Ossuary by Spoon3 RATING: R for language. SPOILERS: Season 5 CATEGORY: SA SUMMARY: Can you ever really recover what's been lost? Does it matter? Mulder and Scully deal with those questions and encounter major angst, bad dreams, hard truths, and a pack of Ring Dings (in a cameo role). M/S UST. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and secondary characters except Maureen (she's mine!) belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX. No infringement of copyright is intended, and (do I really need to state this?) I'm not making a profit here, mean guys in suits. ============= CHAPTER ONE ============= ossuary: n. A container or receptacle, such as an urn or a vault, for holding the bones of the dead. The American Heritage Dictionary, third ed. +++++ Oh, God, it's dark here. It's dark and cold and I'm running, though I have no idea why. My feet are moving so fast they've been reduced to a single blur, reminiscent of the Saturday morning cartoons my siblings and I OD'd on when we were very small. Get away... RUN. They're coming. Go... There's a sound, a crackling, that I can't place. I rest momentarily, straining to resolve the anomalous noise... I hear footsteps, more than one set, and voices. The sound gets closer and closer and then I'm spotted. "Over there!" Once again, I begin to sprint, this time with a purpose: safety. There are so many trees in this forest, and they're closely packed, mixed with brambles and underbrush that make it hard to keep going. My legs are burning; they feel as heavy as lead bars, and I struggle to move them up and down, to plow forward through the overgrowth. A spotlight pierces the darkness, settling on my back so that my form is outlined in front of my eyes as I desperately try to evade the voices, the footsteps behind me. They're getting closer, and I'm so scared. I'm... I keep telling myself that I can't stop running, that I can't stop, that I... I'm so focused on the horizon -- the blackness, really, since the spotlight illuminates little more than my body -- that I misjudge the height of an especially large tree root. The very tip of my shoe catches the top of the root and I'm pitched forward. What must be only a few milliseconds stretches and pulls and my body is falling, diving towards earth for what seems to be minutes, hours, days -- uff. I've hit hard, and my legs hurt. The muscles are seared, screaming for air, and my head... I feel the warm trickle blood down my forehead. The feet are getting closer, they're here, and I smell shoe leather and polish and sweat. My hand is red, sticky with blood where I touched the laceration on my temple. My gaze is riveted on the patch of color amidst the dark, and only peripherally do I notice the light that begins to illuminate my surroundings. It's white. Burning. Details start to fade under its harsh brightness. There's a noise, so loud that my hands fly to cover my ears. I feel pain. And then the light has overtaken the night and the trees and the pain... The booted strangers and the burning ache of my muscles and my awareness of the surroundings dissolve into its illuminating wrath. All I'm left with is fear. +++++ Mulder's beaten me into the office this morning -- badly, judging from the pot of coffee that's sitting brewed in the corner of the office. I hang up my trench on the coatrack and drop my attache, and when I turn around, Mulder's come in and is pouring me a cup. "Cream." It's more of a statement than a question, for by now he knows how I take my coffee; this is conversational foreplay, Mulder style. I accept the liquid from him gratefully and take a sip even before I sit down in one of the chairs facing the desk. He's staring at me, probably focusing on the absence of color in my cheeks and the bags under my eyes; foundation didn't quite cut it this morning. To say that I'm tired seems an understatement. "Late night, Scully?" I can tell he's concerned but he's going for levity, punctuating his question with a practiced leer and a twinkle in his eye. "Wouldn't you like to know." Touche, Agent Mulder. I busy myself with organizing the contents of my briefcase, pulling out files to be replaced in the cabinets and piling paperwork that needs to be finished. "Are you feeling okay?" He's shifted from prurient to concerned, analyzing me with a disconcertingly concentrated look. I brush him off. "I'm fine, Mulder." It's not an entirely successful campaign on my part, for he still looks vaguely worried, but it's enough for now. He sits at the desk and begins rifling through the crazy quilt of files and forms stacked on its surface. As he searches for some unknown quantity, I want to tell him why I'm so tired. It's odd, really, because I hardly ever admit to being tired or sick or even the inevitable bad day or black mood; in this partnership, I tend to keep Mulder toeing the line, and the outcome of relinquishing that control is ridiculously terrifying -- my Achilles heel. I pacify myself with the fact that I acknowledge my weakness, that I know exactly why I do it and when I do it. But today, it's not enough. The dreams have been disturbing. "I'm tired, Mulder." I brush an errant lock of hair from my eyes as I pull out my laptop and fire it up. "I couldn't get to sleep last night." I risk a look in Mulder's direction out of the corner of my eye. He's organizing receipts for the latest expense report,but I can tell he's listening. I realize that perhaps he's kept on working to make it easier for me to talk, so I continue. "I woke up at least three times last night." Each time, I'd find my legs tangled in soft cotton bedclothes and my skin coated with a salty sheen of perspiration; each time, I'd be left with no memories save the intense, animal fear. This wasn't the first night, but I don't tell Mulder this. "Try the Weather Channel," he offers. "Hmm?" The final copy of my last autopsy is pulled up on the computer screen, and I busy myself scanning for typographic errors as I wait for Mulder's response. This should be good. "The Weather Channel, Scully, twenty-four hours a day of mind-numbing television, guaranteed to turn your brain into vanilla yogurt if you watch long enough. It's oddly soothing -- you know, elevator music, perky yet sincere weatherpeople, 'your local forecast, accurate and dependable.'" For the last sentence, his voice slips into a deeper register and a plastic tone, imitating the channel's announcer. "I don't have a t.v. in my bedroom, Mulder." "Why do you think I'm forever sleeping on my couch?" "Point taken." The phone rings, in house, and he grabs the receiver. "Yes, sir, I'll tell her." Mulder hangs up the receiver with a resigned look. "That was Skinner; he's got an autopsy consult for you -- just at Quantico, I gather. He also reminded me that our expense report was due yesterday." "Before you go, do you have those receipts? I'm afraid he's going to weigh me down with ledgers and throw me in the Potomac if I don't get the forms to him today." I fish around in the front pocket of my bag and grab the envelope of receipts. "Spare me another autopsy," I say, Eyebrow of Doom raised toward the heavens. "It's a government plot to separate us, Scully, and leave me with the paperwork." He gives me a goofy half-smile which I return, despite feeling like a spent battery. "Good luck." I pack up the laptop and grab my trench on the way out of the basement, remarkably cheered by my narrow escape from the reams of paperwork awaiting us. +++++ The case Skinner's handed me is fairly standard -- at least in my realm of experience. Turns out the tiny chip implanted subcutaneously in the body threw the original M. E. for a loop; for a moment, I remember a time when that might've been me, before my abduction drew me inexorably into the search for Strange Truths, capital S, capital T, double underline. But before I become too philosophical, my mother comes through the swinging door from the kitchen with the salad. It's her birthday. Melissa and my father are both gone now, and my brothers are currently at sea; I'm left with the task of celebrating my mother's birthday while trying to minimize the losses and overcome my own stress and exhaustion. I love my mother, and I'm genuinely happy to be eating with her, celebrating another year, but tonight I'm also genuinely tired. "Dana, dear, what's the matter?" "Nothing, really, I'm just a little beat, Mom." I haven't had a full night's sleep for almost two weeks; who am I kidding? My mother fixes me with a steady, evaluative gaze, and I'm struck at her resemblance to Mulder for a moment. I manage not to choke on my salad as I surpress a slight chuckle -- the vision of Mulder wearing a twinset and pearls and sporting a Margaret Scully bob is, to say the least, amusing. My mother's gaze intensifies. "It's really nothing, Mom. You just reminded me of Mulder for a second -- the way you looked at me. He did the same thing this morning -- he made the mistake of taking a hard look at me before my first cup of coffee, you know how I am in the morning. And the image of Mulder's face transposed onto your body, well..." I re-amuse myself (is that a word?) and my mother smiles. "Oh, Dana, you're so odd sometimes." Her tone is fond, and I suspect she's remembering choice moments from my childhood: the stretch during kindergarten when I'd spend twenty minutes making sure my socks were at even heights on my legs and my maryjanes were fastened at equal pressure; the way I'd tunelessly sing "Mary Had A Little Lamb" -- I was convinced that the lamb's "flea," not "fleece," was "white as snow," and I violently rejected any suggestion to the contrary; and my fascination with the Eagles, bordering on the obsessive, the year I turned thirteen. That was the year they bought me "Hotel California" for Christmas -- I think I wore a hole in the vinyl... I realize she's been talking and I struggle to catch up. "So, anyway, Bill called yesterday and he said that Matthew's begun to walk, with a little help, and I reminded him that all of you walked early -- you were nine months, he was ten, and Melissa and Charlie fall in there somewhere. He's sending me pictures --" She keeps talking and I drift again, reminded of the circumstances surrounding my nephew's birth. He was born last December, when I was in San Diego visiting Bill and Tara with my mother. There had been phone calls... Through a chance encounter, I'd found a little girl who looked eerily like Melissa --she turned out to be my daughter. Emily. But she'd died soon after we found her -- Mulder and I -- and I was left with what ifs and might have beens, for the first time seeing a dream-child made concrete and then being left with precious few memories. Mulder and I found evidence that proved Consortium involvement in her creation -- from my ova, harvested during my abduction four years ago -- and her death, caused by their experiments; that's really all she was to them. The only thing missing was a pack of Morleys left at the crime scene, carelessly-on-purpose. Needless to say, I wasn't too full of Christmas cheer, and Matthew's birth deepened my anguish, pointing to everything that I'll never have. I thought I'd chosen my life, and then I found out that my choices had already been taken from me, and my world-view underwent a sea change. I really have to start paying attention. Fortunately, my mother's still talking about my brothers, a topic on which I am well-versed. I talk to Charlie nearly every day when he's not at sea, and we've begun e-mailing each other -- the Navy's installed computers on ship, it's really quite amazing. Bill, on the other hand, seems intent on assuming my father's role, especially in regard to my work -- his disapproval isn't tempered with as much pride and love as my father's was, and because of this, our relationship has suffered. "So, Charlie said he had three weeks left before he docked, and that he might take some leave and visit." "That's wonderful, Mom, it's been... what, eight months, since you've seen him?" "Too long, at any rate. But enough about him. How's Fox? His birthday is coming up, isn't it?" Mulder, of course. How does she know that? "Soon. He doesn't usually make too much of a fuss." "He has no one to make a fuss for him, Dana." Point taken. I take a sip of iced tea and focus on some indeterminate point in the distance, avoiding my mother's Significant Glance (tm). Evasion and redirection: "Speaking of a fuss, I seem to have forgotten a little something in the living room..." My mother's present is sitting, wrapped, on the credenza. I pick it up and walk back to the kitchen. She opens it slowly and carefully, taking time to admire the paper and the card and I feel as if I'm five years old; it's not wholly unenjoyable. Finally, she removes the lid the shirt-box and surveys my gift, and as a smile spreads across her face like a rising sun, I know I've chosen well. The sweater is simple, made of gossamer cashmere with tiny pearl buttons running down its front. The color is a beautiful pale blue, perfect for highlighting my mother's eyes and contrasting her dark hair. I enjoy giving her things like this, things that she wouldn't necessarily pick out for herself, but that I know are perfect for her. She holds it up and beams. "Oh, Dana, it's lovely." I get up and give her