Crash. Crash. Bam. Snap. Crash. Silence. Mulder wanted to cover his ears to block out the noise his brain was reliving for him. Mulder, I need your help...I'm fucking dying here... The window wasn't shattered, but the coffee table had been overturned. That was the only sign that something was amiss. That, and the fact that Dana Scully was missing. Mulder's gaze wandered to the files which were hurled across the floor, the crushed box that lay in the corner. Someone had surprised her, overpowered her, taken her. Mulder felt the dizziness return with a vengeance, in horrible waves. He fumbled towards the couch and sat down, closing his eyes. A light touch at his shoulder made him look up. Margaret Scully, tears in her eyes, stood in front of him. "Fox," she said softly, helplessly. Why are they doing this to my little girl. What did she ever do to anyone. Why can't they leave her alone. Margaret sat down next to Mulder, stared sightlessly ahead. Defeated. Flash. Melissa in her pink sweater. Flash. Lucy Householder's dead eyes. Flash. Kristen. Flash. Samantha. Flash flash flash. Mulder, I need your help. Your help, you fucking son of a bitch. Your support, your guidance, your protection. Where are you, Mulder? Where are you when I need you? You may not need, but the rest of us do. We need. And that's fucking sad, because we need you. Mulder closed his eyes again. "Fox -" more insistent this time. Mulder couldn't look at her. Jesus Christ, don't need me too. They told me what they could do. They fucking TOLD me, but I'm so goddam invincible that I don't listen. I am a mountain. I stand alone. That's just great. I fall alone, too. I fall long and hard and forever, and it hurts and I deserve it. "They won't let me trade my life for hers," he heard himself say softly. "I tried...but they won't let me. It's me they're punishing. It's my search that's caused all of this pain for you and your family, Mrs. Scully, and I -" Mulder's voice cracked and he stopped. He can't break. He's the strong one. Remember? His little voice says that's bullshit. Scully's not a helpless eight-year-old girl. She's the strong one, you spineless bastard. But he can't listen to that voice now. He won't. The only thing that matters is taking away Mrs. Scully's pain. But the only way that can happen is for her daughter to be returned. And what about Melissa? She's never coming back. She was such a good-hearted, benevolent soul. So like Scully, but so unlike her, too. She believed and she had faith. And they fucking killed her. "Fox, you can't blame yourself," Margaret said, and Mulder heard the fear in her voice. Fear for him. He almost laughed. Her daughter had been used, was probably still being used, as a guinea pig, a science experiment, and SHE was worried about HIM? Mulder wondered how his own self-absorbed mother would feel. She'd probably sigh and hug him, but she would need the hug, not him. She always needed it. "I've been told, in no uncertain terms, that I am to blame, Mrs. Scully. It's my fault. That's the truth." They stared at each other for a moment. Tears welled up in Margaret's eyes and she stood. "If that's the truth that you've been searching for all this time, it's not worth the trouble." She turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Swish thud. Swish thud. Swish thud. Snick. Mulder buried his face in his hands. * * * * * * * * * * May 30, 1997 *********** It felt better in the dark. Mulder felt like he was a part of the shadows. He was in a John Alton movie, where the shadows moved and spoke and ate and lived. But the shadows were tortured, fearful, and in pain. Just like him. Mulder blinked as the door opened. "Agent Mulder?" Skinner. Mulder sighed. Scully had been missing for four days and every day, Mulder had come to work and sat in the dark. His apartment was tainted, by the Smoking Man's cigarettes and his own denial. His office...this was the truth. He'd tracked down Marita Covarrubias, who had (naturally) already known about Scully. She offered her sincerest condolences, and said she'd do what she could. But even in her voice, Mulder could hear defeat. It was over. This time, they'd taken her for good. Mulder wondered if he could continue with his work, wondering if it meant anything anymore and knowing that's exactly what they expected. They would defeat him through others. "Agent Mulder." Skinner was in front of his desk now and Mulder looked up at him. "Yes Sir?" he said. Skinner sighed. "Go home, Agent Mulder." "I can't, Sir." Skinner stared at him. "Why not?" he asked. Mulder spread his hands out on his desk. "I don't know, Sir," he lied. "I just can't." Skinner sat down in the chair opposite the desk. Scully's chair. Mulder flinched. "You need to take some time," Skinner said, his voice laced with compassion. Mulder clenched his jaw. Skinner thought she was gone forever, too. Skinner had given up. It had been a miracle to get her back the first time, and then the miracle had been ripped away. The rent in the fabric between them was irreparable, no matter how much Mulder wanted to believe it wasn't. That's what this escapade taught him. They can take her anytime they want. They can manipulate her body and poison her mind. Why should he think they wouldn't try? He hadn't believed the Smoking Man because you're not supposed to trust evil. Who are you to decide what's right...who are YOU? Another loop, moving through his brain. Another moment when he had to reevaluate his beliefs. Another moment when he'd failed. The Smoking Man was as committed to his beliefs as Mulder was to his. Hell, probably more so. The Smoking Man went out of his way to prove his loyalty to his beliefs, while Mulder sat in a dark office and prayed for oblivion. "They'll bring her back." That sounded unconvincing, even to Mulder. He sighed. "I'll take some time." Conflict avoided, Skinner relaxed and stood. "Good." He hesitated, wanting to say more, but Mulder looked away. Snick. Snick. Snick. Snick. Creak-snap. Mulder stared at the closed door. * * * * * * * * * * June 1, 1997 ********** Mulder fumbled for his phone, surprised he'd kept it turned on. Hell, surprised he'd kept it with him. It was still automatic, he supposed. He was going to get out, go away. He didn't know where, but someplace far. He was going to take Skinner's advice and get away, then he was going to come back and bludgeon fucking Cancer Man to death and terrorize Marita, until he got some answers. "Mulder." He heard hesitation on the line. "Hello?" "Fox..." Mrs. Scully. Dear God. No. Mulder sat down. "Mrs. Scully?" His voice cracked. He heard her stifle a sob and images flashed through his brain. Scully. Dead eyes staring upwards, accepting her fate. God no. "Fox, you have to come." * * * * * * * * * * (continued in part four) From Ruefrex@aol.com Fri Apr 04 19:01:43 1997 Subject: The Sticking Place (4/6), by Kay Reindl From: Ruefrex@aol.com -------- The Sticking Place (4/6) By Kay Reindl Ruefrex@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: SA Spoilers: Memento Mori Timeline: The end of season four/beginning of season five * * * * * * * * * * Mrs. Scully sat in the waiting room, that familiar place where Mrs. Scully, Melissa and Mulder had agreed that Dana should die. Mulder's brain buzzed. He'd taken a cab from the airport because he'd been too afraid that he'd black out if he drove. He managed to sit down next to her, dreading the look in her eyes. A huge spark shot through him when she looked at him. She was crying. She was smiling. Mulder had to put his head down, breathe deeply. She rubbed his back. "Fox, I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't thinking. She's fine, Fox, just fine. She's resting now, but...you need to see her, you need to talk to her." He took a deep breath and looked at her. Her face swam in front of his eyes and he shook his head, trying to clear it. Shit. His vision went crinkly black around the edges. Mulder opened his eyes. He heard the murmur of voices, the whish-whish of whispering. Margaret Scully was talking to a doctor. Mulder was lying on the couch in the waiting room. He pushed himself to a sitting position. Good. No dizziness. The doctor's face swam into view. "You should take it easy, young man. Just lie still until you orient yourself." "I need to see Scully," he said, his voice slurred. The doctor frowned. Margaret bent down, smiled at him. "I'll take you." Margaret reached for Mulder's arm and helped him up. Mulder's vision cleared and he looked at the doctor. "I'm fine," he said firmly. The doctor didn't say anything and he didn't look the least bit convinced. Mulder followed Margaret down the corridor, pleased that they weren't heading for ICU. Snick. Margaret pushed open the door of a private room and Mulder saw Scully lying in bed, head turned towards the window. Not Fox, Mom, Mulder. It all came back to him. He stood awkwardly in her room. Margaret waited by the door, the perfect mother. Scully turned her head and Mulder heard the muslin crackle of the pillows. She smiled at him, the most luminous and beautiful smile he'd ever seen. The smile reached her eyes and moved out into the room, flooding it with dappled golden light. Mulder's knees went weak. Scully hadn't been so purely joyful in years. It made him scared. Irrational, his little voice said. But it fucking terrified him. