Title: Yo Creo (1/3)
Author: Elanor G
Email: ElanorG@yahoo.com - your feedback is most welcome indeed!
Distribution: Wherever you wish. I'd be thrilled! Please send me
an e-mail, just so I know.
Spoilers: Seventh season. Post-ep for En Ami, contains small
spoilers up to All Things.
Rating: R for language, as well as light sex and violence
Classification: X-File
Keywords: MSR, Angst
Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of Chris Carter,
Fox, et al. I'm writing this simply to amuse myself - and
a few others, I hope.
Summary: Tensions run high between Mulder and Scully after the
events of En Ami. A new lead on Cobra threatens to lead them
further into darkness.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
Scully has endured three days of Mulder's
sullen, stony anger and doesn't think she can
stand it any more.
She's not used to him being angry at her for
this long, in this way. She hates it. She hates
feeling like she's let him down or displeased
him. And, most of all, she hates herself for
feeling this way.
Scully stops pretending to work on the report
and rubs her temples. The cursor blinks at her
mockingly. Her concentration is shot. Spender's
words to her in the car keep coming back to her,
painting this absurd picture of herself drawn to
powerful men. Just ridiculous, she thinks
defensively.
But there was a slight truth in it, out of reach
but enough to irritate, like an itch under a
cast.
She hates this most of all. Goddamn Spender
anyway, if that really is his name.
Goddamn Mulder too.
He chooses that moment to stride into the
office, a place he's been avoiding these past
few days. Scully has tried to use the time to do
research and catch up on paperwork, but has not
made much progress. She looks up and briefly
meets his flat face, then looks back down.
Mulder doesn't bother to take off his coat. He
stands in front of her and pauses, making Scully
wonder what's coming next. From the expression
on his face, Scully can see that he's carrying
on some kind of internal debate. Scully neither
encourages nor discourages him. She merely
waits. Finally he spits it out.
"The Gunmen detected more e-mail that matches
Cobra's signature. We don't have the content,
just records of another correspondence over the
past seven months." Scully doesn't even want to
know how this feat was accomplished. Mulder
tosses a file unceremoniously on the desk in
front of her. She opens it and sees a photo of
an ordinary middle-aged man, dark eyes in a pale
face. "Dr. Martin Romero. Former NIH scientist.
Author of innocuous consumer guides to health
care as well as some rather controversial books
exploring the connection between immunity,
viruses, and, uh, cancer."
Scully nods, familiar with his work. "And now
CEO of HealthQuest Online," she says.
HealthQuest was one of those sites that offered
discount prescriptions, advice from certified
physicians, and patient chat rooms. "They just
went public last year."
Mulder nods as well. "Making Dr. Romero another
dot-com millionaire. But money can't buy
everything." He tosses something else in front
of her, this time the Style section from The
Washington Post. He has circled the Style Plus!
column, glorified gossip about D.C. elites. The
lead paragraph: a charity function for the
American Cancer Society with a glittering set of
speakers - none more poignant than special guest
Teresa Romero, brave wife of HealthQuest CEO
Martin Romero, herself in the middle of her own
fight with cancer. "She's in serious condition
at Georgetown right now, probably dying. She was
diagnosed with ovarian cancer a year ago," says
Mulder. Is it Scully's imagination, or does his
voice trip over the words? "I think we need to
pay Dr. Romero a visit. He lives just over in
Alexandria. Are you ready to leave now?" he asks
curtly.
"Let's go," answers Scully, matching his tone.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
They ride in tense silence.
The warm late spring weather has given way this
week to chill gray dampness. The Potomac River
is swollen from nights of rain. George
Washington Parkway lies just a few feet from the
dark water. Mulder drives smoothly along its
curves - Scully imagines that he could drive
this route in his sleep. She glances over at
Mulder once or twice. Today his eyes are the
same color as the gray sky.
They pass through Mulder's own modest Alexandria
neighborhood, a cluster of low brick apartment
buildings just beyond the airport. He maneuvers
expertly through the narrow streets of Old Town.
Scully looks out the window at the gentrified
rowhouses, the antique stores, the spring
flowers bent in the cold rain.
Spender's words are still rattling around in her
head, no matter how hard she works to push them
out. She is furious with herself for letting him
get to her. Why am I letting what he said bother
me, she wonders impatiently. Why am I still
dwelling on a few cruel words from that corrupt
old man? For the past few days she has carried
on this stern interior monologue, with little
success. Because the small truth in his
insinuating words has crept past her defenses.
And rankles. And hurts.
She wonders if they know about Daniel. Probably
so - they know everything else. Once, just
thinking about this would have sent her into a
spiral of shame and guilty panic. Now it just
makes her tired.
Mulder's voice startles her. "You've read some
of Dr. Romero's work?"
"I've read *about* it."
"You think he's a crackpot." It's not a
question.
"Well..." Why does she feel as if she's being
challenged? "There's a lot we don't know about
cancer. Some can be attributed to environmental
factors, some to genetics, even some to viruses.
But Dr. Romero has declared that viruses cause
*all* cancer. He posits an elaborate colony of
viruses within us, some harmful, some benign.
According to him, even environmental cancers
like lung cancer are actually caused by viruses
that have been activated by external factors.
Such as toxins or cigarette smoke."
Mulder takes his eyes from the street to spare
her a brief look. Perhaps that was a bad
example, Scully thinks. "And," she continues,
"He also says that the way to fight cancer - the
way to fight all disease - is basically to
introduce more of the so-called 'good' viruses
into an affected system in order to they can
fight the 'bad' viruses."
"Sounds like vaccination. That's not so far
fetched."
She shakes her head. "Mulder, it's completely
different. He's talking about viruses actually
doing battle with each other. Come on. He
couldn't have published these theories if he
didn't have money to burn. It's fringe science
in the worst sense of the term. He was a
respected author and researcher until he decided
to indulge himself with these messianic claims
of miracle cures."
"Seems like only yesterday that you were
swallowing messianic claims of miracle cures,"
says Mulder. "But today, you lump it all
together with witch doctors and snake charmers
and New Age healers with crystals."
Where did that come from? "That's not fair,
Mulder." She speaks to the window. Mulder gives
her another dark look before returning his
concentration to the wet pavement.
They spend the rest of the ride in silence.
Scully has no idea how to react to Mulder's
anger and hopes it will evaporate soon. Even his
sarcasm comes as a relief. Anything but his
silence. And it's a shame, because things
between them have been particularly good
recently - despite of, or perhaps because of,
the tragedies of the past few months. "Things
between us" has always been her favorite
euphemism for their relationship, because she
can never think of a better phrase to explain
it.
Scully feels she deserves some of Mulder's rage,
God knows, but how much? She feels her own
resentment and anger at Mulder grow. They have
been in this same situation with their roles
reversed, after all. How many times has Mulder
hurled himself alone into a reckless, ruthless
pursuit of the truth? She is tempted to brood,
but they are nearly there. They have work to do.