a hug, and her embrace becomes fierce. She's... my mother's crying. "Shh, it's okay, Mom. Shh, you're fine." "I just... I'm so happy you're here." I'm so happy you're well and happy and here -- a presence that seemed impossible only months ago, as I faced certain death from brain cancer -- her message resonates and suddenly I'm glad I'm here, too, able to forget my sleepless nights and stressful days. We sit talking over tea into the evening, and I'm reminded that I don't make enough time for my mother. When I leave, I'm throroughly relaxed; it takes me no time at all to fall asleep once I'm home. As I drift off, I wonder if this will be the night that I awaken only to my alarm clock. ============= CHAPTER TWO ============= Last night I dreamt This most strange dream, And everywhere I saw What did not seem could ever be: You were not there with me! Awake, I turned And touched you Asleep, Face to the wall. I said, How dreams Can lie! But you were not there at all! Langston Hughes, 'Dream' +++++ The voice, a woman's voice, is calling after me. "Help... they're coming for me." It's my own voice but not my voice. The sound is coming from my body but I don't recognize it. I'm falling further down the rabbit-hole... +++++ I awaken with a jolt. It's dark, it's so dark and I'm ... and it's cold and no one will... and I'm alone and ... I sit straight up. "Hydrogenheliumlithiumberyllium,boron, nitrogen..." In the dark and solitude of my bedroom, I sit reciting the periodic table, calming myself with the rhythm of the rote data I'm spewing. "Oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminum..." My words slowly die off as my breathing evens out and my heart regains a more natural rhythm, a welcome change from the racing beat of a minute ago. I struggle to catch the pieces of my dream before they slip away... Tonight, I was in the woods again, being chased. It was so cold, freezingly cold, and I was running without a coat or even warm clothes; combined with the pain of running for so long a distance, it became unbearable. I've begun to sense the pattern -- being chased through darkness and falling, of being found and then the light comes. I think it rescues me; my captors fade into its powerful brightness. I was never sure, because the arrival of the light immediately preceded my awakening. Tonight, though, my nightmare took on a sharper focus; the green, damp smell of the forest was more intense, as was the inky blackness. The brush and undergrowth became brambles that scratched my ankles and shins as I ran, and the air was so very cold. But as I was falling, mentally bracing myself for impact with the unyielding earth, a loud noise startled me. It sounded like the backfire of a car's engine. And then suddenly, I found myself sprawled on a cool concrete sidewalk, staring at the feet of passersby. No one stopped and it frightened me, for I found myself unable to move, left prone in the middle of what looked to be a busy street scene. What I remember most is the smell -- the smell of alcohol and unwashed human and trash -- the smell of decay and despair that was overwhelming as I lay on the cement. Why didn't anyone help me? Why couldn't I help myself? +++++ "Thirty-five percent of the population occasionally experience insomnia, while 17% have frequent bouts of the disorder." ... that can be cured by reading clinical literature on the subject. "Insomnia is defined as clinically significant if a patient experiences more than one of the following symptoms: less than six and a half hours of sleep per night, caused either by awakenings that last for periods greater than half an hour or early morning awakenings after which the patient cannot get back to sleep; the patient requires more than a half an hour to fall asleep; the patient awakes more than five times per night." Yes, yes, no, yes. It's 2:33. There are at least four hours before I can justify getting out of bed for work. I sit and stare at the ceiling. Just as I'm about to try the Weather Channel cure, my phone rings. "Hello?" "Scully. Were you sleeping? Look, I'm sorry --" "Don't be." I yawn. "I'm up. I woke up about five minutes ago." I reach over and turn on the bedside lamp, satisfied that I will not be sleeping any time soon. "In that case, you're missing a classic infomercial. The Flobee. You know, the thing that vacuums your hair up and cuts it simultaneously? I thought this stopped running in '92." He goes silent and I imagine him sprawled on his couch, transfixed by insincere hosts in tacky sweaters and schlocky production values. Only Mulder. "Is something wrong, Mulder?" "Can you see the stars from your bed, Scully?" he asks softly, abruptly changing the pace and tone of our conversation. I crane my head to the right. "Yes, but why?" "When I was a little boy, Scully, when I was nine, maybe ten, my mother bought me a telescope." He's quiet for a moment, remembering, before he picks up his train of thought. "She thought it would be good for my father and I to spend time together -- I guess what's called 'quality time' now -- and she made me bring it to the beach that summer." His voice is hypnotic and I feel as if I'm following the Pied Piper out of Hamlin. "The sky was black at Quonochontaug, without the halo of streetlights and houselights that would obliterate the stars back home. I'd beg my father to go on the beach at night and set up the 'scope, and he'd always make some excuse as to why we couldn't. It always ended with 'that night,' teasing me with promise that it might happen in nights to come; honestly, I don't know why I ever thought it might." "Because you were a little boy, Mulder, and little boys are hopeful creatures." I yawn anomalously loudly, embarrassing myself. A flush spreads over my cheeks. We're talking on the phone and no one's been kidnapped, killed, maimed, or threatened, and as far as I know, our jobs are intact. Wonder of all wonders; and I realize that he called tonight to check up on me like an anxious mother hen. Oh, Mulder. He's not quite as oblivious to reality as he may sometimes seem. "Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Scully?" I smile and I hear Mulder sigh on his end of the connection. "Anyway, one night I guess I wore him down; he finally cracked, and we went to the beach and set up the equipment. "He showed me the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper, the North Star and Orion. He knew the stories and he spent a long time telling them -- voices and hand gestures and the works -- and I remember being absolutely stunned. He never seemed to take an interest in anything I did, be it academic or athletic or... And just before we packed up and headed for the house, he turned to me. "He said to me, in his stern voice, with that patrician, hard-ass accent, 'Remember, Fox, that we all see the same stars.' I've never forgotten that night or what he said. It's one of my better memories, not that there are so many to choose from." "It's a beautiful story, Mulder. Thank you for telling me." Again my cheeks are flushed and I don't care to the examine my reaction too closely. A story will do, instead. "I guess you wouldn't know this, but we lived in Guam when I was very small -- from right after my birth until I was six. We moved there from Japan. "Anyway, the base housing they gave us had a front porch and a swing -- I guess someone had left it, because I can't imagine the Navy providing porch swings, but that's beside the point. It was dark green and heavy, and my brothers and I had to take turns pushing each other to swing in it. "During the summer, what I loved best was to sit on my father's lap on that swing and be read to. If I was lucky, he'd start pointing out constellations and planets to me after he'd finished that night's chapter. I think they still learned navigation using a sextant at the Academy when he was there, so he knew all the major stars... and whatever he'd missed, he picked up at sea. "I hated going to sleep -- I always felt as if I was missing something big -- but something about the rhythm of the swing and listening to my father tell me stories always did me in." My voice trails into silence as I remember. "You miss him." A statement, not a question. "Yes, I do." My father died almost six years ago, between Christmas and New Year's. His death was sudden and unexpected -- a heart attack -- and my own stress and guilt made the grief almost unbearable. He'd been so proud of me in college and through medical school, and I can only assume that he envisioned his baby girl at the head of a lucrative general or pediatric practice, married with her own children. A well-respected member of my community, at any rate. My decision to specialize in pathology -- and my election of the forensic subspecialty -- didn't sit very well with him; my decision to join the FBI out of medical school was even less well received. We had a knock-out, drag-down argument the day that I asked him exactly what I was supposed to do with a forensic certification if law enforcement wasn't an option; my question left him sputtering and walls were constructed. From that point on, talk of my work was verboten; as my work began to take over my life, the distance between us grew. We had always been close; my brothers and sister never hesitated to remind me that I was 'the favorite.' My father had begun calling me 'Starbuck' as a toddler, when I developed the habit of following him around no matter what he was doing. Only later did we read "Moby-Dick" together, and it was then I realized he'd given me the name of the faithful first mate. I started calling him "Ahab" and it stuck. I only wish that we'd been able to come to an understanding before he passed. Mulder's voice interrupts my thoughts. "I still miss her." Samantha. Oh, God. His breath sounds hitched and his voice quavers. I listened to his regression tapes, once, when he was missing in New Mexico, when only I believed that he was still alive, in an effort to feel closer to him. There's a passage of tape that won't ever leave me, and as I sit listening to him breathe I remember. <<"She's calling my name -- she's screaming, crying now and... I'm staring at her and I'm scared. My feet won't move, my legs are heavy, they're lead... and I'm -- I'm sorry, Samantha, I tell her , but they've taken her.">> The voice drops to a whisper: <<"Oh my God, she's gone. She's gone, I've lost her... ">> "I'm so sorry, Mulder." He sounds as if he's going to cry and I wish that my arms might snake through the fiber-optic cable, able to reach through the phone and comfort him. I wish that I could be there now to comfort him and hold him... Oh, Dana. Dueling neuroses. We are officially a mess. To say that I'm thrown for a loop is the understatement of the year. Somehow we lapsed into this strange conversation, a discussion without the normal boundaries. Together we've seen things that no human should see; we've each lost family members during our work with the X-Files. Both Mulder and I have escaped certain death at least once in the past six years. Yet, we've never been to this place before, this place where Mulder's talking to me about his father and stars and I'm remembering Ahab and not a crack has passed between either of us. I like it; it's so... normal. Thus abnormal, for Mulder and me. "What's been keeping you up?" Mulder interrupts conversationally, and its only by his calculated casual approach that I know how very much he'd like the answer to his question. "The usual insomnia, Mulder." But as we both know, he's usually the one who watches the Late, Late Show and I fall asleep as my head hits the pillow. "Well, as W. C. Fields once said, 'The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.' But I'm the usual insomniac," he says, a bit accusingly. "I've just been a little restless." Good one, Scully. "I'm fine." Even better. He hasn't heard _that_ one before. A beat passes before Mulder responds; I can sense the thundercloud brewing on his end. "God, Dana, can't you be straight with me? You've looked beat for at least a week now." An unfamiliar irritation stains his words, as well as an unfamiliar syntax. For six years, we've been Mulder and Scully, never Fox and Dana. "And after everything we've covered tonight -- after this welcome change -- can't you just let me know what's wrong?" Interesting question coming from Mulder; Mulder, who's earned a Ph.D. in the art of ditching. If that's not avoiding a little honesty between friends -- partners -- then I'm not sure what is. Not that I regret following him when he ditches me, finding him, saving him as is usually the case; I'm merely amazed at the trick of memory that's allowing him to ask me that question with a straight face. I'm not sure why I never bring it up, though it has something to do with Mulder's emotional frailties, and my suspicion that he'd wallow in blame if I did. I don't know why I protect him at my expense, but I do. I am. "It's nothing." My tone speaks volumes, about exhaustion and worry but most of all finality. There will be no more conversation tonight, not on this topic. It's easier that way. I want to tell him everything but I can't; I can't let him know how much the dreams have troubled me. I can't let him discount me. My hand grips the phone fiercely and I become