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Title: The Partnership I: Dissolution Summary: The search for Samantha continues and has serious implications for the future of Mulder and Scully's partnership. Acknowledgments - well, we quoted Shakespeare and the Bible, as well as Kramer vs. Kramer and another artist that we will name publicly at the end (wouldn't want to spoil the plot!). Plus a grateful bow to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, Mitch Pileggi, Sheila Larken and even Laurie Holden, who's wonderful portrayal of these characters helped us envision what we wanted to do and what they would look like saying our words. Now if CC and Co were only accepting scripts... BIG THANKS to Jeannie and Emily and Je Nie, our incredible Beta Readers and editors. You are wonderful, catching everything big and little, even past participles! Now if you could just explain what a past participle is. Author's Notes - our final installment to this is an explanation of our collaboration and what we were trying to accomplish. If you're one that wants insight into the creation of such an animal or if you desire to give feedback, check out the last section. Finally, to Kathleen Lietz - "We made it!" A Beta Reader's Circle collaboration. The Partnership I: Dissolution (1/14)
"It's time." "They're not ready. They won't believe." "They have no choice but to believe in the truth." "Or what they believe is the truth."
Early February 1997 The Shakespeare Stabber. That's what the press had decided to call this serial killer. He would bound and gag his victims, stab them through the heart, then use their blood to write messages on the walls. Lines from Shakespeare, meant to taunt law enforcement. Not terribly imaginative, but effective nonetheless. The DCPD had tried to handle the case in the beginning, but no substantial leads were forthcoming. When the killer struck for the third time in a week, this time across the river in Virginia, the FBI finally had some grounds for jurisdiction. It had been a busy time for the Violent Crimes and Behavioral Sciences Units. Public outcry demanded that this case be solved and solved quickly. With the huge backup of cases already pending, Section Chief Blevins had no choice but to go to Walter Skinner and request help from the nut in the basement and his sidekick. That's why Scully found herself virtually chained to a table in the autopsy bay. That's also why Mulder was holed up at the Georgetown University Library, wracking his brain to remember where he had seen the vague Shakespearean lines that the killer used as clues. He rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, trying to visualize the words in his head. He had seen them before, he was sure of it. But where? Mulder picked up the picture taken from the crime scene and held it inches from his face. The bloody writings on the wall were barely readable. O hateful, vaporous and foggy Night! Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, Make war against proportion'd course of time He closed his eyes and repeated the phrase over and over to himself. Come on, come on. Think. His train of thought was derailed as a passing foot made contact with the leg of his chair. Doing nothing to try to hide his annoyance, Mulder glared up at the responsible party. A young man in his early twenties smiled back apologetically. "Sorry, I never could do two things at once," he said holding the book up to explain his actions. Mulder waved his hand in a gesture of acceptance and turned back to his work. Suddenly, a thought popped into his head. The Rape of Lucrece He started at his own thought. That was it. He searched the table in front of him for a copy of that piece of work. Plays, sonnets, poems. Everything but that one. He rose from his chair and headed for the Shakespeare section. Running his fingers down the spine of each book, he finally found the volume he was looking for. He pulled it from the shelf and quickly turned to the correct page. And stopped. And stared in disbelief. An envelope with his name neatly printed on the front marked the correct line of the poem. His body tensed as he quickly scanned the area for the person who had put the envelope there. He saw no one. It was 9:00pm on a Friday night, the place was practically deserted. He strode back to his table and took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coat. After putting them on, he picked up the envelope and held it up to the light. It appeared to contain a single piece of paper. With shaky hands, he opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Agent Mulder, I have information concerning your sister. We must meet tonight at 10 pm outside the south door of the library. A man in a red ski cap will give you further instructions. It is imperative that you tell no one of our meeting. This includes your partner. If you break this agreement, no meeting will take place. Mulder carefully placed the note on the table. He shook his head as different emotions battled for dominance over his heart. Fear and doubt raged war against hope and excitement. They had been down this road before, he and Scully. Shadowy informants with their cryptic messages, leading them on, raising their hopes, only to have them dashed in a few scant hours. But there always existed in him that tiny sliver, the desire for the truth, that would not let his quest die. This whole thing smelled like a trap. He was being watched. Scrutinized. The warning not to involve Scully did nothing to alleviate his uneasiness. He could walk out that door and be gunned down where he stood or whisked away, never to be heard from again. But he had to know. He had to take that chance. He glanced at his watch. 