She attempts to shake off her dark emotions and
thoughts and prepare herself for meeting this
Dr. Romero.
Just a few more blocks, and they are at Custis
Landing: one of several pricey new townhouse
developments just on the edge of the river and
next to Jones Point Park, each house probably
worth several million. Their genteel stone and
brick facades unsuccessfully imitate the 18th
century homes in the surrounding neighborhood.
Only a thin concrete walkway separates them from
the surly Potomac. A few homeowners have moored
their boats here. Scully briefly wonders if they
have adequate flood insurance to have such
luxurious homes idiotically close to the water.
They park and walk along the faux cobblestone
street to Dr. Romero's townhouse. Scully must
move quickly to keep up with Mulder's long
steps. 12 Cardinal Lane is at the end of the
development, it commands a sweeping view of the
river and the tree-filled park. Pansies in an
antique planter decorate the stoop. The wind
from the river is wet and biting. Mulder rings
the bell once, then again with visible
impatience. Finally they can make out shuffling
sounds behind the door. The door opens and Dr.
Romero peers out.
"Yes?" he asks in a flat, uncaring voice. "Can I
help you?" He looks as if he were the sick one
instead of his wife. His black eyes are bleary,
his face puffy and tired. Scully remembers Dr.
Romero's photos on the back of his books - calm,
healthy, smiling, the picture of competence and
sensitivity.
"Dr. Romero, I'm Agent Mulder from the FBI."
They both display their badges. "And this is my
partner Agent Scully." Dr. Romero starts a bit
but says nothing. "We're very sorry to trouble
you." Mulder has smoothed out the rough edges of
his impatience and anger and uses his most
soothing, understanding tone. "We have reason to
believe you may have exchanged e-mail with an
individual involved in a current investigation.
May we speak with you for a few minutes?"
Dr. Romero hesitates. Then, "Yes. Certainly. I
don't know how much help I'll be, though. I just
got back from the hospital, I'm beat. Please
come in." He pulls the door open and lets Mulder
and Scully step into the marbled foyer. Scully
takes in her surroundings - very tasteful,
except for the vaguely Art Deco chandelier that
dangles so low it almost brushes Mulder's hair.
"Follow me," Romero says, padding down a short
hallway in stockinged feet.
They emerge in a large room with lofty cathedral
ceilings and enormous windows. The spectacular
view encompasses the river and the woods. The
Woodrow Wilson bridge crosses the Potomac in the
distance, part of the Beltway that joins
Virginia to Maryland. The drone of its traffic
can be heard as a faint whisper. Scully and
Mulder survey the room quickly - again, quite
tasteful. An archway leads to a large dining
room. Expensive-looking abstract art adorns the
walls. A grand piano occupies one corner, and
Scully edges closer to get a better look at the
photographs sitting on top. A few old sepia-
toned family photos, but mostly the doctor and a
dark, striking woman who must be his wife.
Scully hopes they get this over with quickly so
they can leave this man with his grief.
Dr. Romero sees Scully studying the photos.
"That's Teresa," he says. "She plays that thing,
I can't carry a tune in a bucket. I got it for
her last Christmas. I found this place for her."
He indicates the room, the view, with a sweep of
his hand. "She loves the water." He had met them
at the door cloaked in numb depression - now it
has been replaced with something agitated and
skittery that Scully can't put her finger on.
"Beautiful damn place, isn't it? Beautiful damn
place."
'We're very sorry about your wife, sir," says
Mulder softly. "We hate to intrude, but if you
could answer a few questions for us."
Dr. Romero shrugs.
"Are you familiar with the name 'Cobra?'"
Dr. Romero purses his lips, shrugs again.
"Should I be? Is it the name of a person, a
boat, a sports car, what?"
"'Cobra' is the alias of a government researcher
that we believe has been corresponding with you
for several months - or attempting to
correspond. Several messages with his signature
also bear the signature of a private account
that belongs to you."
"I'm very sorry, but I've never heard of anyone
with such a name. I keep in touch with many
people, many former colleagues, through e-mail
but I'm afraid I don't know anything about this
Cobra." He straightens up and seems to muster
some lost dignity and strength. "And frankly, I
must say I find this inquiry disturbing. The
idea of federal agents tracking my e-mail
troubles me. It seems unethical if not illegal.
I wonder if I should contact my lawyers."
"We have not been tracking your personal e-mail,
Dr. Romero," Scully assures him, speaking for
the first time. "But there is a possibility that
someone else has been tampering with it. Your
incoming messages may have been intercepted and
replied to by a third party, without your
knowledge or consent."
He sits down and rubs his tired face. "This is
outrageous. Outrageous," he murmurs.
"Outrageous, but possibly true," says Mulder.
"We need you to think, Dr. Romero. Have you
received any disturbing or unusual messages over
the past several months? It may have been
something you dismissed as a prank, or junk
mail. Strange people hanging around your
neighborhood. Weird phone calls. Anything, even
if it seems trivial."
"You're not giving me much to go on," says
Romero, staring at the floor.
"Dr. Romero, we realize this is a very bad time
for you," says Scully, "but your personal safety
may be compromised. It's important that you be
honest with us." She doesn't want to tell him
that Cobra is dead, she does not want to
frighten him. At least not yet.
Suddenly Romero looks up and stares at Scully as
if he has never seen her before. It makes her
distinctly uncomfortable. "Forgive me. Are
you...are you *Dr. Dana* Scully?"
"Yes," she answers warily. She gives him an
expectant look: And you are familiar with my
name because...?
Romero avoids her eyes, fidgets. "I, um, I
remember the paper you coauthored on the Van
Blundht case a few years back. The Journal of
Genetic Abnormalities, wasn't it?"
Scully knows this is a blatant lie. An obscure
paper in an obscure medical journal has not
exactly made her a household name, even among
the medical profession. She lets it drop for
now. "Is there anything you can tell us,
anything at all?"
His agitation grows and he tries, poorly, to
disguise it. "I...I really can't. This is all a
bit much." He stands and runs a hand through
lanky black hair. "Would you excuse me for a
moment, please? Headache. I just need to get
something for it. Please wait here," he adds.
"I'm sure there's something, I just need a
moment to get my thoughts together." They watch
as he retreats hurriedly down the hall. His
footsteps are light on the carpeted steps.
Mulder inhales deeply. He turns to the huge
windows and looks out at the sweeping expanse of
gray water. His arms are crossed, he is very
much contained inside himself. "Nice view."
"Mulder, we have to take this man with us. His
life is in danger." Scully moves toward the
impressive stone fireplace and studies more
pictures of Teresa Romero. Glossy black hair and
enormous brown eyes, startling in her pale face.
A relaxed smile that contrasts with her fine,
sharp, aristocratic features - Scully remembers
vaguely that she comes from a wealthy and
prominent Peruvian family. Some of the capital
for Dr. Romero's business came from her.