aware of the sweat beading on its surface. This last wall has to remain. I sit and listen to white noise and Mulder breathing until he finally hangs up. I fall asleep with the receiver firmly gripped, unable to make the final connection but unable to let go. +++++ The alarm clock wakes me at 6:45. ============= CHAPTER THREE ============= But I don't have to know an answer. I don't feel frightened by not knowing things, by being lost in the mysterious universe without having any purpose, which us the way it really is, as far as I can tell, possibly. It doesn't frighten me. Richard Feynman +++++ Skinner called us this morning, first thing, and we're sitting in his office waiting for him to appear. Kimberly's already come in twice to apologize for his absence; the second time we managed to snag cups of coffee, and we're studiously drinking it. The two of us are avoiding each other. I sit in an armchair across from Mulder, busily noting the temperature and taste of the coffee, the merits of sugar versus Sweet-N-Low, and what Skinner's collection of desk ephemera reveals about his personality. So far I've concluded that the coffee's hot and not half bad, sugar is superior to Sweet-N-Low by a hair, and the absence of anything personal on the desk reveals what I'd already known: Skinner's a bit of a martinet. He's looking at me. I stare right back into Mulder's hazel eyes, my chin held high and projecting defiance; this is a look I've oft-practiced. My resolve is only somewhat lessened by the extreme lassitude holding me in its grip, as well as the look Mulder's giving me. He looks like a -- "Agents." Our heads swivel to catch a glance at Skinner, who's just entered the office. "I'm sorry that I've kept you waiting. I was detained with one of our 'friends.'" He smells like a pack of Morleys. "Sir?" Mulder is impatient, wanting to get this meeting over with. At this point, I couldn't agree more. "I have a case for you two, a favor that I owe an old friend --" During my tenure in the X-Files, the phrases "old friend" and "favor," when used in the same sentence, have come to signify horrifyingly boring cases in the middle of nowhere. Apparently, Skinner's "old friends" all became sheriffs of towns with populations under 10,000 people and without a decent motel within a 50-mile radius. I feel a groan coming and manage to surpress it. Mulder is not quite so lucky, and I catch his eye as he tries to mask his displeasure with a cough. While Skinner has been a help, perhaps even a patron to us, he can also be very strict, and this type of insubordinate behavior doesn't sit well with him; once a Marine, always a Marine, I suppose. After a significant pause and a warning glance, Skinner continues, "-- but it's more than just a look-see. I've arranged a flight out for later this afternoon and I have the casefile and airline tickets." He hands them to me and I begin to look them over... Five children between the ages of six and ten, abducted from or near their homes. All returned within the space of a week, all living in the same small town in Washington state. None of the children had clear recollections of the time they'd been missing, and each child mentioned "bright lights" significantly in his statement. This one's a doozy. I don't even have to look at Mulder's face as I hand the file to him; he's probably begun to compare the children's statements to the vast catalogue of alien-abduction lore he has committed to memory. By the time we hit ground at Seattle/Tacoma, he'll have five complete alien abduction scenarios ready to go, sauce on the side. Defensive, much? Six hours on a plane is a very long time to ignore someone. The weight of our conversation (or lack thereof) last night -- this morning -- began to hit home as Mulder and I sat waiting for Skinner to arrive. There's a part of me that still wants to tell Mulder about the dreams -- knowing that he's not judgmental in the least about that sort of thing and he has a background in psychology that might help me begin to sort things out. Stronger, though, is the part of me that wants to remain cool, calm and collected at all times, and confessing disturbing and ongoing nightmares to my partner doesn't further that goal. And I know that he'd assume I'm experiencing spontaneous memory restoration from my abduction, which I've never been able to remember with any clarity, and he'd doubtless push me to undergo regression hypnosis. I justify my silence by the fact that it's not affected my work. ("Yet," screams a little voice from the far recesses of my mind.) Skinner's begun working on paperwork and that's our cue to leave; Mulder and I are silent as we head to the elevator bank. On the ride down, he turns to me: "Look, Scully, the flight leaves National at three o'clock. I'll meet you at the gate at 2:30, okay?" The doors open with a ping and we step out. "That's fine, Mulder." I grab my coat and briefcase from the office and he does the same. We part at the entrance to the parking garage. I stop for a moment and watch him disappear into the dimly lit rows of automobiles, a lone figure in a long, dark trench. This distance... this sense that we're diametrically opposed for naught, for nothing more than night terrors, disturbs me more than the dreams have. God, I'm tired... suddenly, I feel the light beginning to shine around me, surging whiteness enveloping me. As I sink to the cement I open my mouth to call for Mulder, but no sound will come... I barely register the voices that are screaming after me before I slip momentarily into the light. +++++ "Scully... Scully... " A voice is calling me, becoming louder and more insistent. "She's over there!" Footsteps move toward me. I shiver. A gloved hand is placed on my shoulder, and I shrug it away as -- Light. "Scully." "Mulder?" He's turned on the overhead lights and they're shining in my eyes. His right arm holds my left and his other arm holds my right. The other passengers have begun to stare at the strange tableau we must present. "Some nightmare, Scully, you were beginning to thrash." He's worried; hazel eyes seek my own, looking through me. His eyes are looking into me, and I wonder if they find the answers they seek. Suddenly I'm on the street again, the cold, hard concrete pressing into my limp flesh, staring at a busy intersection but unable to make out the words on the street sign and -- It's gone. "I'm fine, Mulder. You know how much I hate planes." That much is true; give me a boat any day of the week. Intellectually, I know that flying is safe, but as the minutes of a flight pass by, my stomach begins to knot and my hands begin to sweat. For once, it's his eyebrow that slyly arches, questioning. I have no answer. Mulder releases his grip on my arms and I mourn the loss. He's quiet, simply looking at me, while I try to regain equilibrium. I reach across the seat surreptitiously, seeking contact. My fingers brush his hand and stay there, the warmth a comfort. "... This is the captain speaking. We'll be landing in about ten minutes or so, so I'd ask that you please fasten your seatbelts and return all tray tables to the upright position. The flight attendants will be coming around shortly to..." The passengers around us suddenly come alive, preparing for our descent and arrival. Pleasant as my current situation may be -- as comforting as the feel of Mulder's solid heat and the knowledge that terra firma is near can be -- I can no longer avoid that fact that something's wrong. The dreams have spilled over into hallucinations -- there is no other word for the vision of the intersection I just had, or the experience in the Bureau parking garage this afternoon -- if there was, I would've used it to ease my worry. This afternoon, there were voices -- different voices -- though I can't be sure what they were saying. Mainly a woman's voice, fearful, sending me a kind of warning. The same woman's voice that I heard so vividly last night, mine but not mine. Familiar yet jarring. I'm hearing voices. ("'Haunting Voices,' starring Valerie Bertinelli as Agent Dana Scully...") Proving once again that denial is a skill that can be honed to a high art, I manage to push these thoughts out of my mind as the landing gear hits the runway and the jolts remind us all that we've returned to Earth. +++++ By the time Mulder and I collected our luggage and the rental car and drove to Vineyard, it was pushing 7:30 p.m. Foregoing a meeting with the sheriff, we found some dinner at a local diner and then checked in at the Shut Eye Motel. (Where do people come up with these names?) I'm sitting cross-legged on the lumpy motel bed in my room. Mulder has claimed the desk chair, and we're going over the case. "These are very young children, Mulder, and their memories are subject to suggestion and confabulation." "But Scully, the bright lights -- the fact that these children were returned within a set period of time with no major physical trauma -- just don't add up to a typical stranger abduction. In their interviews with police following their return, three of the five children mentioned a feeling of floating and/or paralysis as they were being abducted. And none of the children could produce a straightforward description of their abductor or abductors." "I agree that the motive is still a mystery, but the disorientation and floating sensation could just as well be the result of the emotional trauma or even drugs. We won't know for sure until we meet with Sheriff Carson tomorrow morning and access the complete records, including the hospital's post-abduction examinations for each child." We've come to a standstill, both knowing that further discussion is useless until we've met with the sheriff and conducted our own interviews with the parents and children. Neither of us, I think, wants to sleep, and going to our own separate rooms is even less appealing. Pictures of sad-eyed children holding daisies stare at us from the walls -- typical tacky motel furnishing -- and the brown and rust interiors and dark walls contribute to the sense of doom and gloom. For a moment, I'm struck by how 'alien' the toddlers look, with big eyes and large heads and pointy chins. "Ice, Scully?" Mulder holds up the attractive leatherette bucket. "Sure, and can you snag me some hard pretzels?" (My kingdom for some Grey Poupon.) "No problemo, G-Woman," Mulder drawls before setting out for the vending machines. Apparently, last night's phone call has been forgotten, the tension that loomed over us like a raincloud in Skinner's office defused. Don't think about it too much, Dana. Just go with it. +++++ I take the opportunity to change into my pajamas -- royal blue cotton with white pinstripes and piping, my favorite. By the time Mulder returns, I'm back on the bed and channel-surfing. "I come bearing RingDings." It's somewhat embarrassing to me that Mulder knows one of my deepest, darkest secrets -- that I can be momentarily undone by something so slight as a RingDing, an ephemeral confection of chocolate cake and "creme" and a light chocolate shell. Nonetheless, I accept the package from him gratefully, the food at the diner not having been entirely to my liking. "I see no pretzels, Mulder, but you're forgiven." "I only wish to appease the Chocolate Goddess with a worthy sacrifice." He gingerly sits down next to me on the bed with his own tiny bag of Doritos. "You seemed like you required something with absolutely no nutritional value tonight." "And the Doritos are part of, what, the Orange Powder Cheese food group?" I shoot him a Look in a show of mock incredulity. "Must I continually remind you that I got the higher marks at our last weapons recertification? Remember, I shot you once..." I let my teasing admonition trail into the ether. "Idle threats, Scully, idle threats." I begin to flip the television channels and I feel him slide into a reclining position next to me. The sounds of crunching Doritos punctuate the comfortable silence. This is it, our little slice of normalcy (well, as close as we get these days): watching bad t.v. and eating even worse food in innumerable generic motel rooms. I must admit that the glamor of the situation has suddenly become underwhelming, albeit with a certain scruffy charm. Better to focus my attention on the television. Infomercial. Click. ("But Scully, it was 'The Food Dehydrator'!") Baseball. Click. "Entertainment Tonight." ("The secrets behind the life and death of author Jose Chung...") I can't change the channel fast enough. Click. CNN. Normally, this is the channel we'd compromise on, but tonight we've lucked into a broadcast of "Larry King Live." (His ties are worse than Mulder's.) Click. "The Day the Earth Stood Still." ("Klaatu barada nikto, Scully.") I think we have a winner. We watch the movie in companionable silence for almost an hour, and I soon find myself struggling to keep my eyes open. Needless to say, I'm not eager to go to sleep -- the dreams have come almost every night for the past two weeks, and all I need is to wake up screaming in a strange motel room to really make my day. "You're tired." He starts to get up but I grab his arm and am immediately embarrassed by the simple gesture. No pain, no gain, as my nephews are so fond of telling me. "Just for a while. Stay." My mouth is dry. He slides back down