9:45. Fifteen minutes to record his findings on the case and wrap things up for the night. After photo copying the pages he wanted, he threw his things into his briefcase and put on his coat. With a heavy sigh, a mixture of tension and curiosity, he made his way to the north door of the library. He had absolutely no intention of walking head on into whatever awaited him. Experience had taught him that sometimes sneaking up from the rear was preferable. The chilly winter wind whipped at his face as he cautiously made his way around the building. He cursed silently when he had to go out around a large yew bush that grew to close to the building to allow him passage. He reached the south entrance and stopped. No one. Mulder steeled his resolve and slowly mounted the stairs, putting himself in plain sight. His fingers reached for the assurance of the gun in its holster. But even that did not keep him from jerking to attention when the bell in the clock tower stroked the hour. As the echo of the last chime faded, the door behind him opened. He whirled and found himself standing toe to toe with a man in a red ski cap. He recognized him as the young student who had broken his concentration in the library. The young man smiled. "Agent Mulder, I presume." Mulder nodded and waited for him to continue. The man shuffled his feet and gave Mulder a smug grin. "You really need to brush up on your knowledge of literature. I suppose you didn't study that much in college. I was afraid my plan wouldn't work, that you wouldn't find the note in time." The agent narrowed his eyes at the man in front of him. "You? You put the note there?" The other man nodded. Mulder bit back most of his anger. "If you knew what I was looking for, why didn't you just tell me? It would have saved me a lot of time." "Not part of the agreement. Besides, I was told you would come up with the answer in time." Mulder waved his hand, trying to change the subject. "You have some information for me?" The head under the red hat shook in a negative response. "No. I don't. But the person in that black sedan over there does." He pointed to the vehicle parked in the shadows. Mulder's heart dropped to his feet. Shit. A black sedan. Never a good sign. He turned back to the young man and fixed him with one more glare. Maybe if something was about to happen, this guy would flinch. The man grinned. Great. Just great. Walking with slow, deliberate steps, Mulder made his way to the vehicle. When he was about ten feet away, the driver's side door opened and a huge African-American man got out. Mulder reached for his gun and took careful aim. The driver raised his hands to show that he was unarmed, then made a gesture to let the agent know he was opening the rear door and for him to get in. Mulder hesitated momentarily, but his curiosity got the better of him in the end. As he reached the door, he bent down to peer in and nearly fell over from shock. "Miss Covarrubias?" She nodded. "We don't have much time, Mr. Mulder. Please get in and shut the door." Mulder obliged, but immediately turned to her. She was dressed in a full length black velvet gown, a diamond studded necklace graced her neck. Her hair was pulled up away from her face, accentuating her high cheek bones. "Going to the ball, Cinderella?" The ice-blue eyes of Marita Covarrubias locked on him, then lasered through him. "I don't have time for games, Mr. Mulder." "And neither do I. What's this about?" She tapped the driver on the shoulder and he started the vehicle. After checking his mirrors, he cautiously pulled away from the curb. "Certain items have come into the possession of my superior. Items that may aid you in your search for your sister." Mulder looked at her with confusion and slight anger. "Why the sudden interest in my personal business?" "The situation has changed. I will tell you everything, but I must have your assurance that you will tell no one. Not your mother, not your Assistant Director, not even your partner. *No one* must know. Is that understood?" Mulder turned his head and stared out the window. His mind was whirring with the implications. This still could be a trap, and yet... "Okay," he answered so softly she had to strain to hear. "What have you got?" End Part 1 The Partnership I: Dissolution (2/14)