One more picture of Teresa Romero completes the
collection, more recent than the rest. She is
sitting on the stone patio of this very house,
enjoying the sun. A bright scarf is wrapped
jauntily around her head to disguise the fact
that her hair is gone. She has lost at least
twenty pounds, weight she could not afford to
lose. Waves of conflicting emotions wash over
Scully: grief, anger, pity. She experiences a
kind of shameful relief, but it is quickly
replaced with a tight knot of dread in her
belly. She wants desperately to leave. "What do
you think Cobra would want from Romero?" she
asks.
Mulder still does not look at her. "Money.
Advice. A sounding board for his ideas."
Scully moves away from the fireplace.
"Mulder...what if it's the other way around?
Perhaps it's not like my... situation at all.
Romero's hiding something. Perhaps it's Romero
who wanted something from Cobra. Maybe *he's*
the one who instigated the contact somehow.
Romero wants something just as badly as Cobra
does...maybe more."
"More badly than you wanted, Scully?" asks
Mulder quietly. He turns and looks Scully
squarely in the eye. She doesn't flinch. His
expression is very still and blank - knowing
Mulder, this could represent any one of a number
of strong emotions. "It's entirely plausible.
Cobra was desperate for help - Romero is
desperate for a cure. I can understand making
risky decisions, bad choices if the prize is
that great."
How exactly did this conversation return to her
- to them? Mulder bewilders Scully, even more
than usual. And the feeling is probably mutual,
she realizes. "Mulder, look..." she begins, but
doesn't have a chance to finish.
Romero is standing in the archway that leads to
the dining room. In his right hand he aims a
small gun at Mulder. In his left he holds a
scalpel. Dammit. There must be a service
staircase in the kitchen. While she and Mulder
were embroiled in conversation, Romero must have
crept down the back way. Excellent work, agents.
"Agent Mulder," says Romero shakily, "stay where
you are. Come with me, Dr. Scully. I don't want
to hurt anyone but if you don't come with me
I'll shoot your partner. I will. I've got
nothing to lose. You have something in you that
my wife needs. Come with me please."
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
"Dr. Romero, you're not thinking clearly. This
won't help anyone," says Scully. Her heart races
and the skin on her neck tingles. She imagines
she can feel that tiny, tiny device beneath her
skin itching and burning.
"So you're going to trade one life for
Teresa's?" asks Mulder. "It's not that simple.
It won't work." Mulder holds his hands away from
his body, using nonthreatening body language.
His voice is hypnotic and smooth. "I understand
how desperate you feel. I understand more than
you know. But this is not the way. Is this what
your wife would really want? A life sacrificed
for her own?"
"I don't care," whispers Romero. His hands
tremble. "He was supposed to get more chips. He
was supposed to send me more. He never did.
After all I did for him. I don't know where he
is now."
"He's dead," says Scully. "He was shot to death
in front of me. I was nearly killed myself. He
tried to betray some incredibly dangerous people
and he was killed for it. You're in even greater
danger. Put down your weapon now and let us help
you."
Then she walks carefully toward Romero.
"Scully," hisses Mulder. Still she walks until
she is barely three feet in front of Romero,
until she stands between his gun and Mulder. A
bizarre calm has settled on her. A small voice
tells her that tells her how risky and stupid
this is, but she ignores it.
"You seem to know more about this thing than I
do, but do you really understand it?" she asks
calmly. She touches the spot on her neck with
her left hand. Romero blinks and tears form in
his eyes. "It's saved my life, and I'm glad of
it. But it comes at a high price. I'm not just
talking about losing my own life, even though
it's valuable to me. Have you thought about the
price you and your wife would pay if you gave
this to her? Ask yourself. Are you willing to
accept this alien presence in your lives?"
Romero shakes violently. "I just...I just want
her to live," he chokes. "Oh God." He drops his
hand, pointing the gun at his feet. The scalpel
clatters to the floor. Swiftly, firmly, gently,
Scully disarms him. The weapon is heavy and
well-balanced in her hand, a expensive toy. She
kneels and retrieves the scalpel. From the
corner of her eye she sees Mulder exhale.
And Romero is still standing, staring at the
rich rug. Thick sobs escape his lips. "Oh God.
Oh God. I don't know what came over me. I'm so
sorry. You don't know." He is no longer a threat
to them - he never really was.
Neither Scully nor Mulder make further moves to
touch him. Still he stands and sobs. Carefully
Mulder asks, "How do you know about Agent
Scully?"
Romero exhales a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, she's
quite the famous case study in some circles."
The cold fearful knot returns to Scully's gut
and sends icy tentacles through her body. For a
moment Mulder's face twists in sick fury, before
his still mask falls back into place. "Dr.
Scully is very well known in...the literature of
the subject."
"What subject might that be?" Scully manages to
ask. Her voice sounds far away and choked.
"You really are in the dark, aren't you," says
Romero curiously despite his tears. "You don't
realize how rare you are." He wipes his eyes.
"God. He promised me he would use the research
to manufacture more chips. Or at least try to
replicate their essence, the substance that they
release into the body." Substance? Scully tries
not to react visibly to this image - the thing
in her neck releasing a steady stream of - what?
- into her system.
"You have to come with us now, Dr. Romero," says
Mulder. "Cobra is dead. I think you knew that.
They killed him to keep his knowledge a secret.
You might be next." Mulder fixes him in his
intense gaze. "You have to tell us everything."
Romero looks blearily from Mulder to Scully.
"Nothing was helping Teresa. The entire
resources of the American medical establishment
at my command - worthless. She got worse every
day. I put feelers out. I was desperate. The man
came to me for money. He proposed a
collaboration. His work was sound. Guess he
wasn't careful enough. Never called himself
Cobra to me. God. Stupid bastard must have
watched too much James Bond." Romero loses his
battle to keep his composure, he begins to break
down again. "That was my last chance. That was
it." Tears flow freely down his face.
"Come with us," says Scully. "We can protect you
from the men who killed him." She hopes she is
telling the truth.
"Do you think I care what happens to me now,"
Romero mutters. "Teresa's suffering. But I'm the
one who has to watch. It's harder to be the one
that's left behind." He shuffles forward a bit
toward the window, drawn to the darkening day
outside. A terrible thought occurs to Scully.
Her eyes meet Mulder's - it has also occurred to
him. This is not a good idea. Mulder reaches out
a hand to steer him away from the window.
What happens next unfolds with slow, surreal
clarity.
Romero jerks once, twice, before falling heavily
to the floor. Scully hears the slight crunch of
broken glass before she sees the impact of the
bullets. Two perfect holes in the window now mar
the view. Scully drops behind a couch. Mulder
scrambles away from the window and crouches next
to it. They have both futilely drawn their own
weapons.