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said softly. He forced himself to take a step forward. She sat up in bed, the smile still in her eyes. He didn't trust that smile. Or was it that he no longer trusted unreserved happiness? Had he become that selfish? She reached out and took his hand. Her hand was warm and dry and alive and he could feel her surprise at the coldness of his grip. Her strength moved into him and it hurt him, cutting him. It wasn't hers. It isn't hers, the voice said to him. The buzz started in his brain. "Mulder...it's gone." He blinked at her. Gone? "What's gone?" he asked, his voice low and raspy. "The cancer. It's gone." How could she not hear that buzz? He stared at her, unsure of the impact of what she'd said. He needed to sit down, desperately. He pulled away from her and grabbed a chair, then sank heavily into it. "I don't understand, Scully. How...?" "I don't know, Mulder. But the PET scan was negative. X-rays were negative. Whatever they did to me..." Whatever they did to her, cured her. They killed her and resurrected her. "But how is that possible?" he asked, his mind racing. Scully shook her head. "I don't know. Nobody knows. My doctor will keep an eye on everything, just to be sure, but...it's like it was never there, Mulder. It's just...gone." "But how?" he asked softly, desperately. A frown creased her brow and Margaret stepped forward, putting a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "What did you do, Scully? What did you give them?" She stared at him, stunned. "I didn't give them anything, Mulder. They took me and I don't remember what happened. And I don't care either. They cured me." "But at what cost?" He needed her to understand how serious this was. But she wasn't understanding. You don't know me, his little voice said. And she doesn't know you. You're strangers. They've made her alien with their little games. Don't identify with the criminal, Scully, please. "Fox..." Margaret Scully, the voice of reason. "What do you mean, at what cost? At no cost. Mulder, I don't care about any of that. I'm cured. I'm healthy. I can go back to work and not have to worry that every day may be the last day I'll be able to work. Don't you understand? I'm not scared anymore." Not scared and not careful. Grateful to the Smoking Man for taking away the pain that he'd initially inflicted. They had her. Mulder got to his feet. "Mulder, what's wrong with you? I thought you'd be happy!" He tried to make his brain work. "I am happy for you, Scully. I am..." Well, THAT sounded sincere. He couldn't make things right now. The Smoking Man was right when he told Mulder he had none of the power. He didn't even have the power to be thrilled that his partner was no longer dying. He didn't have the power to tell her how happy he was, how much she deserved to live. It had all been drained out of him by that manipulative son of a bitch. Mulder reached down and brushed the hair off her forehead. "I am happy for you," he said softly, then he turned and walked out of the room. * * * * * * * * * * June 10, 1997 *********** Scully came back to work three days later, a large part of her brimming over with happiness, and a smaller part of her wondering why Mulder was so upset. It niggled at her constantly, threatening to ruin her good mood. Well, dammit, didn't she deserve some happiness? The ugly part of her, no longer cancerous but present all the same, said that Mulder was upset because he hadn't been her white knight. But he is, the good part of her insisted, every single day. He makes me want to find the truth. Mulder's dizzy spells were back and he spent a lot of the workday excusing himself to go down the hall. "I told you, Scully, it's just stress." But stress over what? He almost seemed like he was...guilty. Scully felt a cold flash of fear. Oh, dear God. Was she wrong? Had Mulder really been her white knight this time? Had he sold himself out to the Cancer Man? He seemed so defeated, so pale and small. Lost. Beaten. He flinched when she touched him, jumped when she walked into the room. Mulder always had the strength of his beliefs, the courage of his convictions. Scully wished desperately that she could give him her faith. But he would need to work for that. It was worth it to Scully. It flowed through her now, making her feel indestructible even as her partner was disintegrating. Scully found that it was easy, now, to ignore what was happening with him. He made it easy. Mulder never complained, never went home early, always took her suggestions when she ordered him to eat or sleep. He was too accommodating. * * * * * * * * * * June 13, 1997 *********** She came in one morning, a week or so later, and found him sitting at his desk, a handkerchief to his forehead as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from a nasty cut. He started, guilty. She stepped forward and took the handkerchief out of his hand. The blood ran in rivulets down his forehead and cheek and his eyes had that glazed, unfocused look that she'd become so used to seeing. "Did you have another episode?" That's what they were calling the dizzy spells now. Episodes. He nodded, spraying blood everywhere. Scully went around behind his chair, tilted his head back, and firmly pressed the handkerchief to his forehead. "I don't think Hilda is becoming too fond of mopping up your blood, Mulder. You need to see someone." "I told you," he said weakly, "it's just stress." "Mulder, it's obvious to me that the doctor you're so enamored of is no better than an Elvis doctor. He's telling you what you want to hear. The sleeping pills are making you disoriented and more importantly, they're not solving the problem. I know a good neurologist -" "I don't need to see anyone, Scully," he said firmly. Scully brought his hand up to his forehead. "Hold that firmly," she said. "Do you want me to tell Skinner?" Mulder laughed sharply. "What, you gonna tell on me?" he said roughly. Scully stared at him. He looked like a petulant little kid, and he still looked guilty as hell. Scully clenched her jaw. "I might." Mulder got to his feet. "Where are you going?" "Bathroom. To clean up." "Can we discuss this later?" Mulder looked at her and sighed. "I guess." Scully watched him walk away. He was alien to her now. Thankfully, the blood had stopped streaming down his face. Mulder wet the handkerchief and dabbed at the cut, wincing. "You're going to have a scar." Mulder whirled around. The Smoking Man stood behind him, cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Haven't you caused enough trouble?" Mulder asked. The Smoking Man shrugged. "I figured that even you wouldn't have the nerve to kill me in the Hoover building." "It's the basement, so it really doesn't count. Get the fuck away from me." The Smoking Man stepped closer, the bastard. "I need to tell you something about Agent Scully." "You've played your games, you've had your fun. You're powerful, I'm not. Not much of an object lesson, but I get it." Mulder turned back to the sink. "She looks good. Discovering she really doesn't have cancer has done wonders for her physically, wouldn't you