Tuesday, February 18, 1997 basement office Scully switched on her computer and went to the corridor to pour herself another necessary cup of coffee. The long hours were definitely getting to her, and she only had a couple of minutes to check her e-mail. She scrolled through her index, noting the messages from the pathologists' mailing list that she would have to sort through later. Only one message was marked urgent, and she clicked on that line somewhat absentmindedly, more focused on how to best deliver the caffeine to her system for maximum effect. The cup of coffee stopped halfway to its destination, and her open mouth was not symbolic of her thirst, but her surprise at the message. Hold on. Hold on to yourself. For this is going to hurt like hell. A very strange message. A very strange effect. A message sent from her own account. --- Thursday, February 20, 1997 basement office Mulder snorted at the cliche, but it was true that what he felt was a huge sigh of relief at the phone call from Arlington. Scully's permanent assignment was to assist him with the X-Files, but her value as a pathologist measured in exact proportion to the amount of paperwork they needed to complete that week. She was never called out when the stack was low. The best way to shut down the X-Files is simply to pile on the paperwork, reassign my partner, and then tell me to meet a deadline. In a childish retaliation, he decided to leave the expense reports and more tedious forms to Scully, while he reviewed the pending cases. Soon, another case review joined the toppling file pile on Scully's desk. Three more and he could head out to his next meeting with Marita. Her cryptic message had come last night; the note inserted in his American Express bill. The irony for him was that he needed the maxed out charge card to get to New York City. He wasn't sure exactly which struck him as more disturbing, her access to his mail or how much she might have read about his mail order habits. He pulled the next file open and reviewed the first few paragraphs, estimating the strength of Scully's expected countering arguments against his desire to take on another round of paperwork. A routine murder, few leads, a possible connection to the Shakespeare Stabber that they had been pulled from earlier in the week, but this crime seemed remote enough to dismiss the idea of a copycat. On second thought, perhaps there was enough to warrant a consult. He scanned the fact sheet for the location of the murder - Yonkers, NY Close enough. --- Friday, February 21 Arlington Medical Examiner's office 3:00 p.m. Scully switched off the tape recorder and stepped away from the stretcher. Seven autopsies in two days, most related to a terrible traffic accident that had necessitated a medical determination of first which mangled passenger had possibly driven the vehicles and then which driver was more intoxicated. She moved into the lounge to change out of her scrubs and wished one more time for a shower in this particular facility. Not any more unusual than other places she had been forced to work in, and at least this time, the circumstances were typical, reality-based. She pulled on her blouse and pants and looked in the mirror. Her hair was matted down from the cap she had worn, and her forehead shone in the lights once again. On Sunday, she would be 33 years old. Thirty-three years old. Single. Not a date in sight, never mind any hope for sex. Not a prospect for anything more than work. She had once had more in her life, more balance, more light to counteract the shadow. She often reminded herself of what she did have. Not many women could count her achievements in their own lives, and fewer women earned as much respect and admiration, although her salary could be a bit higher in comparison to Mulder's. Even being loaned out to the local ME's office was a complement, and she shushed the tiny voice insisting that the agency cooperation was just a public relations ploy. She pulled out her cellular phone and was overcome by a sudden dizziness. She sat quickly on the bench, squeezing the wooden seat tightly and closing her eyes to regain her equilibrium. You need to eat better, Dana. Her mother's constant admonition echoed in her head, making her more nauseous. A couple of deep breaths. Keep calm. She concentrated on her breathing and watched the spinning room slow to a gentle whirl. Another few blinks brought it to a halt and some careful stretching settled her stomach. She punched Mulder's cellular number, the action as automatic as buttoning up her jacket. He hadn't called her at all today, which was unusual, considering he usually whined incessantly about paperwork without her to keep him on task. The third ring surprised her, the fifth ring annoyed her, and the seventh ring prompted her to disconnect. He had probably forgotten the phone at home or in his car again. --- Office of the Special Representative to the Secretary General United Nations Building, New York City 3:15 p.m. His stash of patience was obviously back in D.C., Mulder thought, alternating between angrily tapping his foot, scanning three magazines without reading so much as a word and glaring at the