Romero's blood begins to pool on the polished
floor. He stares resignedly at the ceiling.
Scully crawls toward him, staying low. She has
slipped into her shell of cool professionalism
and keeps away the frightening thought that this
man, her last chance for answers, is slipping
away from her.
Mulder dares a quick glance out the window. "Do
you see anyone?" Scully asks.
"No. No one on the river. Could be someone in
the park, behind those trees." Scully's
attention returns the dying man before her. With
his free hand, Mulder draws out his cell phone.
Scully only half-listens as he gives his badge
number, requests backup and an ambulance. He
crawls next to Scully. "How is he?" he asks.
Scully only shakes her head. She fears his lungs
have been punctured. He could drown in his own
blood. And the frightening head wound...
"Stay here with him," says Mulder unnecessarily.
He starts toward the front door, keeping low.
"Where the hell are you going?" asks Scully,
incredulous. "Wait til backup gets here!"
"That'll be too late," he snaps.
"Dammit Mulder!" But he's already gone. She
tries to control her fear and anger. What good
does he think this futile gesture will bring?
Briefly she imagines Mulder riddled with bullets
instead of Romero - she pictures herself
crouching over Mulder's body the way she
crouches over Romero now. She thrusts the
horrific image away and forces herself to focus.
It's harder to be the one that's left behind.
She dare not leave this man, he could still be
saved, he could still give them answers. This
can't all be for nothing.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
Mulder moves swiftly down the trail through the
park. Trees drip with rain, their bark black and
wet. He is very familiar with this path along
the river - it's one of his regular running
routes. Over the years, over many hard and
punishing runs, Mulder has memorized every turn,
every fallen tree and overgrown bush. His senses
heightened with adrenaline and anger, he scans
the undergrowth along the trail for anything out
of the ordinary.
An unfamiliar shape draws his eye and he leaves
the path. He picks his way through dead wet
leaves and dripping branches until he is only a
few feet from the muddy shoreline. It takes
Mulder a moment to see the body in the mud
behind a large rotting log. It blends well into
the browns, grays, and blacks of the day. Only
when he draws close can he see the shattered
head, the darkening blood. The mud sucks at
Mulder's shoes as he walks to the body.
From what he can tell, the man was blond. The
head is slightly twisted, revealing a pale blue
eye staring into the mud. Jeans, sneakers, an
all-weather jacket. The barrel of an impressive
rifle is nearly hidden underneath the body. Its
black metal gleams dully in the brown mud.
Mulder thinks furiously and scans the shoreline
and the woods behind them. This patch of mud
forms a small point, with an excellent view of
the townhouse development. Here is where the man
shot Romero - he had a perfect line of sight to
his window. Mulder looks but can't see Scully
from here.
The mud is full of indistinct footprints, too
many and too different to belong to one man.
Only one set leads back to the woods. Whoever
assassinated the assassin had the sense to
retrace his footsteps. There was no way he could
have gone past Mulder and escaped into the
townhouse development and the neighborhood
beyond. Only one direction to take. He races
back to the path.
Mulder emerges from the woods near a soccer
field and parking lot at the south end of the
park, in the shadow of the looming Wilson
bridge. A few men fish from the little fishing
dock. A group of local Salvadorans play a
half-hearted soccer game; a small crowd of
spectators huddles forlornly in the drizzle. Two
little girls chase each other giggling around
the parking lot. No one seems to notice Mulder
running through the grass.
He stops one of the girls. She is perhaps
eleven, her jet hair pulled into a ponytail.
Mulder towers over her like a giant and she
returns his gaze apprehensively. He bends down
to be a bit closer to her level. The other girl
busily continues to splash puddles. "Don't be
afraid," Mulder says, and despite his size and
fierce eyes the girl is not afraid. "Sweetheart,
did you see a man come this way? Did he come
from over there?" He points at the trail head.
The girl's face is uncomprehending and Mulder
with a sinking feeling realizes that she may not
understand his language. He casts about
desperately for his high school Spanish -
languages are one of the few things that have
never come easy to him. "Un hombre?" He gestures
again, helplessly.
Recognition dawns in her liquid dark eyes. "Un
hombre vestido en negro. Estaba fumando." She
points away. At the far end of the parking lot,
near the entrance to Jones Point Park and
directly under the bridge, is the old Army
Reserve building. Behind it sits an abandoned
steam plant, an empty shell of red brick,
surrounded by a tall rusted fence and a moat of
weeds and old trash. Huge broken windows stare
blankly into the gathering dusk. The girl points
to this.
Mulder jogs toward the crumbling structure. He
reflects only briefly on the questionable wisdom
of pursuing the shooter into this hole without
backup - oh, how Scully would harp if she could
see him now.
Scully. A wave of anger distracts him as he
runs. Goddamn her anyway. How many times had she
refused to take off her blinders and acknowledge
the truth dangling before her eyes? Evidently
she just needed the right bait, thought Mulder
bitterly. She picked a fine time to get in touch
with her credulity.
He pulls himself easily over the fence and lands
with a plop on the muddy grass. Gun drawn,
Mulder edges around the old plant. Odd pieces of
rusted metal litter the yard. The boards that
once covered the door have been pulled off by
determined vandals. He crouches behind a pile of
timber, pauses to collect himself and his racing
thoughts.
Scully, I want to understand what you believe: a
just God, a miracle cure, a chance at redemption
for an evil man. For years, Mulder wanted her to
believe. Yet when she did believe, too often he
found it baffling and upsetting. He admits this
to himself with some shame. Forgive me Scully,
Mulder thinks. I try to understand what you
believe, I really do, but I fail.
He pushes the image of her face away and pares
down his extraneous thoughts and emotions into a
hard sharp edge. He has no choice but to follow
this trail. Mulder sucks in a breath and steps
into the gloom.
Despite all the windows, the space inside the
plant is surprisingly dark. Rusted metal stairs
twist up in several directions, blocking the
light. Piles of junk and discarded machinery
fill the central space. The fishy smell from the
river and the smell of old mildewed brick are
overpowering. Warily Mulder circles the room,
looking up and around. Nothing. He takes a
careful step up one flight of stairs. Is that a
slight, stealthy noise from above? He turns
quickly towards it, but in the gloom he doesn't
see a twisted metal strut jutting out from the
wall. With a solid crack it connects with
Mulder's forehead. He bites back the string of
gasps and curses that threaten to bubble up and
touches his throbbing forehead gingerly - his
fingers come back sticky with blood. Irritated
at his own clumsiness he continues up the
stairs.
At the first landing he stops and tenses, every
nerve jangling in alarm. The acrid smell of
cigarette smoke overwhelms every other odor. A
figure stands on a landing above him, looking
out the shattered window and smoking
distractedly. Gray light from the fading day
illuminates his plain face. Mulder takes aim at
his head. The figure neither moves nor looks at
him.
"Agent Mulder," says Spender pleasantly.