on the bed, inches away from me. We're so close that I can hear his breathing, I can feel his body heat, and I swear I can hear his heart beat. I stare at the ceiling waiting for someone, anyone, to break the deafening silence. The future stretches before me like the glassine surface of a swimming pool undisturbed, and I crouch at the boundary, toes hanging over the edge and body tensed to leap. Braced to jump, to fall, to glide through the perfect stillness, creating waves that ripple out to the edges that I cannot see, creating movement that I will not be able to control or predict. I stare into chaos. "What do you know about dreams, Mulder?" I feel his sidelong glance and wait for him to begin regaling me with a scholarly lecture on Freud, Jung, and God knows what else. "From what perspective, Scully? That's a fairly broad question." "I've been having strange dreams, Mulder." My voice is so quiet; I can barely choke the words out. "The plane." The plane, where I woke to find Mulder's arms gripping mine, dragging me back into the safety of consciousness. The plane, where I heard someone else's voice come from my own lips and was again transported to the fuzzy street corner. "The plane and last night before you called," I admit. "The night before that." Relief rushes over me, not entirely replacing my anxiety but definitely making inroads. By just admitting what I've dreamt out loud, by acknowledging it, I lend a degree of authenticity to my confusion. "I assume this is a recurring dream?" He rotates so that he's laying on his side now and looking at me, as I continue staring at the glaring brightness of the ceiling, painted with what must be high-gloss enamel. "Not exactly the same dream each night, though they're all part and parcel of a theme, really. In all of them I feel threatened, and many times I'm running in a dark wood. A light comes and chases away my would-be captors --" I shut my eyes and remember, and I am once again transported to the dark and the cold. I remember the fear, fear so intense that I woke up shivering and momentarily disoriented. The voice calls again, my voice but not mine, and a word begins to form, syllables rising in new definition from the high-pitched scream. "Fox!" I'm floating, rising, into nothingness, craning my head to look down but something prevents this. They're restraining me, they're not letting me... the vision leaves me. I compose myself before continuing. "-- and recently, I've found myself suddenly moving from the forest and the light to a street corner, but I can't read any of the signs. All I'm left with are the feelings of fear and confusion." My fingers begin to interlace, greased by my sweat. "I've heard voices." One of Mulder's hands covers my own, stilling them. If it were possible to transmit peace of mind through touch, I know he would; if it were possible I would've done the same for Mulder long before this moment. What does transfer is affection -- dare I say love? I do not profess to know its stripe nor do I need to. It is enough to know that he is listening, waiting, reassuring, considering. "At first, I wondered if the hallucinations might be a type of seizure -- but the frequency and other details lead me to believe that's not the case -- and now, I don't know what they might be. It's to the point now that I'm concerned that they might affect my work -- and as worried as I am, I'm annoyed. Annoyed at the exhaustion and disruption of my routine that they've caused, and disturbed because I cannot identify them." Not that I've exactly exhausted all my resources. "There may not be a 'conventional' diagnosis. Have you considered the possibility that these may be memories that you're finally recovering? Memories from the time you were gone?" Memories from the time I was taken, abducted by a madman named Duane Barry. The last thing I remember coherently is being driven to mountain, Skyland Mountain in West Virginia, in the trunk of car. Later, months later, I woke up in a hospital room, feeling as if I'd been run over by a succession of Mack trucks. Since then, I've had intermittent dreams -- no more than four or five -- visions of Japanese men in white suits in brightly lit white rooms. I'm convinced that these memories date from my abduction, but I've been able to recover no more than those few snippets, nor do I really want to, yet. I am absolutely certain that what I've seen lately is not related to those memories. "It's not the re-emergence of abduction memories, Mulder, of that I'm sure." My right brow jumps up like a startled cat, a concrete expression of my assuredness. "Scully, you've never been able to remember anything --" "Much. I've never been able to remember much -- and what I have has looked suspiciously like the set-up Dr. Ishimaru and his colleagues had created in the boxcar." By all rights, Dr. Takeo Ishimaru should have been prosecuted for war crimes after World War II; instead, he was spirited to the United States, where he began genetic experiments on unwilling human subjects. I shudder to think I may be one of them. "What about regression hypnosis? You've proved to be recep--" "No." My reply is simple, forceful, and decisive, and it fires from me as if I'm on autopilot. I've undergone regression hypnosis twice, though I'm not convinced of the accuracy of the technique; twice, the outcome has been disturbing, and the memories have not been ones that I completely trust. I'd rather live with uncertainty than adopt artificial realities. I'd rather not accept any hell other than those I'm given. Morbid, Dana, truly morbid. I shake off the darkness and focus on the case, the room, the look on Mulder's face that signals acquiescence. Defeat. He sighs and looks down at me. "Scully, would you mind if I stayed with you tonight? For my own peace of mind?" Feeling tired and rather wanton, I nod my assent. "Be back in five," he says, disappearing through the connecting door between our rooms. I'm so tired. Some time later, as I lay not quite awake but not yet asleep, I hear Mulder open the door carefully. A second later, the mattress dips with his added weight and he curls up on the other side of the bed. Just before I drift off, I feel him shift, and he places a feather-light kiss on my forehead. ============= CHAPTER FOUR ============= Science is the refusal to believe based on hope. C.P. Snow +++++ Another dream. Another footprint in the sand, marching toward the horizon, never stopping. Never able to reach the goal. Last night's dream was unlike the others: the forest, the light, and the chase were all absent. What I remember is hazier than my other memories, as if my dream was sanded down at the edges. What I remember is being quite cold and hungry, of searching for warmth in an old building, a place that seemed abandoned. A place that seemed absent of hope. I huddled at its stoop, waiting for an unknown savior, even at the same time certain that evil was pursuing me. All I can remember thinking is a phrase that looped endlessly in my head, disjointing other thoughts before they had a chance to germinate: "Dark forces are at hand." <> The fear welled in the pit of my stomach, and I knew they were coming to get me. I could smell it in the air, above the rank stench of death and decay that seemed to envelope my clothing and my body, a smell that permeated the stale air of the brick shell in which I sought refuge. They came for me, and I ran, and suddenly I realized that I had gone no further than the familiar stoop, that it was only an old man staring at me, his own hair matted and wispy, his own clothes stained and torn. He frightened me; for some reason, I knew -- that he was of them, that he was trying to earn my confidence only to hurt me. My mind shut down; in my mind, I kept running, the pounding of a ceaseless headache keeping pace with the fear and the knowledge that I was wanted. That dark forces were at hand; I saw them, I saw them swirling in a black cloud above my head and circling down my body. I felt the chill wind in my bones, and the fear. I knew that I was in danger. +++++ By eight-thirty we're unlocking the car, once again the image of model of FBI agents: Mulder in a dark suit and a fairly obnoxious tie, and I in my lavendar suit and the inevitable three-inch heels. "I've been thinking about what you said last night, and I've come up with a different theory. Bear with me here, Scully. This is going to sound odd." He's playing with the radio as I turn out of the motel parking lot, headed for the diner, breakfast to be followed by our meeting with Sheriff Carson. "Shoot." Drops of rain begin to appear on the windshield and I fiddle with the windshield wipers and the headlights. The rural road is narrow with a noticeable crest for drainage, and I feel as if I'm sliding across my seat. Off-balance, in more ways than one. "These don't seem to be memories of your abduction coming back to you. What if they're not your memories at all?" What exactly does he mean? "What are you suggesting, Mulder? That I'm fabricating these strange scenarios?" Though I don't think that's what he's proposing, the thought is beyond the pale. A country station, "lite" rock, and a morning show all fly by before he answers me. "What I'm suggesting is that you're receiving someone else's memories." "Whose? Do you think that I'm 'channeling' someone?" My eyes roll automatically at the absurd suggestion. "I've always known you were a little 'touched in the head,' Scully. Seriously, you've shown a certain propensity towards 'hunches' and intuition over the years I've worked with you that may be some form of psychic ability." "Sounds a little spooky, Mulder. Care to elaborate?" I ask, as I turn the Taurus into the diner lot and park. It's an old place, thin and narrow and chrome, an incongruously Art Deco box rising out of the surrounding fields. The neon sign that's situated on the roof reads "The Vine" in fluorescent purple script, with the notation below that it's open "24 h urs / Brkfst, Lunch, Dinner." "When we were investigating the Arthur Grable case at the jet propulsion laboratory, you admitted that you sometimes know that one of your brothers is calling seconds before the phone rings." "And I might have that same thought thousands of times, but only remember those occasions when the thought coincides with the phone call. That's a natural tendency. Purely a matter of selective memory and coincidence," I remind him as we make our way inside and wait to be seated. "Point taken. But what about the fact that you knew B. J. Morrow was pregnant, totally out of the blue?" Mulder asks me, totally ignorant of the flirtatious looks our waitress flashes him as she comes to lead us to our table. "Just intuition, not psychic insight. I'm sure I subconsciously picked up on clues that led me to that conclusion. Nothing spooky." He blanches at my choice of adjective as he pulls out the heavy, oak chair at my place. Now we're seated and the waitress is handing out menus, hovering around us -- no doubt to rattle off the specials. With that last remark of mine, though, she blanches slightly and backs off. "I'll come back in a minute, when you two've made up your minds, 'kay?" Her speech is punctuated by the rhythmic snap of a sizable wad of gum; the white plastic nametag pinned to her beige uniform reads, "Tiffany." "Sure," Mulder says absentmindedly as we scan our menus. Everything on the menu screams, "Cholesterol on a plate," and visions of occluded arteries and infarctions dance through my head like sugarplums. They don't have my cream of wheat, so I'm forced to settle for a bowl of cereal. Mulder, of course, takes the opportunity to order the greasiest, most cholesterol-laden platter on the menu: two eggs, a side of bacon, and hash browns. As Tiffany lopes back to the kitchen the place the order, our frozen conversation picks up speed. "What about the way you realized that Simon Gates had taken Kevin Kryder to his recycling plant, based on nothing more than one cryptic phrase -- 'full circle to find the truth'? And how did you suddenly realize that the killer we were tracing with Clyde Bruckman's help was the hotel bellboy?" The Kevin Kryder case was almost three years ago; the time that has passed feels more like three lifetimes, in hindsight. I remember the absolute faith he had in us, in me, that we could protect him from the religious zealots who would seek to harm him; Kevin had weeping sores on the palms of his hands and on the side of his torso, marks that some interpreted as stigmata. Once, I was sure that he was touched by something divine; once, I was sure that I was charged to protect him from the evil in the world, at least from an immediate threat. Once, I was so sure. That case left me with a renewed faith, belief that had disappeared years before in a haze of dissatisfaction with the ritual and practice of Catholicism. In the months after that case, though, whatever belief was renewed quietly left; with the discovery of my cancer, I felt my faith sucked dry, evaporating into the hungry air. Deep down, I need to believe that God has reasons; what I don't want to believe is that I mightn't be able to understand them. Mulder continues talking, oblivious to my inattention. "What I'm suggesting is that you had a latent ability that has