secretary. She did not glance his way, not even when the volume of his disruptiveness exceeded the soft radio music echoing in the office. He had been waiting an hour in the office, adding that to the running total of 16 hours he had been waiting to meet with this woman. She had not arrived at the designated place - *her* designated place, he reminded himself petulantly - last evening, and she had ignored his persistent knocks at her door. Whatever information she had, she seemed content to parcel it to him piece by tiny piece. The problem was that the lack of action left him with far too much time to think, and he simply did not want to consider the ramifications of what this information could be. He reminded himself of a tensed coil, ready to spring at the first hint of release. Twenty-three years of waiting, of searching, of believing. Not trusting anyone for so long, and then relenting enough to extend his trust to Scully. Certainly, he and Scully had been down this road before, used, manipulated and betrayed many times. But the regulation this time was that he traveled alone. Fine. He was accustomed to that, used to drawing her lines for her when he needed to. Leaving Scully out meant he didn't have to factor in her safety to the equation, and that allowed him more freedom in choosing his actions. He knew she got upset, knew he had been saved more times by her ignoring the line than by respecting it. Idaho, Alaska, Hong Kong, Canada, Russia - he didn't just leave her behind in the U.S. anymore, he was becoming quite adept at the international ditch. He knew she thought he was trying to protect her, and she was right about that. It was more complicated than mere overprotectiveness, though. This was about Samantha, and she was *his* sister. His charge. His responsibility. Not Scully's. There was a longing there that Scully, while she could understand the loss of a sister, just could not empathize with on his level. Twenty-three years. He hadn't been able to find anything interesting on television the night before in his hotel, relegated to one channel featuring Best Picture week. Kramer vs. Kramer had been on when he finally returned to his room, cold and tired from his useless vigil. Meryl Streep had been on the stand, being grilled by Dustin Hoffman's attorney. "What was the longest significant relationship of your life?" he had repeated again and again. He looked at the screen, seeing the character's nervousness and recognizing his own despising of courtrooms and lawyers. The longest significant relationship in his life... Parents? No, left the house as soon as he could, fleeing to Oxford, drowning himself in the Bureau. Phoebe? Significant in its effects on him, but not the most important. Scully? He paused for a moment, recalling the various images in his mental Rolodex - waking up to her touch in Puerto Rico, seeing her by his hospital bed after the crash with Krycek, her comforting hug at his mother's bedside. Five years of safeguarding each other, protecting each other. Certainly a significant relationship. But not the most significant. Truth be told, that person was Samantha. For twenty-three years, she had captivated him, beckoned him, taunted him and eluded him. Her impact on him resonated far beyond the simplistic notion of guilt. In more noble musings, he could put forth the belief that what he was searching for was the truth, a larger web of conspiracy and cover-up. But the core of that search was Samantha. She was his Holy Grail, his windmill, and, in homage to Scully, Samantha was his white whale. She had influenced every major decision in his life, including his current ones, lying about expense reports, avoiding his partner, and placing his trust in this woman who seemed to find such enjoyment in jerking him around. So today he showed up one more time at Marita's office, forsaking the anonymity, not caring what she thought. Her secretary had notified her that he was present, and she had seen fit to make him wait further. He began playing with the obviously expensive wood puzzle on the coffee table, banging the pieces together solely to annoy the composed secretary. He remembered the times he had intentionally tried to rattle Scully in much the same way, and getting little to no response from her each time. He was startled to hear a low voice. "Agent Mulder." He looked up, expecting to see the blond woman, who on last sight was dressed for an evening of glamour. He was greeted by the secretary dressed in the female equivalent of the suit-and-tie ensemble he was wearing. She had added her own disapproving stare. "Miss Covarrubias has been called into a very important meeting for the rest of the evening. She regrets any inconvenience." He exhaled sharply. "Look, it's quite apparent she's ignoring me. She has information for me and it's imperative that I see her." He looked the secretary straight in the eye and hoped that, if she ignored his don't-mess-with-me tone, then she would respond to his visual plea. It usually worked on women. "I understand that, but her duties