say?" Mulder gritted his teeth but didn't respond. "See, you think you've learned the lesson, Agent Mulder. You think we took Agent Scully, gave her cancer, and then reversed the whole thing. Don't you?" Mulder whirled around. "Didn't you? Isn't that what this is all about? She's so fucking grateful that it makes me sick. You've manipulated her, emotionally and physically, and even though she doesn't know it, you've broken her." "Maybe." The Smoking Man watched him for a long moment. "I'll bet you have no idea what she thinks of you." "I don't care what people think of me." "Obviously," the Smoking Man said sarcastically. He stepped closer to Mulder. "The cancer wasn't real." Mulder sighed. "This is getting tedious. Look, I have a lot of work to do -" "You're not listening to me. Agent Scully thinks she's been cured. She hasn't." Mulder stared at him and his skin began to crawl. "But the x-rays -" "You don't understand, Agent Mulder. It's not malignant or benign. It just...isn't." Mulder was standing on a precipice, looking down, and it was beckoning to him. "What are you talking about?" he whispered. The Smoking Man was inches away now and Mulder could smell the stale smoke on his clothes. "I told you what we could do. I told you that I swore I'd protect you. And I meant it. I will not let any harm come to you physically, if I can help it, but I will also protect you the way your father did. By keeping you in the dark. You didn't think we had the power, did you? You thought you could handle it, that you were always a step ahead of us. You thought your righteousness and your search made you untouchable. You thought it made you right. Well, it doesn't. We didn't give Agent Scully cancer. We didn't have to. If she died, you would become more powerful. That couldn't be allowed to happen. But she thought she had cancer, didn't she? And so did you. It was you we were playing, Agent Mulder, through her. You remember how much she hurt, and know that we can do it again and again if need be. You do not have the right to make the decisions. You've already made your decision. And we've made ours. Agent Scully belongs to us and if you want her kept safe, you will remember this little conversation and remember everything you've seen and experienced." With that, the Smoking Man turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Mulder felt like he was vibrating, and the feeling in the pit of his stomach became a gaping maw of horror that threatened to swallow him. A gasp escaped him and then he couldn't stop himself. He clutched the corner of the sink and sobbed, huge wracking sobs that tore him in half. They had taken everything from him. His defenses shattered and crumbled, sliding down his soul. * * * * * * * * * * Scully looked at her watch. Mulder had been gone for half an hour. Guess I should check on him, Scully thought with some resentment. As Scully walked down the hallway, her resentment grew. Mulder had never been incredibly forthcoming, but she always knew where she stood with him. Now, she had no idea. She was cured, dammit!! She wanted to live life, and all her partner wanted to do was die. He had given himself up for her. She knew it. What kind of bargain had he made on her behalf? How far down into the darkness had he been asked to go? What part of her was in that vial? She'd been too afraid to find out on her own. She determined that she would ask him now. She'd demand an answer, demand to know what he'd done. Enough of this bullshit. They would sit down and talk everything out and he'd see that all would be fine, because they were both healthy and they would find the truth. He went for his gun. Shocked, Scully relied on reflexes and did the same. The Mulder in front of her was dissolving, radiating anger and distrust. The creepy feeling that had plagued Scully ever since Mulder's odd reaction in her hospital room suddenly took control and she aimed unwaveringly in his direction, convinced he would try to kill her. "Put the gun down, Mulder," she said firmly. He advanced slowly, eyes narrowed but crazed with fear. Alien. You don't know me anymore. "I can't put it down, Scully, listen to me, you don't know what you're doing. They did...things...to you, horrible things..." "Goddammit, Mulder, put the fucking gun down!" she shouted. His hand trembled but he kept the weapon pointed. "Of course I know what they did to me! I was there, you were not! They fucking tortured me and then for some reason, they gave me my life back!" Mulder shook his head and as he got closer, Scully could see that his eyes were red-rimmed and the cut on his forehead had started to bleed again. "They didn't give it back. They never took it. They pretended to, because of me. It's my fault, Scully, but I can help you -" "It's not about you, Mulder! Don't you get it? It's not about you!! It's about me, and how dare you fucking judge me! How dare you take all the pain and all the grief for yourself!! You don't know what they did to me. They're lying to you and you'd rather believe them than me!" Enraged, Scully fumbled in her pocket with her free hand and withdrew the vial. She held it up. Mulder paled and she could see his knees wobble. "Was the price high enough, Mulder? Is your truth no longer important? How quickly the truth turns into lies. How quickly YOU decide that I need saving. What the hell is this, Mulder?" His knuckles whitened as he gripped the gun. "I didn't do anything and you don't need to know that, Scully. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you -" Scully clenched her fist around the vial. "WHAT IS THIS? I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me you had nothing to do with any of this. I need to hear it, Mulder." He couldn't say anything. He was staring at her with such a look of horror that it took her breath away. She scared the shit out of him and she didn't have any idea why. She actually saw it happen. She saw Mulder split in half, saw the awareness in his eyes dissipate and leave him. His trembling got worse and he began gasping for breath, even as he pointed his gun at her. Through his eyes, she could see that he saw it all. He saw it from the beginning of time. He saw what had been done, who had been betrayed, who had been decimated beyond repair. Through his eyes, she saw herself, brash and naïve, then broken and hurt. The images were so powerful that she didn't know how he could keep his feet. Suddenly, he screamed. Scully ducked as she saw his finger spasm. The gun exploded, the bullet burying itself in the wall beside her, showering her with plaster. She dropped her gun and hurled herself at him as he fired again. She tackled him, grabbed his wrist and slammed it into the ground. He howled and struggled. She managed to rid him of the gun and she kicked it away. He heaved her off of him. He was so strong now, instinctively strong. She managed to grab his arms and flip him over, her knee painfully in the small of his back. He could struggle all he wanted now and it wouldn't do him any good. And struggle he did. He cursed her and slammed his head against the floor. Crack. Crack. Crack. Scully was helpless to stop him. She heard running feet and shouting. "Help!" she yelled. She heard the feet slide around the corner and felt the shocked surprise of FBI agents in search of coffee, never dreaming they'd come across a sight like this. "Call security," Scully panted. They obeyed. Crack. Crack. "And hold his head down!" One of the agents knelt down and removed his cuffs. He looked at her. "Hold him." Like Scully was going to let go. Crack. Crack. The agent snapped one cuff around Mulder's wrist and Mulder went even more ballistic. He managed to unseat Scully and he hurled himself to his feet. The agent was up quickly and tackled Mulder as he tried to run. Scully managed to grab the loose cuff and his other arm and Mulder grunted as she snapped the other cuff onto his wrist. He squirmed and struggled but the other agent and Scully just sat on him until help arrived. * * * * * * * * * * (continued in part five) From Ruefrex@aol.com Fri Apr 04 19:00:32 1997 Subject: The Sticking Place (5/6), by Kay Reindl From: Ruefrex@aol.com -------- The Sticking Place (5/6) By Kay Reindl