begun to emerge." "Coffee?" Tiffany has appeared from thin air and is holding a large, hot pot of coffee in her hand, as I ponder my confusion. "Thanks." "Sure, thank you." I turn my attention back to Mulder. "Latent ability? And why would it choose to emerge now?" My eyebrow, the right eyebrow (always), arches to such a degree that I wonder if it's melded into my hairline. It's been getting an Olympic-training workout the past few days, silently registering my objections to the outrageous Mulder Theory of the Week. "A latent, possibly genetic ability. When you were taken, your mother told me that she'd had a dream that you were in danger -- but she didn't want to alarm you, so she didn't call you. And when you were still in a coma, when I first met Melissa, she looked at me oddly and said that she'd 'been told' not to call me 'Fox.' She hadn't seen your mother yet, so I can only assume she was referring to you. As to why it would emerge now, it may have something to do with your implant." "My implant," I repeat rather dully, still processing this rather fantastic assertion. Mulder continues talking, his voice easing into lecture-mode, and I can almost see the familiar basement office surrounding us; I can almost make out the ghostly edges of the slide projector. "The cases with Bruckman, and Kryder happened after your abduction, after the first chip had been implanted. The second implant has only been in place for a few months now -- it may be more developed than the first generation, prompting this latest spate of dreams." DanaVision, version 2.0. All rights reserved, Consortium O' Evil, Inc. I can see the infomerical now... even better than the fucking Flobee. Our food is set before us, Mulder and I both ignoring it as we busily formulate points and rebuttals. "Pendrell was barely able to conclude that the chip had some sort of memory function; there is no technology that would allow for what you're suggesting, essentially the ability of my body to act as a television set, receiving the 'signals' of another person's brain. There's no basis in science." "None that we know of, yet." Mulder's protestations are punctuated by a chug of coffee, the liquid so hot that it appears to surprise him. I mutely hand him a jelly glass of ice water, waiting for the rest of this week's Grand Theory. "Frankly, Scully, we made a deal with the devil; a necessary evil, as far as I'm concerned. But if the implant was enough to draw you to Ruskin Dam, on what amounted to a death march, what's to say that it can't enhance certain elements of your perception?" "And maybe I can bend spoons, too. Maybe I can make a mint in Las Vegas before the gambling authorities ban me, and then I can hang out with the Amazing Kreskin." My sarcasm draws a slight grin from Mulder. I want to find a different cause for the nightmares that plague me; I'd rather be able to pin my unease and exhaustion on something wholly known and explainable -- something treatable, something that Mulder is convinced is of this earth and not a distant, unknown planet. I'd rather not be forced to consider that my abduction has once again bitten me squarely in the ass. I'm so tired of being violated. It's been four years since I was taken, long years, and the aftershocks keep coming with brutal force. First, I find the original implant in my neck, quite by accident, walking through a metal detector; soon after, my sister is killed in my apartment because intruders, hired men, mistake her for me. Years later, I develop a seemingly fatal malignancy; and this is the ultimate invasion, invasion from within, as my body turns on itself. Then comes the revelation that I have a child, a _child_, that I had not known existed; a child who was the product of medical rape. And to top it all off, like the pert and shiny cherry on a perfect banana split, I find out that I'm barren, that my body was ransacked for genetic material and my partner has known for months, holding onto a vial of my ova like a talisman. Even Langly, Byers, and Frohike knew that last bit before I did. Did I remember to add the gruesome postscript that the price of a cure for my cancer included the willing insertion of another chip, another tracking device? And I don't care to dredge up the memories of Ruskin Dam again tonight, and the implications of that dubious epoch. I don't think Mulder understands my rage at the continuing affronts to my health, my sanity, my sanctity; I don't know if he can. The things that have happened -- the tragedies that have befallen him -- have never violated his body, only his soul; they are horrible in their own way. His sister was taken, his family imploded, I disappeared. Through all of it, he's never once had to doubt himself, his physical presence, the way I have; I cannot escape no matter how hard I try. My body, my temple... bullshit. At every corner, I'm reminded that control is an illusion. And so I rage, quietly and determinedly, working to gain command as I have worked for everything else in my life. I am a revolution of one. "Look, Scully, you're going to have to face the fact that the implant changed you somehow, that its effects and purpose aren't quite known, that --" His tone is rough, as blunt as fingernails grating on a chalkboard, and in it I recognize the frustration that comes from a long, detailed argument that's going nowhere. With his words Mulder dispels any hope that I had that he might understand. In the very core of my heart I still believe what I told Mulder when Melissa died: "There is no justice." Perhaps there is vindication. But certainly, there is truth. It is that knowledge that drives me inexorably forward, even as I fear the future that promises nothing, but will likely take everything I hold dear. And I fight. "That I was abducted, that I lost three months of my life, that I lost my children, that I lost my memory, that I need to learn to live with it all. That I'm a fucking science-fair experiment?" An edge has crept into my own speech, and I struggle to control it before it slices too deeply. "Is that what I need to face, Mulder? Because I think I've a fairly good handle on it all, whether I want to or not." His face softens and his shoulders droop. "God. That's not... I... Damn them." The wave has passed us, drawing with it anger and frustration and doubt; in its wake, we are spent, left with a tenuous understanding and a common purpose: truth. Deliverance. All before breakfast is over. "Scully." He says my name in a rush of breath, softly, and runs his fingers through his hair rakishly, leaving tracks. He says my name like a prayer, a plea for understanding and absolution and resolution, levied at a higher power that seems indifferent. He says my name as penance, looking to me for forgiveness. "I know," I say wearily. And with one look I allow Mulder to relax, to stop the self-flagellation for the moment, with the inherent knowledge that we're still a ways to complete understanding, though it's no one's fault. Mulder signals for the check. "Time to meet Sheriff Carson." As we leave the diner, his hand rests lightly on the small of my back, an old gesture, refreshing for its familiarity. The warmth of this barest touch transmits reassurance, and I send my own prayer into the void, asking only for peace. ============= CHAPTER FIVE ============= Things are getting curiouser and curiouser. Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" ===== No fingerprints were recovered at any of the scenes, which reveals only that the perpetrators were smart enough to wear gloves. A clear-cut motive is still absent; as far as anyone can tell, the children were not abused during their captivities, and no ransom was demanded by the kidnapper or kidnappers. Results of post-abduction medical tests showed the presence of certain metabolites in the children's blood, indicating that they were drugged, which helps explain their lack of memories save the sensation of floating. But without all but the barest information, we've been unable to construct a helpful profile of our UNSUB; we contacted Skinner late this afternoon and he's recalled us to Washington, transferring the case out of our hands. I've come to accept that the cases handled through the X-Files aren't always resolved in neat packages, able to wrapped in a pretty red bow and filed away. But a case like this, in which even a hint of resolution can't be offered after a thorough investigation, especially when children are involved, is more than frustrating. This is the kind of case that comes back to haunt idle thoughts late at night; this is the kind of case that can't be forgotten. I console myself with the fact that these children are safely at home, that I don't have to break this kind of news (or lack thereof) to grieving parents and family members. Who broke the news to the Mulders? It's been twenty-five years for Mulder, still with more questions than answers, still with the pain of not knowing. I think of my own unanswered questions, my own worries, which pale in comparison -- at least for the moment. Tomorrow, we're back to Washington and real life, but for now, for tonight, I allow myself some breathing room. My aching feet carry me to the bathroom, and as I turn on the shower, the hot spray beating on the fiberglass tub like a summer rainstorm, the connecting door creaks open. "Scully?" Mulder. I turn off the water and exit the bathroom to find his head craning from the doorway. "Come in." He's clearly beat, wearing wrinkled pants and an untucked shirt, and his hair is standing up in unruly spikes. The garish tie he'd chosen this morning is long gone, and his oxford gapes open at the collar. This is the Mulder who bears traces of the boy he must've been, intelligent and inquisitive, a bit of a smart-ass but easily overwhelmed. That makes two of us, at least tonight. I sit down on the bed and pat the space next to me. "Pull up some polyester, G-man." He stretches out on the coarse bedspread, which is patterned in the same offensive melange of taupe, brown, and rust as the rest of the decor. "I think I had this comforter in '74." There's a reticence between us tonight, a certain gingerness in our actions and our words that's a product of this morning's discussion at breakfast. So much full-bore honesty is unaccustomed, as entrenched as we've become in the delicate arts of evasion. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, indeed. The old patterns are soothing, and I allow myself to slide into the well-worn groove. "I don't doubt you, Mulder, judging by your taste in neckwear." "You wound me," he says in mock anger. "Only when you don't listen," I shoot back playfully, as I watch his hand fall precisely over the scar from the gunshot wound I gave him years ago. "That was too easy, Mulder." "Just like this case, Scully," he says and rubs his eyes. I can't help rolling my own at his jest, reminded of our meeting with Sheriff Chester Carson this morning. ("Call me 'Chet.'") The good sheriff is a tall man with a bit of a paunch, plastic in manner and overly friendly. He spent the first ten minutes of our meeting asking us how "Walt" was doing at the eff-bee-ai, managing to stretch out each syllable until it fairly screamed for release, and regaling us with tales of the seminar he'd taken at Quantico last spring for local law enforcement. Relations really went downhill when he referred to Mulder as "Spooky," our reputations apparently having preceded us. Skinner needs new friends. A yawn breaks the calm that's settled around us like a fog, and I realize that it's mine. "Mulder, I hate to kick you out, but I think I'm going to turn in. G'night." I turn down the covers nearest to me and for a split-second, debate whether or not I really need to get up and brush my teeth before I slide into bed; as always, routine wins, and I trudge to the bathroom as Mulder heads back to his side of the connecting door. Just as he reaches the threshhold, he turns his head and speaks: "Goodnight, Scully. Sweet dreams." The rakish grin of a few minutes ago has disappeared, replaced by the sweetest of looks, searching for a promise that my sleep tonight will be untroubled. I find myself touched but, oddly enough, missing the leer that usually accompanies such remarks. "I hope so too, Mulder." I watch as he disappears through the open door, waiting for the corresponding noises of teeth-washing and face-washing and getting ready for bed to start on the other side of the wall. It's a duet that's become part of our life on the road. After I'm in bed, I have one of those revelations that seem profound only when one is truly exhausted. I remember the weight of Mulder's arm slung 'round my waist, and his reassuring warmth at my back; I remember the feel of being held, of allowing myself to relax into sleep knowing that he would be there if I woke up screaming. These thoughts are diametrically opposed to my closely held faith in myself, in my ability to survive with little or no assistance; physician, heal thyself. But as guarded as I am, and as fiercely independent, I realize deep down that I can't live my life absent of any comfort. I'm still trying, though, as everything fades to a pleasant stillness. +++++ Consciousness begins to emerge from the numbness, thoughts forming and breaking like waves