take precedence in this instance. You'll have to come back on Monday." His telepathy must be weakening, he thought. Her eyes and tone of voice left no opportunity for persuasion. He turned and left the office. --- Sunday, February 23, 1997 Scully's apartment Her last task was to place in the simple earrings her mother had given her a year ago. She stared at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser briefly before moving toward her bedside table. She opened her eyes to find herself clutching her pillows, watching the three pictures on her wall perform a juggling act. She breathed in slowly through her nose, counting to ten on each exhale, and stared at the pictures on her wall, back in their proper positions. Thank goodness Mom wasn't in here. She leaned across the bed to the phone on the nightstand. His greeting was cordial in vocabulary only. "Hey Scully," he had said simply. Nothing unusual about that, except she gained a faint sense that he was uncomfortable with her weekend call. She had phoned in a last ditch attempt to invite him to join her and her mother for dinner, trying to bolster her own work-dominated schedule as well as his own. She had asked him earlier in the week, and he had hastily declined. It was a paperwork week, those times that the work world was tedious and decidedly unglamorous. Those who thought she lived an exciting life as an FBI agent did not get to complete the reports, expense vouchers and de-briefings that consumed most of their time. Mulder had been oddly reserved at the office, buried in one file or another, online for databases and on the phone all week. Scully offered her assistance and had accepted his polite refusal graciously, secretly grateful for his taking more than his share of paperwork. She had dismissed his almost-relieved tone of voice informing her she was needed for a consult at the Arlington medical examiner's office for two days. "I was just checking again about dinner, if you might have changed your mind." She hadn't meant her invitation to sound so hesitant, but the sensations she was feeling were foreign to her. She didn't understand their origin, nor how they had erupted so suddenly. "Thanks, Scully. I'm just beat today, though." To her ears, he sounded exhausted - and distracted. "Rain check for you, Mulder?" She began to suspect that she sounded both pleading and desperate, and she hated the pathetic image that created. "Yeah." Although his voice did not indicate that he would find the strength to cash in the voucher. "See you tomorrow, then." Scully decided not to waste breath on the wish for him to rest well, knowing his insomnia would only strengthen by its mention in any conversation. "See ya, Scully." Again, his voice sounded relieved, like he'd been let off the hook. "Dana, are you ready to go for your birthday dinner?" Margaret Scully walked out into the kitchen with her coat and car keys ready. "Yeah, Mom, ready as I'll get for tonight." With one last glance at the phone, she headed out the door. --- Mulder listened to the dial tone regretfully as he hung up the phone, but quickly switched back to the printout of the e-mail message he had received the day before. The message was obviously from Marita, everything she was supposed to have shared with him in New York. But she had accessed his e-mail and sent the message from him from his own account, so he had no way of tracking the source of the information, or simply replying to her. She was making it clear that he would have no avenues of inquiry beyond what she offered. What she had offered here, however, would keep him busy for a while simply checking all of the information. He turned on his computer, setting his modem to dial in. First things first, he was changing his password. End Part 2 The Partnership I: Dissolution (3/14)
Monday, March 3 Scully's personal journal It's been a while since I've done this. I used to write all of the time when I was a little girl. I remember being excited to go to the store with Mom to pick out my latest blank book. Not those silly ones that were five years long with a lock that Bill and Charlie would break in two seconds. A real journal, cloth covers, cream-colored pages. Mom would buy me a colored-ink pen to make it even more special. Red, green, purple, pink - I'd alternate the colors depending on what happened that day. I'm not sure when I grew out of the habit. Maybe when studying notes in my homework took over. Certainly grading exams as a TA in college were enough review of my days, those long days I wanted to be over. Since then, I've had the eighty-plus field journals to keep me occupied. When Mom gave me this for my birthday, I was unsure of her rationale. She said that she had noticed a change about me. She didn't go into detail, but I have learned to trust her instincts, much as I may have doubted them when I was younger. I was worried that she would ask me how I was feeling. The dizzy spells have continued - fortunately, they have only occurred when I am alone. I can cope with them privately, without them affecting