"I should kill you where you stand," says
Mulder.
"I don't think you will," he answers in a mild
and reasonable voice. Spender - Cancer Man -
whatever the hell his name is - finally turns
away from the window. He looks terrible, gray-
faced and gaunt. Scully was right about his
illness, Mulder thinks. If he is armed, he keeps
it well concealed. "That's a nasty cut you have
there. You really ought to have someone look at
that."
Still Mulder keeps his gun trained on Spender's
head. "We're not going anywhere until you tell
me what I want to know."
"And what exactly might that be?"
"You *know* what. Why you killed that man on the
path. Why you killed Romero. Why you tried to
destroy Scully and me. And my sister. I know
you're behind it all. I know it. Don't bother to
pretend otherwise." Mulder's voice shakes a
little.
"As usual you toss around a great many
accusations for which you have no proof. I don't
know what Agent Scully's been telling you - "
Mulder's knuckles whiten " - but my ultimate
goal is not to kill you or your partner. Far
from it. I have taken great pains to ensure that
you both remain alive, no matter
how...inconvenient you prove."
"Coulda fooled me."
"I should have guessed we would run into each
other today. Great minds think alike, you know."
"We can stand here until you decide to talk."
Mulder says with a sudden dangerous smile. His
voice echoes against the brick walls. "I'm in no
hurry."
"I doubt very much you want to hear real
answers," Spender answers sharply. "Would you
allow a single man to unleash unimaginable power
upon an unsuspecting world? Surely you can
imagine the consequences. Does one man's grief
outweigh the good of the planet? Does one life?"
"I see. Have to break a few eggs to make an
omelet."
"How little you understand, despite your
formidable intellect. You fail to grasp the
larger picture, as always. I am a public
servant. I have only ever had the good of this
nation - indeed, this planet and its people at
heart."
"You're a real humanitarian." The frightening
part is that Spender really does see himself
that way, Mulder thinks. And at that moment,
Mulder understands Scully completely. The man
standing before him smokes calmly, perfectly
assured of the righteousness of his cause. The
path behind him is piled high with corpses, but
he is convinced they were all necessary
sacrifices. Of course Scully saw a glimpse of
frustrated good in this monster, a flicker of
regret. It's not that she *wanted* to see it -
she *had* to see it, for the sake of her own
sanity. To understand this man fully is to step
on the edge of madness.
And with a sickening jolt, Mulder thinks how
close he once was to becoming Spender: Consumed
with a bitter obsession. Blind to the
destruction left in his wake. Convinced of his
unerring rightness. On the outside of humanity
looking in.
The vision passes and Mulder gratefully comes
back to himself. Because of Scully he did not
become that man after all. Because of her the
truth is tangible.
"It's a tempting idea, to hold the answers to
all human suffering in the palm of your hand,"
Spender is saying. "I understand the
temptation. And so does your partner."
Mulder chooses to ignore this. "Why did you kill
the man on the path?" he asks again.
"It is unfortunate, but if left unsupervised,
the man who killed Dr. Romero would have very
easily dispatched you and Scully. I have no
desire to see you finished off in such a
fashion."
"I'm out of patience with your lies, Spender."
Spender looks perturbed at the interruption.
"Believe what you will. But I saved your lives
today, Agent Mulder. I have saved Agent Scully's
life many times over."
Mulder releases a short, bitter laugh at the
man's brazenness. "After you put her in danger
in the first place."
Spender crushes his dying cigarette beneath his
foot and switches track. "I haven't had a chance
to offer you proper condolences for your
mother," he says casually.
"We are not talking about my mother." A trickle
of blood from his cut drips near Mulder's left
eye. He wipes at it impatiently.
"I can still vividly picture the summer I first
met her, out on the Vinyard," Spender goes on,
glancing out the window again. "A lovely woman.
Yet troubled. I wonder if you ever realized how
lonely she was. Probably not: the young are
oblivious. Renounced by her family for marrying
outside the religion. Barely tolerated by Bill's
cold, narrow-minded WASP Establishment family.
Bill himself gone much of the time, buried in
his work. She needed a friend." He regards
Mulder with small shrewd eyes.
For a moment Mulder's heart freezes.
Then he chuckles. The spell is broken. Spender
looks disconcerted.
"You're pathetic," Mulder says with quiet
triumph. "You keep trying to get at me through
my family, but that won't work any more. You
can't touch my family. They're all beyond your
grasp now. You can't dangle my sister in front
of me any more. You can't hold *anything* over
me any more."
"Oh really." Spender expertly lights another
smoke. "It seems to me that now you are more
vulnerable than ever." He almost seems to pity
Mulder. "You clutch your fragile treasure so
tightly that you risk letting it fall from your
grasp. Yet at the same time you are quite blind
to its value. You hoard her like a miser. You
will not let yourself enjoy her, yet you are
determined to keep her exclusively to yourself."
Mulder blinks. Oh, he's good. He knows how to
choose the right words, words that worm their
way through heart and mind like thin ribbons of
black slime. But he doesn't realize that they're
too late to do any damage. Now Spender's words
glance off Mulder like dull-tipped arrows.
"Very pithy. Maybe you should submit something
to one of those Chicken Soup for the Soul books.
Or Reader's Digest. They're always looking for
new hacks."
Something about this seems to stick in Spender's
throat. He fixes Mulder with a cold, heavy-
lidded glare. "So. What now? Are you going to
kill me now and get it over with?"
The idea of executing the sick, unarmed old man
is tempting yet revolting. Mulder does not
answer but tightens his finger on the trigger.
"It wouldn't make a difference anyway," he
consoles Mulder. "I'm already dying, didn't
Scully tell you? Wouldn't you rather I die a
death of slow torment? You'd be doing me a favor
if you put me out of my misery now."
"Shut up."
"Then again, murdering an unarmed man might
finally bring your checkered law enforcement
career to an end." Puff. "I know that you and
your partner still have many questions
unanswered. If you kill me here, now, many
answers will die with me. I am the last link. Do
you really want to risk that?"
No answer.
"I thought not." Spender smirks slightly and
turns as if to walk away.
Mulder finds his tongue. "I don't think we're
finished here."
"You're not actually contemplating *arresting*
me, are you?" He is briefly incredulous. Then he
sighs tiredly. "How absurd. You have neither the
evidence nor the authority, Agent Mulder. Very
well." Spender puts his hand in his pocket.
Mulder steps closer, his eyes glinting. Spender
gives him a deprecating smile and pulls out his
hand very, very slowly. He opens his fist to
reveal a pair of small white pills. "This is a
form of aconite. Quite deadly. It offers a
painless and speedy death. If you decide to be a
Boy Scout and attempt to take me into custody, I
will not hesitate to take my own life."
"What, with a pair of Tic Tacs? Death by minty
freshness? Spare me."