rolling to shore. Gradually, a picture, a landscape, begins to emerge. Its background is painted in black and gray, navy and charcoal, colors that ensure permanent nightfall in this dream-world. The sky is dark; not even the light of the moon is afforded, as thick, black clouds cover its meager glow. Around me the air is still, humming with the portent of things to come. I wait, crouched in a corner, for something indefinable; something that I can not or will not name, but a presence that I can't help but acknowledge. I can't think. My mind is dulled, as useless as a spork, the bastard son of fork and spoon. Footsteps echo from down the narrow alley that leads away from my temporary shelter, their rhythm the evidence of a measured gait. A testament to a certain calm. I smell smoke wafting on the fingers of air that tease my nose; I open my eyes to find him standing there, the only color coming from the spark of his cigarette. The man scares me, and I shrink away, wanting to cover myself, wanting more layers of cotton and fleece to add to my well-worn costume; more than anything, I want to run, but he's placed a hand on my shoulder. I've frozen, only able to watch his mouth form a greeting, his tone contemptuous and malevolent. "Hello, my dear." One bony hand runs through my tangled hair, hair that appears in one of my precious few memories. I remember long hair, curly and wild and free, hair that flew in the wind like the spores of a dandelion floating to Earth. "Boston is _so_ cold this time of year." He flicks ashes onto my hair like a benediction, and I crave the warmth they possess. It _is_ cold. And then my body spasms and all I see is the light. It's cold and antiseptic; it surrounds me, isolates me, erases me and I can't help but cry. Strange, alien sounds rise from my chest as I crouch on the ground, stupid with grief. One word echoes through the light, through the darkness, through the smoke: "Fox!" I hold on to that one word, that name that I barely remember, smooth and rounded as a stone from a creekbed; edges softened from my constant, keening cries. I chant it softly as the man drops his cigarette in my lap and turns with a sad look. Tears fall as I look down. One hand pulls a worn picture out of my pocket. It's a picture of Mulder and me. We're obviously at a scene, as the police and evidence techs at work in the background attest. Mulder is looking at something, and even in this 4" by 6", in which his face is no bigger than a pea, I can see the certainty in his expression. Spooky Mulder's on the trail, boys. I'm standing next to him in the traditional "Run that by me _again_" pose. The edges of the picture are charred and the emulsion has warped due to the heat that has been so obviously applied; but even before I note these details, I know where I've seen this picture before. I've spent minutes staring at this image, waiting for an answer to become clear or test results to come in. This picture used to be on the wall behind the desk in the basement office. The burns are from the fire last spring. "Fox." The name is slurred as my tears dissolve into hiccuping sobs. "Da-na." +++++ "Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. 'Walter Skinner' is not currently available. Please leave a message after the tone. For assistance, press 1." <> "Sir, this is Agent Scully. Agent Mulder and I are returning to D.C. today as scheduled, but I'm calling because I need to meet with you -- on a personal matter. Preferably tomorrow morning if that can be arranged. Thank you, sir." ============= CHAPTER SIX ============= The way you wear your hat, The way you sip your tea, The mem'ry of all that No, no! They can't take that away from me! The way your smile just beams, The way you sing off key, The way you haunt my dreams, No, no! They can't take that away from me! "They Can't Take That Away From Me" (words by Ira Gershwin, music by George Gershwin) ===== An hour in the car to SeaTac. Six hours in the air. Another two to get my luggage, my car, and my person safely home. I kick open the front door with one foot and make my way inside. My bags drop the varnished floor with a soft thud and I grab the keys from the front door, shutting and then locking it. There's not too much mail waiting for me -- bill, bank statement, junk, a card from Tara with the latest Matthew picture and update, and three days' worth of newspapers. The message light on my answering machine is a beacon in the darkness, and I slip off my shoes as I hit the 'play' button. "Agent Scully, this is Assistant Director Skinner. Tomorrow morning will be fine..." The AD's tinny, recorded voice keeps going, going, going, like the Energizer Bunny, no doubt politely expressing concern for whatever may have prompted me to ask for such an appointment. Meanwhile, I've made my way to the striped, soft, comfortable couch and am pleasantly sprawled along its length. My body begins to relax, beginning with my feet and working upward: decompressing. My eyes scan the room, taking comfort in the familiarity of the surroundings: my couch, my club chair, my books, my pictures. Nothing is polyester; nothing is brown save the hardwood floors; nothing is screaming "Holiday Inn." I linger on the tableau of snapshots that populate my end table: my mother and my father, taken not long before he died; my brothers and sister and me on a long-ago trip to the beach, all stick legs and flyaway red hair; Melissa and me at a family gathering years ago, when we were in college. I think back to the diner and Mulder's theory -- back to his story of Melissa at my bedside. I think forward to what I'm going to tell Skinner tomorrow morning. ... what am I going to tell Skinner tomorrow morning? I can't discount the implant. Though its curative powers may be a matter forever left in question, the fact remains that after the removal of the first implant, I developed a rare and malicious tumor. Most importantly, the same result was duplicated -- in the Allentown MUFON women, definitely; how many others, I hesitate to guess. The image of Penny Northern's last breath lingers in my mind, as does my promise to her. I promised Penny that I would be the one to survive and to bring the truth to light. As the words formed on my lips, I knew that I was making the promise to Betsy Hagopian and the other, nameless women; to my sister; to myself. It's not a promise that I take lightly. And the question still remains: what are the limits of the implant's influence? Mulder would argue that my implant drew me to Ruskin Dam in Pennsylvania, along with hundreds of other people; the ages, races, and genders of the victims were varied. Only the implants found in the charred bodies offered a clue as to the common thread between them. But I don't remember going to the Dam, and I certainly don't remember taking Cassandra Spender with me. I don't remember the fire that swept the length of the bridge, incinerating everything in its path. What I remember is waking in a strange hospital, in vasogenic shock from first-degree burns on my face, hand, and arm, and Mulder's gentle questioning. I can't be certain about the memories I unearthed during the regression session with Dr. Werber, the story I told about what happened that night; I've read the transcript, heard the tapes, but the void remains. I don't want to believe that the implant had enough sway to draw me to a bridge in another state, to cause me to drive hours away in the middle of the night. I don't want to believe, but what choice do I have? I can't honestly exclude the possibility, not with the things I've seen. I suspect the truth may be less fantastic than Mulder's telling, but I'm willing to believe that we may not fully understand it within the scope of current knowledge. And I can't shake the dreams, the feelings of fear and the light, the vague notion that the body I inhabited was not my own. My eyebrow raises in silent protest as I wrestle with gnawing doubts that I'm heading towards madness, and well, that's traditionally Mulder's domain. My job is to drag him, kicking and screaming, back to solid ground. ... the results were duplicated, Dana. All of those women had the implant. All of those women developed nasopharyngeal tumors, which you damn well know are rare and three times more common in men, besides. That has to mean something... The curly, dark hair, and the picture of Mulder and me won't soon leave me, either, nor will the voice. His voice, the Cancer Man's, is gravelly from years of smoke and utterly devoid of any feeling. He's standing here, again, flicking his ashes in my lap and he's talking to me and he's telling me that "It's _so_ cold in Boston." Boston. The Cigarette-Smoking ManandthecurlyhairandthepictureandshecalledhimFoxand I, I was Dana, not me, not Scully. She called me Dana. Dark, curly hair. Tall, long, legs running through a forest. . They're comingcan'tstopkeepgoingrunrunrun... My legs, her legs, falling, hitting the Earth. Fear. And she is Samantha. Oh, shit. Mulder's voice, from his regression tapes: <<"My feet won't move, my legs are heavy, they're lead... and I'm -- I'm sorry, Samantha, I tell her , but they've taken her... Oh my God, she's gone. She's gone, I've lost her... ">> I close my eyes against the confusion, searching for harsh, solid fact to to hold onto. Samantha Ann Mulder, DOB 11/21/65. Her disappearance was classified as a stranger abduction. Twenty-five years ago. No body was ever found. Her face is burned into my subconscious, a tiny little girl at the beach with her brother Fox. She's laughing, they're laughing, and then... Fox is crying. <<"I've lost her.">> Not again. +++++ Samantha's file was destroyed in the arson fire last spring; the Lone Gunmen and Mulder have an encrypted copy somehwere, but I can't risk asking the Gunmen, and I most certainly can't ask Mulder. There have been no dreamst, for there has been no sleep tonight. The first pale light of dawn is brushing the horizon, and the sky is a shimmering blue-gray. Bare trees stand starkly against the receding darkness, all sticks and branches and rough bark braving the harsh winter that begins to announce its presence. It's snowing. Big, fat, white flakes of snow are falling and coating the black streets and the black trees and the brown grass outside. White blankets the Earth and it is pure. Only there are little girls who go missing and people who are killed and men who are evil and the world's heart is darkness. I know this, I feel it, as I never have before, not needing the whitewash that belief in man's basic goodness brings me. This morning, I have hope, anticipation so powerful in its clarity that I can accept the darkness with the light. I can feel the truth coming, rumbling like a train from a long distance, whistling into the night. The ground is rattling, the red lights flashing and the crossing bells clanging, and I'm standing at the intersection, straining to see the encroaching metallic form. Boston. She could be in Boston. I'm almost giddy. Almost. I take deep breaths and head for the shower, hoping to gain at least an outward appearance of calm before I meet with Skinner this morning. The water is hot, steaming, and I gratefully let it sheet down and loosen my tired muscles and aching joints. It sluices through my hair and streams over my face and I start to gather myself. +++++ I knock at the door, lightly, for it's still early. "Come in." The AD is seated at his desk in his shirtsleeves but still radiates precision and formality. "Sir." "Agent Scully." He nods as I seat myself in one of the leather chairs that face his desk. My hands slide over the ends of the chair's arms and come to rest, stacked, in my lap. Deep breath, chin up. "I need to take a few days of personal leave. Starting today. Three days would be best." "I have another case for you two, so before I make a decision I need a little more information, Scully." "There's information that I have." I resist the urge to slip into my childhood habit of lacing and relacing my fingers. Instead, I stare straight ahead, fixing Skinner with a powerful gaze. "About Samantha Mulder, sir. "I think it's real this time." "Who gave you the lead?" Skinner's voice is harsh and I know that he wants to protect us, his reckless children who run into the street after the balls that slip out of their hands. "I'd rather not go into that right now." "How do you know it's not a set-up?" He grimaced slightly. "And I take it that you haven't said anything to Mulder about whatever you plan to do." "I can't be responsible for raising his hopes and then... if things don't pan out, sir, I'd rather he not know. We've been so close so many times." Skinner considers me gravely, with his jaw firmly set, before he responds. "Too many times, Scully. Do you have a copy of the file?" Skinner is reaching down to one of his desk drawers, fiddling with a lock or some other hardware. He withdraws a familiar manila envelope, edged in red and stamped with an X. I shake my head and he hands the sheaf of papers to me. "Sir?" Snaking up from the stack is a faint odor of tobacco. "Don't ask me where I got this, Agent Scully. And be careful." "Thank you." "You're all set --" I nod and slip into the antechamber that houses Kimberly's desk, shutting the door behind me. It's time. ============= CHAPTER