my work. I think this is all I'll share tonight, until I get the feel for this again. Mom was right, it does feel good to put my thoughts down. Perhaps they'll make more sense next time. --- Thursday, March 6 New Haven, Connecticut 2:00 p.m. "Mulder, please remind me again why we were called in on this case." Scully got up and walked around the small apartment they were searching, looking for clues to a crime she did not understand. She stared at a picture on the wall for a moment before it occurred to her that her partner was not responding, either deliberately or absentmindedly. She would bet her per diem allowance on the latter. He had been preoccupied the entire week, and this latest investigation had not sparked any of his usual interest. She turned to look at him as he read through an address book and other seemingly important documents. They had been in Connecticut a day, and he had not presented one theory, nor an odd observation, not even a lazy joke. They had stayed the night in a decent hotel, but he changed his usual routine of reviewing files. He had knocked on the adjoining door and told her he was taking the car for a while. He had neglected to ask her if she needed it for anything - she didn't, but that wasn't the point - and closed the door after seeing her shaking head. He shuffled through the papers of the suspect, but it appeared to her that he was offering only a cursory glance, his mind elsewhere. "Mulder?" She stepped a bit closer and tilted her head to gain his line of sight. He stared just a moment before looking her way, but didn't say anything. "Mulder? Is there something wrong?" Scully had not wanted to guess the cause of his distraction, but it was rare that he answered open-ended questions. So, as partners of psychologists soon learn, the closed questions sometimes yield results. He shook his head. "There's nothing here, Scully. Tomorrow you check with the hospital pathologist, but right now, we're wasting our time." He dropped the pile of papers on the desk and strode quickly out of the room, leaving his partner behind, a quizzical look on her face. --- Friday, March 7 Yale Medical Center noon "Thank you for your help, Doctor. If you have any questions, you can reach me at this number." Scully offered her business card to the elderly man, the pathologist on record for this latest case, the one she had no idea why they had taken in the first place. She stepped aside to let a couple of male nurses wheel a gurney past her. A soft smile came to her as she recalled the look on the pathologist's face when she informed him of her credentials. Most men were offended by her knowledge and responded in either patronizing or sexist tones, but this particular doctor had first reacted with the usual surprise, then with a genuine apology for his response. He reminded her of a phrase she had not used in a long time - a true gentleman. She had enjoyed their interaction today and appreciated the respect and courtesy he had shown her. It had been missing on this trip, she realized. The local authorities had been completely confused during her questioning, and she could not prevent a small trace of sarcasm from entering her tone as they fumbled with her basic questions. It was usually at this point that Mulder would enter the conversation, trading off with her as their custom that worked effectively. But Mulder had stayed silent, letting Scully conduct the interview, offering only a grunt here and there. She had glanced at him frequently, her signal that she was ready for him to step in. After his third look away, she decided she was on her own with this and concluded the interview. Mulder had then taken off to do some research at the Yale Library. Scully had been unsure of what applicable line of study would apply to this, but she had not had the opportunity to voice her protest before Mulder was in the car driving away. Scully walked to the hospital elevator, intent now on finding Mulder and finishing their role in this investigation. Nothing fruitful at all, just another waste of the taxpayers' dollar. Rarely did they walk away from a case without at least a rational theory to postulate, or in Mulder's case, a less-than-rational explanation. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she resolved to convince Mulder to pick her up and head straight to the airport. The onset of the dizziness coincided with the bell sounding the arrival of the elevator. Scully moved as quickly as she could to the wall next to the elevator, hoping she would not attract attention. The young interns exiting the elevator were animatedly sharing the latest gossip and passed her by without a glance. She quickly moved into the empty elevator and punched the lobby button before sagging against the wall. She rested her forehead against the wall and let the cold metal revive her. She gripped the railing and squeezed tightly, willing the nausea to pass. Since she began giving more attention to these spells, she had determined that the nausea lasted less than a minute, and her disorientation settled