Spender shrugs and tosses the pills on the
concrete floor. "Ask Agent Scully about them if
you don't believe me. I assure you I have plenty
more concealed on my person."
He must have been a snake charmer in a previous
life, Mulder thinks, briefly paralyzed with rage
and indecision. All of his lies have a small
truth embedded inside.
Spender holds Mulder's gaze with his own. "I
can't say I'm thrilled at the prospect," he
says. "I would rather not cut my remaining time
short. I still have some goals to accomplish.
But I do not fear death. Not at all."
The whine of a distant siren reaches their ears.
Spender's face is still, but is there something
like worry behind his heavy-lidded eyes? "What
are you afraid of then, Spender?" Mulder asks
softly.
He snorts. "Fear has nothing to do with it."
"You *are* afraid, aren't you?" asks Mulder with
a small grin. "You'd rather die than risk
exposure. Yeah, that's what frightens you. Boy,
you've really come down in the world. You used
to be untouchable. Now look at you - reduced to
skulking in abandoned buildings, doing your own
dirty work. Making empty threats. How does that
feel? It must be terrifying for you not to be in
control any more." He gives a humorless chuckle.
"I know your name now, Spender. I know what
you've done. You're not afraid of death? Oh,
don't worry. I won't let you off that easily."
Mulder waves his gun dismissively. "Get out of
my sight. I'm sick of looking at you."
Spender's eyes widen briefly - it's very likely
no one has ever spoken to him like this before.
He starts down the other staircase. Mulder
watches him go. "I know what you're afraid of,
Spender," he says to his back. "Remember that."
Spender gives him a final, stony look. Then he
vanishes into the gloom.
Dizzy, Mulder sits on the cold floor. He wipes
at the blood streaming from his cut. One of the
white pills rests near his foot. He picks it up
and inspects it closely. He sits that way as the
sirens grow closer, rolling the pill over and
over between his fingers and wondering what
exactly the hell he's done.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
"Where the hell have you been?" asks Scully as
Mulder opens the door.
He looks at her sourly. "Where the hell have *I*
been? Is the irony of this situation escaping
you, Scully?" He is pressing a cold can of soda
to the lump on his forehead.
She sweeps past him, under his arm into his
apartment. Mulder shuts the door, resigned.
"I've been running all over Alexandria looking
for you. I had to talk to twelve goddamn
Alexandria cops before I learned from *Skinner*
that you had been sent to the hospital with a
*head injury*. I went to the hospital and talked
to fifteen more people before I learned you had
been released. I tried to call you but you
weren't picking up and your cell phone was off.
What the hell, Mulder." Her voice is thick with
anger. She stands with her hands on her hips and
looks critically at the butterfly sutures
binding the cut on his forehead.
Mulder shrugs. "Not much to tell. I banged my
head on a piece of metal. Cops took me to the
emergency room and checked me out. Just left me
with a headache, that's all, not a concussion.
Nothing the matter that a dose of ibuprofen
couldn't fix. I gave my statement and took a
taxi home."
Scully rubs her temples lightly. She has
developed a dull headache of her own. This
unexpectedly long and difficult day is finally
catching up with her. When the police and the
ambulance arrived, everything descended into
chaos. After giving her statement, conducting
her fruitless search for Mulder, and talking
with Skinner at the hospital, she was finally
able to get away and change out of her bloodied
clothes into clean jeans and a fresh sweater.
Bed was tempting but anger, fear, relief, and a
dozen other emotions propelled her back out into
the night, first to the lab, then back to
Alexandria and Mulder's apartment. "Dr. Romero
is dead," she says.
Mulder nods. He suspected as much. "Last I heard
he was in critical condition. It was hard to get
straight answers out of anyone."
"The body by the river has been identified," she
continues, patiently, to give Mulder
information, hoping that he will reciprocate.
"Dimitri Khodab. Evidently a former KGB
operative. INTERPOL has quite a file on him, but
as far as we can tell can he's never had so much
as a parking ticket in this country. The
theory...according to Skinner the theory is that
Dr. Romero got some of the capital for
HealthQuest from some fairly shady sources. The
recent devaluation of tech stocks has made it
unlikely that they would recoup their investment
any time soon. Russian Mafia and South American
drug cartels make bad venture capitalists - not
exactly geared toward long-term gains."
"Well, that makes it all very tidy. And you buy
this?"
Again Scully looks at him with round incredulous
eyes. "Mulder, what do you think? Martin Romero
is being killed twice - first his body, now his
reputation. Anything he hoped to accomplish will
be smeared and ruined. He doesn't deserve this."
She swallows. "Mrs. Romero is also dead. She
slipped into a coma about 4:30 this afternoon
and never awoke. She never learned about her
husband's death." There was that small mercy at
least. She thinks of the photos on the piano and
mantlepiece, of Dr. Romero's last words. "There
is no reason to suspect that her death was from
anything but natural causes."
Mulder doesn't think about the photos or Dr.
Romero. He thinks instead of Scully in a
hospital bed, pale and small and dying. And a
wave of fresh anger swallows him. He puts down
his makeshift compress. "Scully, you wanna do
this in the morning? I'm not feeling that great.
I was about to go to bed. You should do the
same."
Normally Scully would be pleased at Mulder
acting sensibly and taking care of himself.
However, right now it puts up her red flags.
He's trying to get rid of her - it's all very
transparent. But she has one more piece of
information. She tosses a small plastic bag onto
the table. In it is a small white pill. "I
checked this out from the Alexandria PD evidence
room. Al Gradishar at the lab confirmed my
suspicions. This is aconite, but I've never seen
it is this concentrated form. In this dose it's
strong enough to put down a horse."
"So he wasn't bluffing."
"Who wasn't bluffing? Mulder, what happened this
afternoon?"
"Just a dead end, Scully." He rubs his eyes. Why
won't she leave? "It really doesn't matter."
Before, Scully was perplexed and exasperated.
Now she is simply furious. "It doesn't matter?
It doesn't *matter?* I'm not in the mood for
your evasiveness. Three people are dead. You
went out on your own in pursuit of an armed
suspect, without me, without backup. The police
find you injured and disoriented in an abandoned
building, with an incredibly lethal poison
scattered on the floor. And now it *doesn't
matter?*"
"Yeah, I know, you were worried sick. I'm sorry.
Next time I'll wear a radio collar." He really
didn't mean to sound so flip and sarcastic, but
it's too late to stop himself, too late to
retract his words.
"What is it, Mulder? What is going on? Every
time I think I understand you..." she trails
off, momentarily at a loss.
"Scully - "
"You know, Mulder, I am entitled to answers."
She speaks fast now, her words tumbling out more
quickly than she intended. "Just as much as you
are. I am still living with this mystery thing
inside me. Can you understand what that's like?