SEVEN ============= There is only the fight to recover what has been lost And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss. For us, there is only the trying. T.S. Eliot, "East Coker" ===== "Boston's lost 30,000 units of affordable housing in the last 30 years, Agent Scully. Here in the South End, for example, people on low or fixed incomes -- just scraping by -- had depended on rooming houses. In the '80s, developers gentrified the area and turned that housing into condominiums that are too expensive to support the same type of tenant. That's one factor (of many) that contributes to our homeless population." Maureen Watson is the director of St. Anne's, a shelter/outreach program here in Boston. I follow her into her cramped office and we sit down. "Ms. Watson --" "Maureen." "Maureen. I'm looking for someone in particular. A woman, the victim of a kidnapping some years ago. We've had a sighting in Boston, and I wonder if you can help me." I hand her the age-progression photo I worked on with Danny in the imaging lab before I left. Since we had a good photograph to start with (from her file) and I've seen "her" before, the photograph should be fairly accurate. "Her name is Samantha Mulder. She's 33 years old." Maureen is examining the picture closely, and for a second I'm convinced that recognition is written on her features. But then she shakes her head and hands me the photograph. "I can't be sure, Agent Scully." Disappointment hits me like a tidal wave, even though I knew that finding Samantha at the first place I look would be too easy; the Consortium seems to operate on a sort of reverse Occam's Razor: when in doubt, go for the most complex answer. (It's the holy trinity of subterfuge -- deceive, inveigle, obfuscate.) "How long has she been missing?" Oh, let's see, twenty-five years. (That doesn't sound a bit ridiculous, does it, Dana?) I clear my throat, painfully aware that I'm about to lie through my teeth. "Too long. I'm sorry that I can't really tell you more than that, but the case is still pending." "If you'd like, I can tell you where you might look. And I'll keep my eyes open." She's here; I can feel it in my bones. I can see her in my dreams, no matter how cliche it might sound or how implausible it may be. My trained, rational mind screams its protest against such blasphemy, demanding an explanation as to how thoughts, feelings, intangibles can traverse the gulf that separates us without any contact. Without sight, without sound, without touch I sense her, whether by the force of sheer will or some link I don't know. Maybe both. "Thank you," I say and hand her a card with my hotel hastily scrawled on the back. As Maureen rattles off a list of parks, shelters, and street corners, I start to make mental notes, planning my attack. It's time to get this show on the road. After twenty-five years, Fox Mulder and his sister deserve no less. +++++ "Dana!" The cry emanates from these lips that aren't mine, of a body that I am able to inhabit and shed like a snake molting its skin. <> My own thought echoes in the empty depths of Samantha Mulder's mind, a consciousness scarred by deprivation and disease and fear. What little is left of the person she must have been has compacted, drawing towards each other with unimaginable force that survives in the aftershocks. I lose myself in the haze of her nightmares, as if I'm viewing the world through a dirty pane of glass. <> I scream into the abyss, the absence that defines this reality. Her answer is confusion, jumbled memories, jumbled feelings. And I feel the painful memory in her muscles, reminder of how far she's traveled and how far she's yet to go. The slats of the wooden bench bite into my flesh and I know they're coming. Our voice is screaming, "They're almost here. Please help me." The stream of consciousness snaps like a fuse giving way, the thin filament unable to bear even this simple strain. <> Then I'm back on the bench and things are hyperreal. The night is black and the concrete is cold, cold, cold and the leaves fall and blanket me and I shift to see gold in the night, muted without the clarity lent by the sun. I count slowly, one, two, three, the voice fading in the background as I strain my eyes, looking. They march in a row towards me, a perfect line against the stream. Won't you take me, too? And then a mother's voice slips by, warm with indulgence and love. "Goodnight, honey." Mrs. Mulder. +++++ Maureen's list covered the whole of the South End, the rough areas mixed intimately with the newly shiny and restored buildings. Clarendon, Appleton, Lawrence, Tremont Streets. Columbus Avenue. Mass Ave. I walked them all, starting yesterday afternoon and continuing 'til dark. This morning, I rolled out of bed at 6:00 and started all over again. There were boys in a tiny park who recognized the picture, who shouted things about "The Crazy Lady," about how she talked to herself. About how she would freeze in the middle of an unintelligible rant about "the voices" and scream, rooted to the sidewalk. About the picture that she would hurt to defend, about the man in suits who visited her and gave her ones and fives to buy food. I never thought that I would find her here. I never thought I would find her after twenty-five years and two days of fruitless searching. "Here" is the Public Gardens, near the corner of Beacon and Charles, near the ducklings. My mother used to read "Make Way for Ducklings" over and over to my brother Charles, who was fascinated by the birds' journey through the urban jungle. There they sit (stand?), forever walking in a line under the protective leadership of Mrs. Mallard. I came here to collect myself, taking a short walk from my hotel. (Why would this happen any other way, Dana?) <> The dream. The dreams. She's sitting on the ground near them, lost in her own world, oblivious to the children who are drawn to the fantastic sculpture, oblivious to the worried stares of the children's parents. I begin to walk to towards her and she startles, withdrawing. "Samantha." Don't leave now, you can't run, it's been so long and I'm taking you _home_. "Dana." Her voice is faint and scratchy, sore from screaming. Her hair is matted and her clothes are torn and she's holding onto a knapsack for dear life. In one hand is a crumpled bit of paper, and she slowly holds it up as I reach her. It's the picture from the office. "It's time to go home, Samantha." She nods, and I grab her before she disappears into thin air. +++++ "I found her." Before I know it, Maureen is giving me a hug, and I allow the wave of relief, even joy, to crash. "I need to go back to D.C. tonight." I've got to get back to D.C., to bring him back here. I'm going to have to pack, check out, maybe there's still a shuttle waiting at Logan, it's only 6:30... "Or, no, I need Mulder to come here... She's -- Maureen, you're going to think I'm lying, but this is my partner's sister and she's been missing for twenty-five years." The young woman's mouth drops open, falling clear to the tips of her scuffed Doc Martens. "Jesus, Agent Scully." "Dana." "I'll keep an eye on her for you. Just go." "Thank--" "Dana, go. Get your stuff, call Mulder, do whatever you need to do." And I do, after reassuring Samantha and leaving Maureen every phone number I can think of, with instructions to not let Samantha out of her sight. When I'm back on a bus heading to the hotel, I activate my cellular and hit Mulder's speed dial button, my insides collapsing from nervous anticipation. No answer. The office line: no answer. My apartment: no answer. His cel phone: no answer. Where is he? <> Of course, if I can't find him, those worries are null and void. The incredible situational irony of finding Samantha and losing Mulder has not escaped me. I start another round of dialing on the cel phone, and try to use my "psychic powers" to speed up the damn bus. ============== CHAPTER EIGHT ============== "I had nothing to offer but my own confusion." Jack Kerouac ===== As I slide my key-card into its slot and open the hotel room door, I notice that someone has beaten me to my room. Even as I recognize him, my hand reaches to my holster for my service weapon. Mulder. This would explain the phone calls. "Having a nice vacation, Scully?" He's reclining on the bed, his body weight supported on his bent arms. "You can put the gun down." His voice is steel, the thin blade of a knife running down my length, slicing. Drawing blood. Flustered, I replace my Sig in its holster. "What right did you have to follow me, Mulder? What right did you have to _break into_ my room?" "You ditched me," he says with an overbearing sense of righteous indignation and not a hint of irony. "Well, that's unprecedented in the X-Files Division, isn't it," I retort, sarcasm threatening my composure as the ends of my mouth quirk into a rueful smile -- not because I'm happy, just because this has to be some ridiculous dream-world. I am not having this argument. "You left town without telling me, Scully, gone for two days without so much as a word." Mulder's words are poison tipped darts, dipped in hurt decades old. After everything we've been through, you might think that he'd get it through his head: if I really wanted to leave, I'd be gone. Sometimes I think he sees me as his own Vestal Virgin, keeper of the flame of Mulder. <> If I'm psychic as he suggests, I may as well put it to good use. "I told Skinner, and I'm not going to stand here and justify myself. I'm not on trial here; I'm on personal leave for three days." I resist the urge to tell him that I'm shopping for a desk. "We're supposed to be in Alabama, investigating a sighting of 'el chupacabra.'" "Can you forget the goatsuckers for a minute, Mulder?" For someone who professes to believe in "extreme possibilities," Mulder can be irritatingly one-track when he wants. "Si." His reply is terse and annoyed. God, I really don't want to do this, not when we're on our way to a knock-down, drag-out, the milliennium-is-approaching fight. I'd never want to be the one to do this, but I am. "I came here, Mulder, because I had a lead. I have information about Samantha." "Red herring," he replies automatically, dismissing me in a way that's too damn familiar. "I've seen her." "So have I." "I'm not talking about clones or hybrids or--" "You're wrong, Scully," he says bitterly, the words thick and poisonous, so acid, that they begin to etch the silence. "I've talked to her." "You didn't tell me." <> Words fail me. <> "Is there anything else you've 'forgotten'? Any more ova in the freezer, so to speak?" "I saw her when you were sick. She came to this little diner in McLean with Cancer Man and told me to leave her alone. It was part of the deal he offered me, to see Samantha. She called him her father, told me she didn't need me. She didn't want me." His voice drops to a whisper and he turns away. In spite of himself, he begins to shake with barely contained tears. He speaks so softly that I can hardly hear him. "She told me to let go. And I did. Surprise, Mulder, your sister's happy, and she hates you. Put that in a damn Christmas card." And the dam breaks, flooding the room with the strangled cries of a man desperately trying not to relive old memories. A hybrid. The Samantha he saw had to have been genetically engineered -- because the woman I found today is a dead ringer, and I can't imagine the Consortium letting such a disturbed 'product' go. Back of the neck would erase their mistake. And so I press on, allowing him his anger and his grief as he has allowed me mine so many times, even as I pushed him away. "I've seen her too," I say without flinching, simply, scanning Mulder for symptoms of shock. Moving over to the bed, I sit next to him and lay my hand on his forehead. He's cold. Even as he argues with me, I pull up the comforter and wrap it around Mulder's shoulders. He shakes off the fabric, and we're left to ford an awkward gulf. ("Stay tuned for the next installment of 'Close But Not Touching: The Mulder and Scully Story.'") "Look, Scully, it's not her, it's not--" "She's been in my dreams, Mulder. The dreams. They're her memories, as far as I can tell." "Scully, how can you--" How can I believe that? Is that what he's asking? "I can't answer you. I _don't know_. I'm not sure if I _want_ to know." (Do you understand how hard it is for me to say that? To admit that I have not the slightest explanation for what is happening? I can say, "It's the implant, of course." But how? Why? Why now?) "How can you be sure it's Samantha?" It's times like these that make me think that our autonomic nervous systems are hardwired for denial. "I'm not, just yet." I can't bear to tell him exactly what I found, who I found, but I wouldn't be able to bear anyone else telling him, either. Like Wile E. Coyote running off the cliff, I'm unable to stop myself; this time, though, the stakes are higher than an irritating roadrunner and a pile of Acme Brand birdseed. Considerably higher. I brace for impact. "DNA testing can rule out hybrids but not clones. The only way to make a final determination will probably be to examine her collarbone, at the site of the old fracture. Mulder, she's -- this woman, she's homeless. She's mentally ill." She's most likely schizophrenic with undetermined