TITLE: Black Bicycles AUTHOR: Bonetree RATING: PG SPOILERS: Are there any spoilers at this point? If so, this is a post-episode for "William." If you haven't seen "William" by now, this will ruin the entire thing for you so don't read it. DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters from "The X-Files," which you no doubt know or you wouldn't be reading this. That said, I think we all know at this point that the characters are NOT, in fact, mine, and that they belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox. No infringement intended. No profit being made. SUMMARY: "And through the strobed spokes of the bicycles I saw my son... a sailor on the shore of that dark and silent sea." FEEDBACK: Welcomed and much appreciated at Bonetree@aol.com. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to G., csw and Shari for the betas. And to Revely for saying: "Do something creative with your day, will you?" ;o) For G. ******* J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING 10:03 a.m. Heels on hard floor. Air on the vee where her shirt was opened almost to her breasts, a habit meant for ease but which now served no purpose. She could feel the ends of her hair against the sensitive skin of her throat, touching with the slightness of breath. She squared her shoulders, shook the ghost against her away. It had a round, slight weight and a warm smell she could find anywhere. She could hear it as it vanished into the air around her, into a group of agents who'd stopped as she passed, heads craning, coffee cups halfway to their mouths. She could almost hear what they were saying. She'd heard voices like it for six days. First Reyes. Her mother. Skinner. All blending into one voice. Pity the woman without child, they said. Like a Greek Chorus, faces lost behind their masks. Pity... This was the new weight she carried in her strong right arm, just above the bump of her service weapon, above the soft rise of her belly filled now with fury and shame. Fury for Them. Shame for herself. For the first time since she'd shot out of the basement office, she took in her surroundings. This hallway was lined with glass cases, all of which held flags and trophies and photos and plaques in homage to duty and sacrifice. There was a time when she'd walked this corridor – years past – to this same door coming into view, a time when she'd looked into the glass cases and been proud to be where she was, doing the work she'd chosen to do. The time when she'd gone into this room and talked of having her faith restored to her. "I need it back..." She stopped in front of the case outside Karen Kossoff's door. A man's face stared back at her from inside a black wooden frame. A gold plaque said he'd died young. She drew in her breath, held it, her eyes squeezing shut. She could feel a wind coming over her now. Sea salt. The air smelling like dust and stone. Her hand on the thick glass of a display case, a plaster figure inside it, curled like a question mark, or a-- "Agent Scully." When she opened her eyes, her hand was against the glass. Karen Kossoff looked back at her, the elder woman's face impassive. Scully appreciated that she didn't smile. "Yes," she said, and pulled the flaps of her long jacket around her, smooth leather the color of dust. She looked as though she'd just fallen and was righting herself after getting up. "Why don't you come in out of the hallway, Agent Scully," Kossoff said softly, though her eyes were now trained on something past Scully, who didn't have to turn to know there was another knot of agents needing untangling somewhere off to her right. She could feel their eyes on her. She turned and went into the office without looking back. She heard the door's lock snick closed behind her and took her seat in the chair opposite Kossoff's, the other woman's chair hedged in with small round tables, a coffee cup. A picture of a young woman who could only be Kossoff's daughter. Scully could see it in the young woman's eyes, trapped there behind the glass. Her own chair was comfortable but plain. A table beside it, on which sat the obligatory box of off-brand tissues. A plant that needed water and light. Scully felt her back straight against the chair. She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap as Kossoff sat, gathering a long skirt around her legs. Scully noticed that the other woman toed off her shoes beneath the folds of the fabric, her eyes flitting to bare skin for an instant before looking at a point over Kossoff's shoulder. "You wanted to see me, Ms. Kossoff?" Scully asked, and the voice sounded like someone's she hadn't met. A tiny quirk of Kossoff's lip. "I think you know why I called you here, Agent Scully," she said, her voice that flat, crushed velvet Scully remembered. How could someone be so unchanged by these years? "No, I have no idea," Scully replied, even flatter. Kossoff's head cocked slightly. "Assistant Director Skinner thought it would be best if you spoke with me after what happened on the Miller case this week." Scully looked around the wall behind Kossoff. "I don't know what you mean." "The autopsy, Agent