I'm willing to take risks to learn the truth
about it. I'm willing to open myself up to the
most extreme possibilities imaginable. I learned
that from you." Her voice trembles a bit and her
shoulders droop. She finds this kind of
emotional confession more draining than
cathartic. "I've watched you find *your*
answers, Mulder. But when do I get my turn? Do
you think you have some kind of exclusive right
to the truth? Do you - "
He stills her with his long hands gripping her
shoulders. Scully looks down in frustration,
away from his eyes. He gives her a little shake
and her head jerks back up. "Scully, you know
that's not it. You know that. You're entitled to
answers. More than anyone. You're entitled to
everything."
Still she refuses to meet his eyes. What exactly
is she entitled too? "Okay then, Mulder. Let's
start with some answers from you. What is going
on with you?"
That's the hard question that Mulder has wanted
to avoid. He pauses, tries to organize the
jumble in his head into coherent sentences. "My
whole family is dead now, Scully. They're
irrevocably, unarguably gone," he explains
slowly. "You are the only one now." Actually,
she has been the only one for years, but there's
no point in saying so.
Scully closes her eyes and releases a long
breath. She feels her anger begin to dissolve.
"I know that, Mulder. I've known that...for a
while."
"Yeah, well, the problem is that they know it
now too. They know what you are to me. They know
what we are to each other." This is a bit
presumptuous on his part, but she only nods.
"And they will use it against us. They will try
even harder to get at me through you. To get at
you through me."
Is he just now coming to that realization,
wonders Scully. "Mulder...I hate to say it...but
when has that *not* happened?"
He takes her face in his hands and she is
momentarily taken aback by the ferocious
intensity that darkens his face. "It's different
now. Because I know for sure now that my sister
is dead and I know who's responsible. They can't
mislead me any more. Everything I have is
invested in you, Scully. They can see that.
They're winning some battles but they're losing
the war, and they're getting desperate." He
clutches her suddenly, violently. "And I hate to
see them use you and manipulate your trust like
they've done to me for years. Because they can
see your need for the truth and they take
advantage of it. I don't want to see you be like
me. Don't go down that way by yourself. We have
to do it together. Please, please don't do that
again." It all spills out in a rush.
"I didn't think I had a choice," Scully says
quietly, her voice muffled against Mulder's
t-shirt. "I thought...well, at the time it
seemed worth the risk. I've been living with
this thing in my body for more than two years
now. I've tried to make my peace with...with the
things that were done to me. I try not to dwell
on it, but dammit. Sometimes I think about it
and it scares the hell out of me. I just want to
know what it is. You can't know what that's
like."
"Oh you know I do. You know I do." He feels his
anger - and his headache - dissolve away. As
always, having her in his arms makes him feel
relaxed and grounded. "Scully," he says into her
hair. "Just know that I want what you want."
Maybe there's no turning off this dark and
strange road, but maybe it's finally time to
fully share the burden. At least they're losing
some of the luggage.
"What do I want?" asks Scully.
"The truth."
To Scully's dismay she feels tears well up and
leak from her eyes. She snuffles a bit against
his chest and nods. Her hands rest lightly on
his back. She allows herself to relax as well,
relieved to understand the source of his anger,
as she feels the tight knot in her gut slip
loose for the first time in days. Mulder,
somehow the truth always works its way back to
you, Scully wants to say. Instead she asks, "Now
will you tell me what happened this afternoon?"
Mulder runs his hands up and down the curve of
her back, unwilling to relinquish her. "After I
found the body by the river, I kept going down
the to the soccer field. And then to the plant.
Spender was there, Scully. We...had a
conversation."
Scully is hardly surprised. She nods again,
unwilling to look up and reveal her tears, even
though she knows it's silly to pretend: a small
wet patch now adorns the front of Mulder's
shirt. She makes no move to extricate herself
from his embrace. "And what did he say to you?"
"Oh, you know, the usual. We did a little
catching up. He tossed around some cryptic
remarks. I threatened to kill him, then like a
slack-jawed idiot I watched him walk away." He
tries to joke, but it's difficult. Quietly and
succinctly, he tells her about that strange
conversation, omitting nothing.
At first she answers with silence. Then she
clears her throat and tightens her grip around
his waist. "You did the right thing, Mulder,"
she says.
Mulder chuckles. "Wasn't a total loss, though.
Spender gave me a little free therapy. I think
he missed his calling - he's a closet Freudian."
"He played psychotherapist with me, too,"
mutters Scully. "Maybe he should come out with a
book. Smart Agents, Stupid Choices."
"We could go on Oprah," says Mulder with a
laugh. Then he grows serious. He frames her face
with his hands and absently brushes a fine
strand away from her downcast eyes. "We can't
let them use this divide and conquer shit on us,
not now, not after everything we've been
through. Do you understand me?"
Finally Scully looks up at him and nods. She
tries a brief, wet-eyed smile. To Mulder her
face glows, lit with a secret light that he
imagines visible only to him. "But Mulder. We
can't let fear control us, after all this time.
If we do they've won."
He nods and pulls her close again. Good advice.
His hand drifts daringly low, to the sweet
place where her lower back meets the swell of
her hips. "Stay with me tonight," he whispers
into her hair. As easy as that.
Scully goes very still in his arms. This is the
way it would happen, she thinks. After all this
time it would be this simple. No explosion, no
flowers - just a long-denied need quietly but
firmly asserting itself. Something that has
grown too much to be contained by its fragile
walls.
She still hears a thousand nagging voices: this
is a bad idea, you don't deserve this, don't
let yourself turn Mulder into one of your dumb
decisions, he's too much for you. But now the
voices grow dim now, save one: You would die
for him but you can't bring yourself to admit
that you love him. Love. The small, poor,
overused word cannot hold everything that she
feels for Mulder. We've never needed to use it,
she thinks. And this frightens Spender -
twisted, ruined, pathetic Spender - because he
can't control what he can't name.
Beneath her hands Scully feels the muscles in
Mulder's lower back tense as he awaits her
answer. Not trusting herself with words at
first, she looks up again from his chest and
nods, a little frantically. She doesn't want to
think herself out of this. "Your head. Are you
up to this?" she asks hoarsely.
His back relaxes and he rewards her with an
relieved smile. "Oh, Scully, Scully, you walked
right into that one." He takes her chin in one
hand and contemplates her lips briefly before
tipping her face up to his for an experimental
kiss. When he pulls away, her eyes are closed.
It's a new expression to him - it's like the
familiar face she wears when she's processing
an especially complicated piece of information,
but now overlaid with something new and warm.
Her face is flushed, her lips parted.
Scully is able to open her eyes again after a
few moments. Blood roars in her ears. She had
forgotten how soft his lips felt. Mulder's
smile has grown small and tentative, almost
shy. But his eyes are piercing and black in
this dim light - those strange, constantly
changing eyes that she has wondered at for so
long. He pulls her to him and they kiss again,
this time a long, slow, exploratory kiss.
And around them oblivious night falls.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
"Agent Scully."