long-term prospects. She refuses to take her meds. "I can't believe this, Scully. Not-not yet. Not ever. I can't do this." He's turned away from me and tries to get up. "_If_ this is her..." My hand grasps his, and he's twisting and turning and testing my hold as if he's a giant balloon in the Macy's parade. (I won't let you go, Mulder. Not now.) "She can't have been this close the whole time. I would have seen her. I would have _found_ her by now." And now Mulder's voice is scratchy and his resps are jerky and he's sitting down next to me. "It's the same state, Scully. Chilmark to Boston. Over the ferry and down the road. She has her own family, Scully, she has a life. She's whole. She's not...this." "Not what?" "Not broken. Not alone." "Not alone, Mulder. She has...us." My arm snakes around his shoulders, and I start to rub his back, not wanting to crowd him, but not wanting to let go. "Shh," I whisper, searching for wise words to alleviate his pain. But there's nothing to say, so I offer him comfort the only way I can. My head rests on his shoulder and we sit, and I listen. The anger of so few minutes ago is not yet forgiven but momentarily forgotten in the face of an answer to the question that hovers over Mulder's shoulder. His shadow. "I was going to find her," he says haltingly. "I know." We were going to save her. And then he's reaching for me, running his hands down the planes of my face, running a finger through my hair, running back to me. "I'm sorry." I don't stop him. I need to hear this at least as much as he needs to tell it to me, maybe more so. "Part of trust is respect. Respect for my decisions." He nods. "Go to sleep, Mulder." "I have to go to..." "I'll go, for now. You need to calm down, to settle, before you see her." I wipe the last tears from his face and one hand lingers, cupping Mulder's cheek, and before I know it, he's leaning forward and brushing his lips to mine, whispering something to me. "You're still here." He says it as if he's willing it to be so, and pulls me closer, and for that one moment of contact, I feel as if we're in control, not flying against the wind. It's nice. And now his head is resting on my shoulder and the room is quiet. One more wall bites the dust. And then we separate. Mulder runs one hand over his flushed face, suddenly awkward, and starts to pull away. The way we talk about the truth you might think we wouldn't be flustered by honesty. Mulder and I can handle conspiracies, consortiums, and clones, but we're undone by a matter of semantics. For some reason, I find this to be touchingly perverse. But I'm not ready for him to leave, and he's not ready to be alone, so I tell him to stay. And he does, and my hand slides to cover his, a study in contrasts. Large and small, dark and light, rough and smooth. Yin and yang. "Your sister -- things have a way of working themselves out, Mulder." (Apparently, I'm now channeling my mother.) He accepts this platitude, eager for any salve I can offer, offering a brave, strangled smile in return. But do they, Dana? Is that why bright lights send you reeling and you've got a chip Bill Gates would kill for implanted in your neck, even though you tell yourself that the fear is foolish and you were cured by simple faith? Or is it enough that you're well, alive and whole and fighting for those who can't, chipping away at the obstacles that stand in your way? It has to be enough. It is enough, knowing that despite our faults (of which there are many), Mulder and I keep going. I guess we're all walking wounded. Mulder and I sit in the hushed stillness for what seems an eternity , trying to absorb the latest addition to our litany of grief. We keep walking. ============= CHAPTER NINE ============= What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come and kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure Twelfth Night act 2, scene 3 ===== In fifth grade, the nuns taught us the beatitudes; I can still hear the dolorous tones of Sister Mary Theresa as she read them for us to repeat (nothing like audience participation): <<"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.">> <<"Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.">> <<"Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for justice, for they shall be satisfied.">> Right now, I'm having my doubts. "Samantha," he pleads, searching for a twitch, a look, a gleam in her eyes that will tell him that she remembers him. We're at St. Anne's, Mulder and Samantha and I, sitting in Maureen's office, waiting for a miracle. Maureen managed to get Samantha into a shower last night as well as a set of new clothes, jeans and a sweater. Her hair is clean and pulled into a curly ponytail. Still, her affect overwhelms the impression that she makes, and we know things aren't right. She's been muttering for the length of our visit, about men in helicopters and men in woods. About the man who comes trapped in a sea of smoke. I know these things. I've seen them, in the dreams, and I reach out to her, but the shock has made her all but unreachable. I called Skinner; Mulder and I are off duty until we've managed to secure the situation at his end. We've taken her into protective custody for now, to be transferred to psychiatric facilities sometime this afternoon. Mrs. Mulder has been called, as well as lawyers, and a motion for guardianship is in the works. The healing has yet to begin. Mulder steps out into the hall with an unreadable expression on his face. I follow him, waiting for the rapid-fire questions that are certain to come. "How many layers of hell are we going to travel together?" he asks me, without any visible emotion. "She's just...she's an ossuary. She's just the container, the vessel for whatever is left of my sister. Maybe all that's left are the bones, Scully." "After twenty-five years, you're not giving up." It's a statement, not a question, and though my voice is gentle, it's strong as steel. He will not let her go again. "I told you, it's not supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to disappear, Scully. And then she was going to return. But years passed -- high school, college, grad school, FBI, adulthood. All passages into the next phase of my life, all points that reminded me that she wasn't there. "And she was going to come back and fix things. "My parents -- I thought they were happy, I guess, because kids always do. And then my sister disappeared, and the emperor had no clothes. My parents didn't hit me or starve me or scream at me. They just whirled out of my orbit, reached their escape velocity when Samantha was taken, as if she had balanced us all. "Adults, teachers, would tell me to take care of my parents -- 'Take care of your mother, Fox, you're the man of the house' (that's after my father left) -- never asking if anyone took care of me. "I'll let you in on a secret, Scully: children aren't so resilient as people would like to believe. "And now that I've found my sister, I realize I've been looking so long that I'm not even sure what I was looking for. "She's not the same. I'm a psychologist, Scully. I know her prospects; this is what I do. I understand, I diagnose, and long ago I tried to fix." "What's supposed to be -- what we'd like -- and what happens, well, they aren't always the same thing. The challenge isn't to keep going, to keep moving, because that's inevitable. The challenge is to make peace with what happens in your life. The challenge is to love your sister, now, as much as you love your sister, the memory." The challenge is to get through each day until doing so doesn't seem remarkable any more. The challenge is not to repeat the catalogue of your losses like a mantra until you become so bitter that you can't see straight. "I don't know if I can." He turns away from me and walks down the narrow hallway, stopping just before the door that leads into the lobby of the shelter, embarrassed by his admission. "I never realized how sacred my illusion of control had become." It didn't matter who said it -- both of us -- Mulder and I -- we've spent significant chunks of time dealing with the repercussions of letting go. Of hanging desperately to a cliff and having your fingers peeled off, one by one, knowing that you're going to fall, knowing that it's going to hurt -- but counting on a miracle, screaming at the sky, craving the ability to take control. Two of a kind. As we stand together at the front door of the building, I watch drops of rainwater fall from the trees, each one measured, carefully considered, like pearls raining down. I try to pinpoint the moment when gravity becomes overwhelming, when the distended forms release themselves and fall to the ground. For a moment -- a millisecond, just as gravity takes them -- they are perfect, round and fat and symmetrical. They are free. We keep searching for release. "You're her brother." You can make peace, Mulder, you just do. The memory of sitting at Mulder's bedside after my father's death resurfaces. <> You can't ask, it just is. It sounds so inarticulate, so magical, but it's basic. Mulder shifts his weight, and his body faces mine, and he closes the distance between us. "Let's go back in." And I take his hand, clammy with nerves, and we walk back into the office, and I watch Mulder approach Samantha. "I've missed you. I love you. I-I'm sorry." And his voice cracks and he looks as if he expects the floor to split open and suck him into the fiery pits of hell for his transgressions, for being a 12-year-old boy who couldn't protect his sister against men. And I recognize the words he's screamed in bits and pieces in hotel rooms over the years that I've known him, a confession that he relived every night with no relief. In a perfect world, Samantha would choose this moment to reach out to him, to wipe a tear off his face and tell him not to cry. In our not-so-perfect world, she merely smiles, and whether it was meant for Mulder or not, it will be enough for tonight. Fox and Samantha Mulder have the luxury of time. ========= EPILOGUE ========= In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer. Albert Camus ===== As we grow older, our essential selves are discovered, recovered as a sculptor reads forms and shape and feeling in a cold block of marble. We are reduced to the very smallest piece that can still be _us_, as a molecule is to a compound. And we are better, truer, purer for it. But when pieces of us are taken, when the chisel has slipped, can the gouges be filled? Mulder and I are looking through one-way glass, but this isn't a suspect interrogation at a generic federal prison. We're watching Samantha's latest psychiatric evaluation, part of the constant therapy she's undergone since we recovered her; the dreams have stopped, most likely due to the drugs she's taking. Three months have wrought subtle, encouraging changes in Mulder's sister, though it's almost certain that she'll never be "as she was." She's been away so long that I don't know if the Mulders can even remember that accurately anymore. "Dr. Scully." "Yes?" Mrs. Mulder has walked up behind me with a silent grace that contradicts her poor health, an economy of movement that bespeaks "upbringing," wealth. Dignity. "Thank you." Teena Mulder and I have never seen eye to eye; I assume she views me as an interloper, and can I really blame her? The first she heard of me was when Mulder traded me for a woman he thought was Samantha. It's only fitting, then, that I have helped the real Samantha return. "I would do this all over again, Mrs. Mulder," I tell her, trying not to reveal the strange brew of feelings percolating inside me. She nods and walks over to her son, resting a hand on his arm for a moment: a peace offering. Samantha has stabilized, and Mrs. Mulder has taken charge of her care, brushing aside Mulder's suggestions that he take guardianship. "She needs to do this, I guess," he told me. And he's right, and I told him so, and now we're leaving them with the knowledge that Samantha will be there in a minute, in an hour, in a year. I think that's enough. They're lucky, you know. There's a face for their name, their gouge. Faces in the pictures stare at me as I go through my day, my sister smiling, her head thrown back and caught in the wild glee that I always envied. My daughter, smiling straight at the camera, so perfectly that I can hear Roberta Sim and the photographer in the background, coaxing her to keep her head up and smile with teeth and to let them arrange her hair. During our lifetimes, if we're lucky, we love and are loved. And, secretly, each of us hopes that our love ensures our immortality, branding our story onto human history. Hoping that those we love and who love us might remember us and treasure us always. <> Even if she could, Samantha Mulder would never have to worry. This story, her story, our story, seems tragic on paper, obscenely melodramatic. Bathetic, even. But after the shock and the sadness subside a little, after the numbness lessens and the sky clears, hope appears. Triumph, perhaps, though an odd sort. For what was taken to spite and wound -- Samantha -- has been returned; and though she's not as we might have hoped, she's here. The gouge has been patched. The connection has been made. And love is still there. END You've made it!