Ruefrex@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: SA Spoilers: Memento Mori Timeline: The end of season four/beginning of season five * * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully's Journal Entry dated July 14, 1997 ********************* I keep having dreams about Mulder. In them he is evil and dripping with menace, making a Faustian bargain with the Devil. I am in the corner, screaming at him, but he doesn't hear me. Or he won't hear me. I've spent hours staring at the wall, ruminating over that particular distinction. Is he deaf to my cries, or is the evil eating away at him making him so? I just don't know. What I do know is, I want to see him. I want to, and I'm terrified to. He's been transferred to a less secure facility, given a room of his own with a regular door and a kindly, insightful therapist named Alan Harthill, whose calls I tend to ignore. I met with Dr. Harthill once, shortly after Mulder came out of his drug-induced stupor, and we discussed treatment and prognosis. It made me sick to my stomach and I simply haven't gone back. I know Mulder is in a world of pain, a world that even his sharp mind couldn't grapple with. But to imagine him locked up...I just can't. Dr. Harthill has been very understanding and also very helpful to me personally, and although I know a lot of his concern is a ruse to get me to open up to him about Mulder, I find myself picking up the phone and hunting for his number, just for someone to talk to. He doesn't judge, he has no preconceptions, and I pray fervently that Mulder is getting something out of this contact as well. I want to see him, and I don't. I can't. Actually, I really can't. Dr. Harthill doesn't think it would be a good idea. If Mulder wasn't paranoid before, he certainly is now. Everything frightens him, startles him. He walks through his daily life suspicious of everything and everyone. He is constantly exhausted. Words cannot express how this tears me apart but at the same time, I crave a normal life. I've been looking for one. I've gone out on a few dates with a few intriguing men, but when they call again I don't call them back. I go shopping and to the movies with my mother. I've seen all the latest blockbusters. I read best-sellers and keep up with the current research. I consult on important cases at work, and I have several recent commendations in my file. Quite a way from being blacklisted by the entire bureau, nearly killed and quite often nearly fired. I want to see him, and I can't. It would all come flooding back. I stand alone now, as Mulder stands alone. I wonder if he thinks about me. I wonder if he thinks about anything. I wonder if he will ever be able to again. * * * * * * * * * * July 23, 1997 *********** Mulder's first memory of his new surroundings was of the small window above his bed. He remembered waking up, disoriented yet again, but seeing the golden glow of the light hitting the wall opposite the bed. Light. He hadn't seen light in months. He hadn't seen anything except gray and menacing shadows that threatened and taunted him. Sometimes he'd prayed for the drugs, begged for them. It hurt so much. His first morning, Mulder had looked out the window into a verdant field. He'd seen horses, billions of them, eating and running, which was all horses seemed to do. He'd seen wobbly-legged foals learning to run, learning to trust. And he'd cried because he couldn't trust anymore. He'd always believed in "trust no one", or so he'd thought. But he only believed in it because he believed he could trust. He wasn't talking about everybody, Mulder would rationalize. Just the nuts. And now he was a nut, and he couldn't even remember how to trust. Whenever he considered trusting even Karl, the orderly, or Dr. Harthill, his hands started trembling and he got dizzy. So he'd been forced into it. Just like he was forced into everything else. Trust no one, because you can't believe. You want to believe...but you can't. Ever. Everything had been taken away and the worst part was, he'd thrown so much of it away himself. He deserved his fate. He met with Dr. Harthill every day and he'd sit there for an hour, not talking. He waited for it to piss Dr. Harthill off, but it didn't. That was disappointing. Dr. Harthill just sat there, sipping tea, watching him. To hell with you, Mulder thought. He focused on a point above the bookcase and just stared at it. Focus, focus, focus...Mulder stared at it so hard his eyes hurt. He felt like he could not-be into that point, just sink himself into a pathetic little ball and not-be. Not me. The next thing Mulder knew, he was on the ground and Karl was doing CPR on him. Mulder coughed and Karl helped him up. "You okay?" he asked, in his uncomplicated orderly's voice. Not trusting his own voice, Mulder nodded. Karl helped him back onto the couch and Mulder looked at Dr. Harthill, who was glaring severely at him. Shit, Mulder thought. What happened? Dr. Harthill nodded to Karl, who left. Then he stared at Mulder. "I've never seen anyone do that," he said. Inwardly, Mulder sighed. Dr. Harthill wasn't going to tell him what happened. "It's a gift," Mulder said. Apparently, Dr. Harthill had no irony gene, either. Or he's just a good psychologist, Mulder's little voice said, and refuses to let you get away with that shit. "It's something we should talk about," Dr. Harthill said. Mulder shrugged. Dr. Harthill smiled. "If you know what happened , that is." Mulder wanted to give the guy the finger, but he didn't. He shrugged again. Dr. Harthill leaned forward. "You stopped breathing, Mulder," he said, his voice deadly serious. Mulder nodded. "Ah." Dr. Harthill stood up. Time for the power play. "You made yourself stop, didn't you? I watched it happen. I watched you try to become invisible, watched you stilling your breath until it stopped. I didn't think you had it in you, Mulder." Mulder glared at him. "Great technique," he said sarcastically. Dr. Harthill didn't react, damn him. "It's the same as killing yourself, you know," he said. Mulder leaned back against the ratty couch. "Bullshit." Dr. Harthill looked at him for a long while and Mulder looked calmly back. Dr. Harthill's gaze strayed to Mulder's right hand and when Mulder followed his gaze, he saw his thumb tapping out a rhythm. Shit. Mulder balled his fist. Dr. Harthill sat down next to him. "You can't disappear into yourself and you can't distract yourself into feeling fine. I won't let you. I will put a guard on you twenty-four hours a day, Mulder, to make sure you don't. I know you don't want to talk. You've made it evident over the past few weeks. But you know that talking to me is the only way you're ever going to get out of here." Mulder got to his feet suddenly, needing to not look into that calm, caring face. He didn't deserve it. He went to the window and watched the late foal hiding behind its mother. It gazed at the older, more accomplished foals in fear. You've got the right idea, Mulder thought. Trust no one. He resented the foal, though. Its mother stood there, calm as a rock, ready to defend her foal if she had to. Anytime. Its mother didn't beg for her own comfort at the expense of the foal. Mulder took a deep breath. Dammit. "It doesn't matter if I get out of here," Mulder said, his voice low. "My life is ruined. My career is over. My - I have nothing out there. I have nothing in here. What's the difference?" Mulder realized that opening up this much to Dr. Harthill was just borrowing trouble, but he had nothing to lose. Right? "Your career is not over," Dr. Harthill said firmly. "You have people in the FBI who will stick up for you, vouch for you." Mulder snorted. "Why does that amuse you?" Dr. Harthill asked. Mulder kept staring at the foal. "The people who will vouch for me need to be vouched for themselves. My career was in jeopardy even before ...this." "Why?" Mulder turned around and looked at him. "It had to be in order for me to do my work. My work isn't exactly sanctioned by the bureau. Sometimes, it's actively discouraged." Dr. Harthill nodded. "Who will do your work now?" Mulder's heart sank as he saw his partner, her gun drawn, shouting at him. Flash. He saw himself, crazy. Nuts. Insane. "Nobody." * * * * * * * * * * July 31, 1997 *********** Scully