soon after that. She had decided not to see a doctor, giving more credence to the accurate belief that doctors make the worst patients. The elevator arrived at the lobby level, and Scully walked out and sat in a nearby phone booth. She spotted a taxi parked outside the hospital entrance and decided that she would just go to Mulder instead. --- March 15, 1997 Dana Scully's personal journal Our latest case has taken us to Arizona. Unfortunately, this time the hotel was overrun by a convention. It's hard enough for me to sleep when we're on the road, harder still to have a roommate, unusual as it has been for me. This will probably incur more gossip at the water cooler, the kind that has always followed us. Honestly, if people look closely at the way we've been interacting lately, no one would believe the rumors. In fact, they would probably argue quite persuasively the opposite. There is a soft moan from the dark. Mulder. Mulder is sharing my room for the night. My eyes are adjusting to the faint moonlight coming in between the curtains. I see him in the next bed. He is turned away from me, but I see the blanket moving. Another moan, slightly louder. He is dreaming. I called out to him softly. No response, just a noise like a growl. I called to him again, surprised as he rolled over quickly and sat upright, mouth open as he gasped in a huge draw of air. His sudden movements startled me and I mimicked his intake of breath. I regained control first and watched him, too stunned to react. He was sitting perfectly still. No movement. I leaned forward, hoped he saw me in his periphery. Nothing. I whispered softly to him, asking if he was okay. Coming back to himself, he let out a long breath and wiped his hands over his eyes. He replied only that he was fine, albeit spoken from behind his hands. But he was not fine.. Not yet. He was shaken by his dream, still caught on the edges of its vivid imagery. I was unsure what to do. Dreams belong to the private realms of the soul. They are intensely personal and often painful. It is difficult enough to deal with those feelings. Being scrutinized by another person is embarrassing. But I have been where Mulder was. I have had my fair share of nightmares and often wished for the company of another human being upon waking. He refused my offer to turn on the light, quickly, as if that would cause more pain. He repeatedly rubbed his hand over his forehead and through his hair. A soothing motion, like a mother would do for a child. He was comforting himself. My chest constricted as I realized that he had always had to look inward for solace. "I'm fine, Scully." His voice was tight with shame. A grown man, an FBI agent, is not supposed to be frightened by something as childish as a dream. I decided not to push. It's funny, in a sad way, how much of ourselves we hide from each other. Even after five years together, the standard answer to any question regarding our fears is "I'm fine." It's a lie. We both know it. But I am as guilty as Mulder, maybe more so. Is it an automatic reflex, used to shield the other from a potential weakness? Or is it a defense mechanism, designed to protect ourselves from exploring our true feelings? I should ask Mulder sometime, put that fancy psych degree of his to work. Unfortunately, the questions themselves would require a deeper introspection than either of us are apparently willing to make. At least out loud. Perhaps leaving the questions unasked makes it easier for us to function, to do what we do, to assimilate all the experiences we've had. It's hard for me to recognize and accept what we have encountered, to believe the obscenity of what we've seen, to know that our work has caused others to kill and more to die. Denying how that affects me is a way to deny that it truly has happened, that someone tried to kill me and killed my sister, that someone may have purposely poisoned me or mutilated me... He is starting to settle down, but he's not there yet. Must have been bad. I wish I could offer him some comfort, say or do something to make it better. But I know he would reject my attempts. He'd pull away so fast he would probably hurt my feelings as well. I doubt that he has had anyone to comfort him in so long and now he doesn't know how to react when someone tries. He only knows that they will be taken away from him. Perhaps he thinks they will leave because of what he does. It is this fragility that I am only beginning to understand, to recognize in both him and in myself. His life has been marked by loss - his sister, his father, and even his mother, for all intents and purposes, is gone too. I think of my mother, her neverending support for me, her strength when Dad died, and her understanding when Melissa was killed. I grew up with that security, that shelter, only now I watch it drift away from me piece by piece. I am only now beginning to understand how precious it is. That security, even the small fraction of it I have left, is something I wish Mulder could feel. But in that sense, he doesn't trust me. He does trust me