"Agent Scully?"
She snaps her head up. "Sir?"
"Agent Scully, are you all right?" Skinner has
to wonder sometimes if the horror and strain of
the past several months - hell, the past few
years - has finally worn her down.
Scully is a little surprised by his tone of
concern, but concedes that she has been
distracted all day. Very unlike her. "Of
course, sir."
Skinner looks at her closely and she lowers her
gaze accordingly. Finally he shrugs to himself
and moves on, understanding and respecting her
fiercely guarded privacy. "Do have anything
else to add?"
"No sir."
"Well then, Agents, if there's nothing else -
."
"So that's it?" Mulder interrupts. He is
literally bouncing in his chair - his foot
shakes, his fingers play with a well-chewed
pencil. "We just sweep this under the rug like
everything else?"
"Dammit Mulder, that's not what I'm saying."
Skinner edges wearily to his window, looking
out between the slats at the Pennsylvania
Avenue traffic below.
"What exactly are you saying, sir?" Mulder
challenges.
Skinner takes off his glasses and polishes them
distractedly. His expression is thoughtful, he
is obviously trying to phrase something just
the right way. "Agents. I'm only going to say
this once. You know that...these men have
suffered some setbacks this past year.
Different factions vie for power. The old order
is fading away, but they won't go without a
fight. They'll do anything to stay in power and
defend their secrets." He speaks his next words
with slow intensity. " I do not want to see
either of you get caught in the crossfire.
There is too much at stake for you to become
victims. When the dust clears and their guard
is down your opportunity will come."
"I can't wait that long," Mulder says. He
glances at Scully, then back at Skinner. "We
can't wait that long. These men have names and
faces now. "
"Mulder, there is no evidence," says Skinner.
"Yes there is," says Scully quietly. Both men
turn to look at her. She raises her head and
looks at him with calm and piercing eyes. It's
in me, she thinks, it's in Mulder. And it's in
you, Skinner. "We just don't understand how to
use it yet."
Skinner has to look away for a moment. "Your
initial visit to Romero was out of bounds to
begin with. This case does not fall within your
purview. Do I need to remind you that you are
not officially investigating Romero's death? If
you continue your involvement in this case, and
I hear about it, I can assure you there will be
serious consequences. Do we understand each
other."
Mulder studies Skinner's expression. "Yes sir.
Perfectly clear sir. Agent Scully and I are not
officially investigating Romero's death."
"Good." The matter has been dismissed, not to
spoken of again. Skinner briskly shuffles
papers. "I don't suppose you happen to have a
report for me?"
"As a matter of fact..." Mulder produces his
own sheaf of papers. Skinner is mildly
startled. "Here it is. And here are the status
reports from February that you kept asking
about. Let's see..." Mulder continues to hand
documents to Skinner, who has gone from
startled to stunned. "These are requisition
forms from November on...I put the data in a
spreadsheet by date and category. And I took
the liberty of making a budgetary projection
for the coming fiscal year based on 1999
expenses. It's in the other file on the disk."
Mulder hands him a disk and notices Skinner
giving him the same careful look that one might
give to the dangerously insane. Mulder shrugs.
"It's been a productive morning. Cleared out my
inbox." He returns to bouncing lightly in his
chair.
"Is anything the matter, Agent Mulder?" asks
Skinner after a time. He has seen Mulder in
many manic phases, but this is unusual even for
him.
"Never better," says Mulder sincerely.
After a long, puzzled look Skinner looks back
at Scully. She is staring intently at an
unspecified spot on the carpet, her eyes hazy
and strange in a way that Skinner can't fathom.
"Agent Scully, are you sure *you're* feeling
all right?"
She indulges herself for a moment, lets her
thoughts drift back to the night before. But
only for a moment. They had begun tentatively,
almost clumsily, reduced very briefly to
awkward strangers. Scully was accountably
embarrassed by the familiar scars and
imperfections of her body. Her worries had
faded as she peeled off the last of her clothes
and saw the expression on Mulder's face. She
has a hard time remembering exactly what
happened after that - it was all so
overwhelming. She's still trying to understand
how the ordinary biological messiness of sex
can become a such transcendent experience,
allowing her to touch the eternal.
Scully imagines she'll get better at this, at
compartmentalizing this part of herself and
Mulder. She wants to keep it safely hidden and
bring it out only in times of absolute safety
and privacy. Right now it's a distraction, if a
pleasant one. She's not like Mulder who has
never compartmentalized anything in his life.
In that amazing mind, she knows, everything
runs together in a seamless whole. Briefly she
envies him this ability, this curse and this
gift, and attempts to steer her thoughts back
on track.
"I'm fine, sir." She says, and rises to leave.
She never imagined that this would change them.
This would not solve all their problems or
instantly turn either of them into easier
people.
But she is starting to think that perhaps she
*is* entitled to everything, after all.
Mulder holds the door open for Scully as they
leave Skinner's office. His hand briefly
touches her back and just the slight everyday
contact is charged with a secret electricity.
Mulder hasn't felt this good, this well rested
for a long time, despite his lack of sleep. We
haven't changed, he thinks. We are still the
same...just *more*, for lack of a better term.
Just us, followed to our natural conclusion.
They are the same.
Except now he knows what she tastes like.
He shudders briefly. Memories of the night
before lay vivid in his mind, images and sounds
and sensation. At first, he had been vaguely
anxious when he thought about how long it had
been since he last did this, how out of
practice he was. Soon he lost his self-
consciousness as he began to explore her body
in earnest with eyes and fingers, tongue and
cock. He had always imagined that sinking into
her body would be like diving into a delicious
soothing coolness, like a deep crystalline
mountain lake. But the metaphor does not
exactly suit the sensation of being inside
Scully's rich warm body.
And for a brief, heartbreaking moment,
everything she was seemed clear to him.
Maybe soon she will allow him past that last
door again. Maybe not. It's more than enough
for him now.
Afterwards, after lying panting and still for
some time, Mulder had broken the silence. "Why
did we wait so long for that?" he whispered.
"I can't remember," she said close to his ear.
"I really can't."
The End
Yo creo: I believe
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
Thanks to my husband, for his good ideas and
constant support ("Don't worry honey - I'll
work on dinner while you write!"); to my
sister-in-law K, for reading this through,
making useful suggestions, and boosting my
confidence; and to M, for getting me
started with the X-Files in the first place.
Thanks also to the Deep Background people
for all the nice poison information.
I started this story as a break from the
never-ending X-Files novel that I've been
working on since the sixth season. The Sunday
that En Ami aired, my husband and I strolled
along the Potomac in Alexandria. Inspiration
struck, and I started this story the next
day. It rapidly acquired a life of its own.
I've fiddled with it endlessly, now it's
time to let it go. This my first story ever
posted to the world. Tell me what you thought,
e-mail me at ElanorG@yahoo.com - and thanks
for reading.
EG