was tired. The week had been absolute hell, and it was just Thursday. One and a half more days to go, and then she could look forward to a weekend of scouring and polishing the floors. Keeping busy had become more and more of a priority for her. Anything to keep Mulder from her mind. She'd actually been seeing Dr. Harthill once every few weeks. While he wouldn't tell her anything about Mulder, he helped her manage her guilt and the feeling that she'd been thrown back into the gene pool with some knowledge that others didn't even know existed. For a long time now, Scully felt as if she had some deep secret that only she possessed and she resented the regular people who went about their daily lives not knowing how much Scully and Mulder had had to risk to ensure that they would keep those lives. She hated them. Scully felt like the darkness now. She felt powerless to do anything, anything at all. She'd gone through Mulder's files, hoping to find something she could latch onto, but they all terrified her. Skinner, no longer her supervisor, told her to leave the basement alone. They wouldn't touch it until Mulder came back. At first, that had been heartening. But now...it was sad and it made her sick. Mulder wasn't coming back. Ever. Scully started at a soft knock on her office door. A tall, cool blond woman stood there, pale hand raised as she knocked. "Agent Scully?" she asked, in a formal voice. Scully nodded. "Yes. Can I help you?" The blond woman pulled the door shut behind her and Scully shifted in her chair, her right hand comfortably on the butt of her gun. There was something about this woman that she didn't trust. She didn't trust. That was a sensation that hadn't been with her for months. Scully was wary and careful, and it felt tremendous. "My name is Marita Covarrubias. I've come to talk to you about Fox Mulder." Scully felt an electric jolt. She squelched it and sized up Marita Covarrubias. "There isn't anything to discuss," Scully said, her voice even. Marita smiled softly, sadly. Who WAS this woman, Scully thought. How did she know Mulder and more importantly, how does she know me? "I have, in the past, helped Agent Mulder with his work," Marita said. Jesus Christ. Mulder's informant. Jesus. Scully felt her face shift and noticed that it didn't get by Marita. "You haven't been to see him." It was a statement, like she already knew. And it wasn't accusatory or judgmental. It just was. All Scully could do was to nod. "I saw him before he was transferred. I was instrumental in his transfer." Scully couldn't have been more amazed. "But why?" Was all she could muster. Marita reached into a pocket and pulled out a crinkled envelope, which she handed to Scully. Scully opened it, saw two tiny blue pills. She looked up at Marita. "They're hallucinogens," Marita said by way of explanation. "When Agent Mulder was first incarcerated, it was thought that he could possibly be diagnosed as criminally insane. He had to be drugged on a daily basis, sometimes two or three times a day, just to keep him in control so he didn't hurt himself or anyone else. That didn't make sense to me, so I paid him a visit and discovered that one of the orderlies was giving him these pills." Scully felt her stomach drop. She stared in astonishment at Marita. "How did you know?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. "Agent Mulder's work is very important to us. He must be allowed to continue." The anger rose like bile in Scully's throat. "His work's so important to you, is it? His work," Scully said in contempt. Marita leaned forward in her chair. "Agent Scully, this is work only Agent Mulder can complete, because of the kind of person he is. There have been many, many others before him and they've all failed." "Did they end up in mental institutions, too?" Scully asked, no longer caring how shrewish she sounded. After all that had happened, Mulder was still being played. It made her sick. And it made her vengeful. "They ended up dead, Agent Scully. Yes, there's a chance that Agent Mulder may not be allowed to continue his work in the FBI, but he must continue somewhere. He is making surprisingly good progress, from what I hear. It could be going better, however." Scully knew exactly what was required of her. "I can't see him," she said firmly. "Not just because it scares the hell out of me, but because he won't see me. I'm in contact with his doctor, who says it would be a bad idea for me to see him." Marita nodded again. "Do you see what they've done? They've separated you and made both of you think it's for your own good. They've won." Scully stood up. "I don't care. I didn't want to be in the game to begin with, and now that it's over, it's over. Okay?" "But it's not over, Agent Scully. It will never be over. You are involved and you will always be involved. Can't you feel it, when you go outside? Don't you feel it?" Scully was staggered because of course, she DID feel it. It enveloped her sometimes, as she thought about the work she'd done with Mulder. And if it surrounded her, what did it do to Mulder? He lived it; it consumed him completely and unreservedly. It demanded him and he gave so much to it that it drove him mad. He WAS it. But somewhere deep inside, she had to believe that wasn't all he was. She had to because if she didn't, she was so consumed with grief for him that she would cry for days. Mulder was more than the work. He defined himself. Didn't he? "It's so important," Marita said softly. "And it's so hard. But it has to be done. You did make a choice, Agent Scully. You could have walked away, but you didn't. And you can't now, just as Mulder can't. And if you think the road ahead of you is hard, it's twice as hard for him. His battle is far more difficult and so much more intensely personal that it can and does bring him to his knees. Dr. Harthill can only do so much for him. He can put Mulder back together but without you, without the work, that doesn't mean anything. Mulder will not be cured. He can't be. He can be made stronger, more resilient, but his drive and determination, sometimes to the point of obsession and paranoia, is what makes him successful. That cannot be taken away." Scully sat back down again, the weight pressing down from above. "Will they try?" she asked in a whisper. Marita nodded. "They already have, once. And no doubt, they will try again. But that's irrelevant, really. His last hurdle will be the ability to trust." Scully shook her head, dazed. "But Mulder doesn't trust. He trusts - trusted - me, but he...that's not who he is." Marita smiled. "Why would someone to whom mistrust came so easily have to remind himself not to trust?" Scully stared as Marita got to her feet and left the office, closing the door behind her. * * * * * * * * * * August 6, 1997 ************ They both stared at him with the same round, fearful eyes. They both wanted and needed to be released from their terror, and he had the power to do so. For once, he had the power. And the power was killing him. He couldn't choose. He needed to, or they would both die. But he couldn't. They brought him the corpse of his mother, laid out on a bier. She looked so peaceful. But still he couldn't choose. Then they brought him the still form of his father. He screamed in rage, railing at the man for dying before he could rail at him for living. The cold blue hands were primly pressed together and the sallow flesh mocked him. He had the power; he wouldn't be mocked. The eyes opened, making a wet popping sound, and he gagged. The thin lips smiled that cruel smile, the smile that had marked the torrid script the two of them would play out forever. The mouth opened and he felt the cold kiss of dead breath on his face. He tried to close his eyes, tried to tell himself it wasn't happening, but he was held spellbound by his father. "Choose," the lips said. He shook his head firmly. He wouldn't. He would not play the game, he wouldn't let them win. The corpse creaked and sat up and he gagged and spat, still unable to look away. He could feel his mother's sad aura as she allowed her spirit to be manipulated. Help me, he thought desperately at her. "You must choose," came the dead voice. He shook his head more violently this