Scully," the other woman probed gently, her voice dropping. "I performed no autopsy," Scully said neatly, brushing at imaginary loose threads on her trousers. "That's what I've asked you here to discuss, Dana," Kossoff said, and Scully's eyes fell on her now. The use of her first name had done it, though Kossoff had used it with little grace. "You refused to perform the autopsy. On Elliot Miller." Scully nodded. "Yes," she said. She did not elaborate. "Do you know why?" "Paul Levis was at Quantico," Scully replied. "He's new. I thought he could use the practice." "Strange that you would perform the other three autopsies, which were more complex, and leave Elliot Miller to Dr. Levis," Kossoff said. "There aren't that many opportunities for a first year pathologist to do...someone that young," Scully replied. Her gaze had fallen to her lap. She could feel color rising in her face. "Dana," Kossoff began, leaning forward. "Assistant Director Skinner...and I...are concerned that recent events with your own son could have clouded your judgment on whether to perform the autopsy on Elliot Miller or not." "'Recent events.'" The stranger's voice again. "Yes," Kossoff said. "Your son's abrupt adoption. Your feeling like you couldn't keep him safe, Mr. Skinner said. I can see why performing an autopsy on a newborn would—" "That has nothing to do with this," Scully interrupted. No anger. Nothing. "Dana, your son has been gone six days," Kossoff pressed, leaning forward still more and lowering her voice. "No one faults you for not wanting to do that autopsy. No one. We're just concerned that you haven't spoken to anyone about this, someone with experience in a matter like this—" "Experience?" Scully said, and jerked her head toward the photo beside Kossoff. "Is that what you call ‘experience'?" Kossoff turned her face toward the photo. "My daughter, Amy," she said. "Not with her, no. But I lost a child, too. My first child. My son, Daniel." Scully looked down and now the color did flood her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said softly. Tears, which hadn't come for hours, were threatening. She blinked, blinked again. "It's all right," Kossoff said. "It was a long time ago. And it does get easier with time. I think it's important that you know that." Scully turned her face toward the thick glass of the window, the blue sky outside, the mumble of traffic. "Did...did he die?" A strange thing to ask, she scolded herself. What do you think? That she did what you did? "Leukemia, yes," Kossoff said. "But no more of a loss than what's happened to William." "*I* happened to William," Scully murmured, looking down again. "It was nothing but me..." "No, Dana," Kossoff said gently. "This is so much more than you. So much more. You know that." Scully met her gaze. "I don't know anything anymore," she said into the quiet. "Nothing..." There was a chair beside Scully, and Kossoff glided into it. "What have you been feeling?" she asked. Scully didn't move, her eyes down. They were silent for a long time. "Did you dream?" she whispered at last. "Dream?" the other woman replied. "What have you been dreaming, Dana?" "About...Pompeii." "What is it about that place?" Kossoff prodded. "Tell me about it." Scully sniffed. "When I was in college...I went there. My family was there...one of my father's tours of duty...and I went. I remember the casts of people in the showcases in the center of the city. They were covering their faces. They were frozen in death." Kossoff waited, and Scully looked up, out the window again. "I keep seeing Mulder under the glass in my dreams...I keep seeing..." She stopped. "Go on, Dana," the other woman said into the lingering quiet. "Tell me what you've seen." Scully drew in a breath. "I'm on the white ferry boat that goes from Sorrento to Capri," she began, the words a rushed, hushed whisper. "And there are nuns riding on black bicycles around the oval of the deck, their faces tied on with thick white string." "What else? Tell me." "The sound..." Scully continued, her fists clenching down. "The sound is like...new crickets. And through the spokes of their bicycles, I see my son...a sailor, like my father, on the shore beside us, standing beside a dark, silent sea." She looked at Kossoff now, straight into the other woman's eyes, seeing the confusion there, the concern. "Can you tell me what it means?" Scully implored. "Tell me what it means." "Dana—" Kossoff began. "Please. Tell me what it means." But the other woman shook her head. "I can't," Kossoff said. "It's about loss. It's about...a lot of things." Scully nodded, drew in a breath. She rose slowly as Kossoff reached for her to settle her down again. "Dana, we need to talk more about this," she said, shaking her head. "You need—" "There's nothing you can do," Scully said softly. "And you can't give me what I need. I need my son. I need his father." She looked around the office. "There's nothing for me here." Out the wooden door. Past the glass display cases. Down the long stairway and out through the doors into the sunlight, into the thick glass shell she called home. ******* END