time, pressing his lips together. No way, you bastard. The lips smiled at him again but the eyes would never smile. They never had. One of the blue hands unstuck itself and pointed a withered finger at a particular spot behind him. "Choose." He was completely unwilling but compelled to look. He turned slowly, glad to look away from the ghastly sight. They stared at him, each willing him to make a choice...or to stand firm...he just didn't know what they wanted. He thought maybe he should ask them but they were both such good people that they would sacrifice themselves for the other. "I chose." The cold voice chilled him and he turned around again. His father's dead body was still upright and the withered finger taunted him, swaying hypnotically around the room. "I chose..." the finger hovered on the small, dark-haired girl behind him, the one with the honest eyes. Then the finger slid, reptilian in its movement, towards him. And stopped. "I chose you," the voice spat in contempt. For one instant, his father's dead gaze softened as he looked at his daughter. He felt the hatred and loathing emanate forth from his father and he turned to look at his sister, seeing the same look on her face. It stunned him. But what really surprised and shocked him was the look on his partner's face. Disappointment. The voice spoke again. "Trust no one." Mulder's scream came from the bottom of his first childhood memory and almost ripped him apart. He clawed at the wall with his fingernails and couldn't stop screaming. Dimly, he heard the door open and felt Karl's quick footsteps move towards him and for once, he was glad. Because he couldn't stop. Karl didn't try to make him, either. Mulder felt the cold prick of the needle and soon became enveloped in the foggy haze that meant Thorazine. His shaking hands quieted and his breathing stilled. He was still conscious, though, and very disappointed. He wanted to be drugged into oblivion, wanted to never think about that horrible dream, that terrifying dilemma. He lay on his bed, completely spent and slightly buzzed. Karl's footsteps receded and he felt panic at being left alone, which was usually all he ever wanted. Then Karl came back and Mulder felt the warm hand of Dr. Harthill on his forehead. Mulder blinked sleepily as Dr. Harthill's image swam into view. "Can you here me, Mulder?" That took a moment to process, but Mulder finally nodded. Dr. Harthill sat down in the straight-backed chair next to him, Karl's bulk hazy and familiar in the background. "I'm going to sit with you awhile, until you fall asleep. Is that okay?" Mulder knew Dr. Harthill wanted to analyze him but he didn't care. He wanted people around him, people who didn't expect him to make some kind of choice between life and death. He nodded again, feeling the drug coursing through his system and opening himself up to it until it enveloped his very soul. * * * * * * * * * * (continued in part six) From Ruefrex@aol.com Fri Apr 04 19:00:48 1997 Subject: The Sticking Place (6/6), by Kay Reindl From: Ruefrex@aol.com -------- The Sticking Place (6/6) By Kay Reindl Ruefrex@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: SA Spoilers: Memento Mori Timeline: The end of season four/beginning of season five * * * * * * * * * * August 7, 1997 ************ Mulder didn't usually receive large doses of Thorazine anymore so it took him half the day to recover. The dream hovered in the back of his mind and he craved a stronger dose of the drug. He wanted desperately to go away, to not-be into oblivion. When he opened his eyes, Dr. Harthill was still sitting next to him. He was amazed that he hadn't been restrained. What was up with that? Dr. Harthill smiled at him and helped him up, gave him some juice. "You've been out awhile. Karl's getting you something to eat." Mulder sipped the juice slowly, watching Dr. Harthill, wondering why this particular nightmare had taken on so much significance that a well-respected psychologist would sit up with a patient, when Karl's presence would have had the same effect. With a jolt, he wondered if he'd been talking. Shit. Dr. Harthill almost read his mind. "What were you supposed to choose?" he asked quietly, pretending that it was just idle curiosity. Mulder sipped his juice and thought. His hands began to tremble and he hastily put the cup down. He looked away for a moment, into the light, which was becoming so foreign to him. Or maybe it had been foreign all along, and this was the first time he'd noticed. Did that mean he was getting better? Did he want to get better, or did he want everyone to win? He was talking before he realized it. "I had to play the game. My father was making me choose between my sister and Scully. Both of them would die if I didn't choose and only one of them would die if I did. But I couldn't. I failed on all fronts. My father initially chose me to be taken. I don't know if he changed his mind or if they changed it for him. The latter, I suspect. But I didn't think about it. Ever. He...he died for me, he died trying to apologize for my life, for my grief." "Did he apologize?" Mulder pulled his knees up to his chin. "He didn't get the chance," he said softly, "and I don't know, in the end, if he would have. I didn't trust him. He played the game and he paid with our family. But he made me pay. He made me think I was responsible." He felt Dr. Harthill shift in his chair and momentarily wondered if Dr. Harthill was buying any of this. "Do you think you were responsible?" Mulder thought about it. Intellectually, he wasn't sure. But emotionally... "I've thought so since I was twelve. The guilt...it drives me. So yes. Even though I shouldn't, even though my bastard of a father is the one responsible, I will always feel that way." Dr. Harthill was silent for a moment and Mulder began to remember things. Flash. The family at the beach. His distant father, claiming to be watching his children when he was off with his secret pals, plotting. Mulder remembered the worried look on his father's face when he'd returned; the sharp words. Flash. The summer house. Bill yelling at...someone. Flash. Bill hitting him, but not angry with him. Grimly hitting him. Flash. Bill never touching him again, not until the night he died. "Do you think he made you play the game when you felt guilty?" Mulder turned to stare at Dr. Harthill. He saw understanding in his eyes and it just flooded through him and left him weak. "I thought I wanted to be so much," Mulder said sadly. "I was getting away from him and I was doing it on my own. I went away to school and I wanted to understand him...Every time I was in class I tried to understand but I couldn't. He was always hovering over me, pulling me in, and I never realized it. I didn't know that my path had already been set. I didn't know I was trapped. It was never my decision, I see that now. I don't have any power and trying to do what's right has only gotten innocent people killed. They manipulated me, my partner, everyone. Good people." "Do you consider yourself good people?" Silence. Mulder's thumb began tapping. Dr. Harthill touched Mulder's hand and he stopped. "Mulder, if you are completely powerless and you have no say in your life, if you truly believe that your destiny has already been fulfilled and your fate determined, why are you such a threat to people?" Tap. Tap. Tap. Slowly, Mulder turned and looked at Dr. Harthill, who was watching him interestedly. He really wanted to know. He didn't come with any preconceptions, didn't have any requirements for Mulder other than a clear and concise knowledge of reasons for his actions and beliefs. Yeah, that was all, Mulder thought sarcastically. But he had asked the most elemental question of all and he'd put Mulder in a special place. Not a place for monsters, not a place of failure, but a place of honesty and righteousness and goodness. A human place. Mulder felt the tectonic plates of his very being slide slowly together and click into place and suddenly he saw everything twice as clearly. "I can choose myself," he whispered. Dr. Alan Harthill smiled broadly and the smile reached his eyes, which glinted at Mulder. Dr. Harthill was proud of him. Mulder frowned. "But..." "Mulder, it doesn't matter a bit what anyone tells you. The minute you let them say you can't choose yourself is the minute you lose. You can always make that choice. It is wise and unselfish and indicates a great deal of love." "But I've tried...so hard..." Mulder's voice broke. Dr. Harthill leaned forward. "Do not judge the outcome, Mulder. Judge your own heart. Judge yourself. Do you understand?" Mulder understood, but he didn't agree with it and suddenly he felt so angry he didn't know which way to turn. He was filled with loathing for his father, who mocked his choice and rendered it ineffectual. "It wasn't enough for him," Mulder said angrily. "He wouldn't let me choose myself. HE had to choose. HE had to tell me I was worthless and slow and stupid, that he couldn't trust me to even look after my own sister even though he knew what was going to happen. He thought I was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet for surviving and he tried to break me, tried to make me pay. HE chose me, but I chose to fucking live. HE chose to ruin our family with his lies and I chose to put it back together with the truth, only I can't find the truth. I've tried so hard to find it and I can't..." "Why do you want to find it, Mulder? Is it for your father?" Mulder ground his teeth. "Fuck him," he said viciously. "Fuck him. He doesn't deserve it. He turned against it and chose to lie. Then he tried to fix everything, like the killer who accepts Jesus right before he dies. What a fucking hypocritical God, who allows a fucking serial killer into heaven, who allows an innocent little girl to be a pawn in some fucking power struggle, who allows my father to think he can say he's sorry and that will make everything right. It won't. Fuck him for thinking I'm that easy." Mulder turned to look at Dr. Harthill. "I want the truth. I have to find it. I need it so much...but he's dead, and I don't need it for him. I need it for my sister, for my mother. I need it for myself." Dr. Harthill nodded. "And what does that give you, Mulder?" he asked. Shaking his head in wonder, Mulder saw it. "Power over my own destiny." "Absolutely." Dr. Harthill sat with him for a few more minutes, then he stood and patted Mulder on the shoulder. "You rest this afternoon, Mulder. We'll have a session in the morning and we'll continue this." "Aren't you afraid I'll chicken out?" Mulder asked. Dr. Harthill shook his head. "If you could see the look on your face, Mulder...you'd know why I wasn't concerned. You solved a very important puzzle today, made a hell of a breakthrough after an episode worthy of another breakdown. It always takes courage to look inside yourself, and it takes even more to root around in there and fix what's wrong. You are overflowing with courage." Dr. Harthill smiled again, then he left and for the first time, Mulder didn't hear the creak-swish of the door. * * * * * * * * * * August 16, 1997 ************* Scully gasped and sat up, then waited until her eyes adjusted and glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Jesus. She drew a shaky breath and tried to remember the dream. When it began to come back in snatches, she was sorry she'd started the process. She could feel the tears and she didn't try to hold them back. They splashed down onto her pillow, the same pillow on which she'd discovered the first specks of blood of her not-cancer. That made the tears fall even faster, fall like rain but rather than renew, the rain destroyed. Scully crawled out of bed and went into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and in some surprise, found herself getting dressed. * * * * * * * * * * Margaret Scully blinked sleepily at her daughter. "Dana? What's wrong, honey?" The tears returned as she heard the caring, nurturing voice of her mother. Margaret enveloped Scully in her unconditional mother-hug. "Oh Mom...I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know..." Margaret led Scully into the kitchen, seating her in one of the kitchen chairs as she put the coffee on, instinctively knowing she was in for a long night. Scully started talking almost immediately. "I keep having this dream about Mulder. We're in the office talking, and as we talk he starts to fade away. I can see right through him. I'm trying to talk to him but he can't hear me. His voice gets fainter and I'm screaming at him, trying to get him to come back. But he doesn't. And then he's completely gone. He just pops out of existence. But tonight...tonight was the worst one yet. He's in pain. Fading out has caused him great pain. He's screaming in pain and it's just horrible, like the night that - that night. It's tearing him apart and then I feel pinpricks of pain and it starts to tear me apart, too. I don't know who's fading and who's staying. I'm so confused. And then it dawns on me. We're both fading. We've allowed ourselves to fade from view, Mom, and I don't know what to do." Margaret sat down and stared at Scully, stared at her broken daughter who desperately wanted a concrete answer to impossible questions. "Dana, honey..." "We can't trust each other, Mom. We trust so much that it's gone the other way and we can't trust at all. I feel like I've been running in place ever since it happened and that's ironic because I'm moving up, distinguishing myself, just like I always wanted. But it makes me sick to my stomach now. It's so false, so superficial. Fitting in doesn't matter, not without a purpose. It's blind ambition. It doesn't interest me. I feel like I'm dying, Mom." Margaret put her arms around Scully and held her, rocked her, comforted her. "Dana, it hurts to see you in such pain. Your relationship with Fox...it's so complicated, so complex. I think you've both tried to define it with trust, which sounds deep and binding but isn't, not really. You are bound together, Dana, and it's not just yourselves, not just trust, not just your search or your work. It's so much more than that. I have never seen you happier than when you two were working together. Your goals have gotten lost, honey. You need to redefine them." Scully pulled away and looked at her mother. "Do you think that's what the dream is telling me?" Margaret smiled. "I do. You're looking for the easy answers, the easy definitions, and so was Fox. They aren't easy, Dana. They're inside of you and outside of you. And no matter what you tell yourself, you and Fox are very different people with different needs. But the one thing you must be sure of is, both of you need the work." Scully thought about that for a long moment, then took a sip of the sweet, hot coffee Margaret placed before her. "Mom...I just miss everything..." Margaret smiled sadly and Scully flashed on an image of Mulder's mother at Bill Mulder's funeral. She had been so strong and so proud, so convinced that Mulder was alive. She had been there for him during his darkest hour, only he had never known. He had come back to the weak, needy woman he'd protected his whole life. Scully looked at her own mother and saw the same strength, but she also saw a sense of purpose and a sense of great pride that was always there. Unconditionally. She felt so sorry for the woman Mulder's mother had been. She'd seen some of it, but it had vanished as soon as Mulder had returned. Scully smiled back at her mother, suddenly sure of what she needed to do. * * * * * * * * * * August 16, 1997 ************* Scully's hand went instinctively up to the cross at her neck and she smiled, feeling like she was hoping to ward off a vampire. She was, actually. Scully had never been more fucking terrified in her life. She remembered her first meeting with Mulder, remembered his sharp mind dancing around hers and his acidic questions and barbed comments. Most of all, she remembered the rush of being challenged and of having to prove herself, not as a woman but rather as a scientist and an FBI agent, two things of which she was unwaveringly proud. From that moment on, she owed Mulder big time. They had never been more apart than they had these past few months. And she still owed him. The orderly, Karl, squinted at her. "I'll be right outside, okay? If he gets upset you have to stop, okay? He's been doing real well, but he's still damaged so you have to be careful, okay?" Karl watched her anxiously and Scully nodded, instantly fond of the orderly. He was worried about Mulder. Lord, Scully had met more people at this place who were worried about him than she'd met in his entire family. Karl nodded back, then unlocked the door to the day room and Scully went in. Mulder stood at the window, staring out at something that captivated him. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt and jeans, Mulder-casual. That put Scully at ease immediately. He turned as the door thwapped shut and they stared at each other for a long, intense moment, each wondering what was going to happen. Mulder looked different. Scully had forgotten what he looked like when he wasn't dazed or lost, actually. His hair was a little longer and he looked tired, but it was a different kind of tired than she was used to. He took a hesitant step towards her, then smiled crookedly. Scully smiled back. All of the mistrust and paranoia and dark foreboding had been siphoned out of him and replaced with something thinner and lighter. She could see it in the way he held himself, the way he moved and the way he squared his shoulders. He was wary, of course, but so was she. They'd both been through so much. Should she say something first, or let him set the tone? What would set him off? What was safe to talk about? The weather, the Knicks, the fact that Saratoga was playing to speed...Jesus, Dana, it's fucking Mulder. Just say something. So she did. "You look good." Scully cringed inwardly. Her voice sounded squeaky and unnatural. Mulder stopped. "Thanks," he said so softly that Scully almost couldn't hear him. She saw a table with a chair on either side and moved towards that. Maybe he would feel more comfortable with the table as a barrier between them. Just as she was about to sit down, he spoke again. "Come look at this." Scully froze, then looked at him. He was standing in front of the large bay window again. Squelching her nerves, Scully advanced slowly towards him, feeling like a soldier going into battle. But he didn't tense up, didn't get edgy. She looked out the window and saw a gazillion horses. Mulder was looking at horses? More than that, he was pointing them out. "See the dark bay with the white blaze? The small one, there, under the tree." Scully's gaze roamed the field until she saw the colt, standing with his mother. "Yes," she said. "Watch him. In just a minute." So Mulder and Scully stood at the big bay window in the mental hospital and watched as the little colt pretended to be shy and withdrawn, lulling the older foals into a false sense of security. The older foals snorted and tossed their pretty heads, then tore down the pasture. The small colt gallumphed after them and they all but laughed at him. But then, suddenly, he put on a tremendous burst of speed and roared past the surprised foals, wheeling right before the fence and then prancing and tossing his head, laughing back at them. "He was a late foal. He was real sickly when he was born. I watch him every day and for the past few weeks, he's been pulling that. And the other idiots always fall for it. It's amazing. Such a smart little horse. He knows he's smaller and weaker than the others physically, so he had to think up something nefarious to do in order to fit in with the herd. Horses are herd animals and it's death if they don't fit in. But this little guy, he's so desperate to fit in...he knows he has to prove himself above and beyond the call of duty and so he tries his heart out every time. He knows it's crucial to his existence that he win. By choosing to fit in, he distinguishes himself by the methods he uses." Scully was thunderstruck as she heard Mulder use the same words she herself used, the same words her mother used. Mulder turned to look at her. She could see a brief flash of fear, but he squelched it and balled his fists to stop his hands from trembling. "He reminds me of you, Scully," he said softly. "And he reminds me that there are ways to play the game that don't involve cheating or killing or lying." Scully felt a thrill run down her spine. "What are you saying, Mulder?" she asked in the same squeaky voice. Mulder turned back to the window. "I don't know everything yet. I'm still trying things out. It's not a black and white world, is it? It's all gray...all nebulous. I needed absolutes, and I still do. But I'm trying not to. Trust and truth, they are both so important to me. But I lost sight of what was really important, I think. We all choose how we're going to live our lives but some of us...some of us are dealt full houses while others are dealt a pair of twos. I've been trying to upgrade my twos for years, at my father's insistence. It's almost like he made sure I got the short end of the stick, just so he could make me feel guilty and worthless." Scully didn't know what to say. "I'm rambling...I'm sorry. It's not as important to me as it sounds, not anymore. Dr. Harthill and I have been talking about my penchant for absorbing guilt for a few days now and it's fresh in my mind. I'm sorry." That tore Scully's heart out. "You don't need to apologize to me Mulder, not ever. I know that frustration. I never got to choose either, I thought. But I did choose. I chose the X-Files, and I chose you. I chose your passion, your dedication and your commitment to your cause. I've been thinking about our...issues. Truth. Trust. Belief. Faith. Huge stuff, Mulder." Mulder smiled sadly. "They took it all away and we didn't even notice. A part of me trusted Cancer Man to play by the rules." "But he was, Mulder. His rules. His integrity. He made his world. You let him make yours." Mulder stiffened and Scully knew she'd gone too far. But he took a few deep breaths and the craziness left his eyes. "I never believed...because I wanted to believe in the happy ending. I wanted to believe so much that I let people tell me lies. And I wanted to trust but there was nobody left. Not even you." Scully heard the sad smallness in his voice. He turned to her, eyes wide. "I didn't think I could trust you -" "Mulder...you don't have to explain. Look, the reason I came here today was to tell you that I talked to Skinner about re-opening the X-Files." Mulder's eyebrows shot up. "What? But -" "I'm going to keep them safe for you, because you will be coming back." Mulder sagged, then turned back towards the window and Scully knew that he'd been thinking of nothing except how he'd failed his work, his sister, Deep Throat, X, herself... "It's so hard," he whispered and Scully hurt for him. "Yes it is, Mulder. And if you think you have it rough, how do you think I feel, having to take mutants seriously?" Mulder gaped at her and she shrugged. "I will have to be believer and skeptic rolled into one." Mulder smiled slowly. "Maybe Dr. Harthill will let me be available for consultations," he said. Scully felt her heart fly. He was accepting this. She could feel the air change, feel his determination grow to those Mulder-mythic proportions. She'd never made a more perfectly right decision in her life. "We can make sure this never happens again, Mulder." "How?" "By trusting ourselves. We made a crucial error. We left ourselves out of the equation and they picked at that until it unraveled." Mulder took another deep breath and smiled a real smile, one that reached his tired eyes. "We were both cogs in the machine at the beginning, weren't we? But we were so convinced we could do the work..." Mulder was thinking out loud and Scully had never heard anything more beautiful. "Let's start over," he announced. Scully blinked. "What?" Mulder was suddenly brimming over with energy. He went to the table, sat down in a chair. He glanced at her. "That first day, Scully, in the office. When you came in and I wanted to kick your ass." "Ohhh...that day." Scully grinned at him, then stuck out her hand. "I'm Dana Scully. I've been assigned to work with you." "Uh...who'd you piss off to get stuck with this assignment, Scully?" Scully felt like she and Mulder were, for that one shimmering moment, stuck together with God's glue. Good luck breaking us up this time, you fuckers, she thought. Good fucking luck. She and her partner just grinned maniacally at each other. "Oh, Mulder...you'd be surprised." Q.E.D.