more, I think, than he has trusted anyone. He trusts me to support him, to defend him. Definitely to second guess him, but always with respect, always with the thought that we almost have to disagree to find the truth. But trusting a person with paranormal evidence or life-threatening encounters is somehow different than trusting a person with your feelings. Maybe he thinks that he will somehow fail to measure up in my eyes, that I will think poorly of him. Or more likely, he will think that he has somehow failed me. I don't always understand it, but I am beginning to. By showing me that he's human? That his emotions are real? That he can be hurt, just like the rest of us? Or maybe it would be too upsetting to the roles we play. We are both professionals. By mutual consent, we have drawn an invisible line that divides the personal from the professional. We are joined at the hip while we're working, but our private lives, what little privacy we have, are separate. It's not something that we talked about. It just evolved. We need some distance to keep our sanity. Even then, our private, solitary moments are tinged with anxiety. Finding microphones in your apartment will do that, having someone killed... Mulder used to come to my apartment sometimes, tries to make it appear work related, but it's really just to hang out. I think he gets lonely. I know I do too. And he calls at all hours to discuss a bizarre theory that just couldn't wait until morning. I don't mind. Sometimes his phone calls interrupt one of my more introspective moments. Like this one. But we don't really delve into anything personal, and we definitely don't date. Our relationship isn't like that. I don't think I could handle the intimacy. He knows so much, has seen so much of me, when I'm sick, angry, grieving. It's easier to keep the personal on a more superficial level. The questions would draw me closer to him, touch upon subjects too painful, too emotional to recover from in just an evening of conversation. Too difficult to reestablish those connections with someone else if he were no longer there. And so he teases me about what I'm wearing and I tease him about his video collection. I know he watches porno, although I don't understand it. How does he regard me as an intellectual equal and watch something that reduces women to just physical beings? Intimacy. Perhaps it's too much for him too. I can see the emotion he feels. I just wish I could help him release it. I've only crossed that invisible line once that I remember. After the Pfaster case. I let it get to me and I lost control. Sometimes it embarrasses me. I broke down in front of him. Not very professional at all. But he was so gentle and understanding and he just kept pushing me. Had Agent Bocks been the one to comfort me afterward, I could have held together. But it was Mulder. I'm glad he was there for me, but I'm just as grateful that he didn't mention it again. He could very easily use my moment of weakness as a weapon, use it to force something less than platonic. He doesn't. I went over to Mulder's bed and bent down to get a closer look at him. His eyes were closed, his arms wrapped tight around one of his pillows. He must have sensed my nearness, as his eyes suddenly snapped open. He turned toward me and his lips turned up in a slight smile. I smiled back and suggested that he might be more comfortable if he lay down. I tried to keep my tone light. Not mothering, I hoped, just friendly, suggesting. I took the pillow from his grasp and placed it near the headboard. I nudged his shoulder and he settled down into bed. When I came back from the bathroom, he greeted me with a soft snore. I moved up to his bed to watch him sleeping peacefully now. I saw the errant lock of hair from his forehead and almost reached to brush it back. No. Too close. My partner. My counterpoint. My best friend. Sweet dreams, Mulder. End Part 3 The Partnership I: Dissolution (4/14)
March 16, 1997 The plane circled National Airport for what seemed like the hundredth time before actually beginning its descent along the Potomac River. Caught in the crosswinds, it bounced and bucked like an amusement park ride, jarring all on board. Scully tightened her grip on the armrest in response. Even after all the miles she had logged, she never really felt comfortable flying. It wasn't that she was afraid of being in the friendly skies; she just couldn't relax until her feet were firmly planted on terra firma. Thoughts of her first day of freshman physics haunted her. The professor had presented evidence of the impossibility of the bumble bee's ability to fly. Right now, she wished she had skipped that lecture. Scully slid a sideways glance at Mulder, hoping that he didn't notice her increasing discomfort. He hadn't. He was preoccupied with trying to rouse himself from the light doze that he had succumbed to shortly after takeoff. His eyes were in a constant state of motion, drifting shut only to snap open seconds later. He shifted in his seat and yawned. Finally feeling Scully's stare upon him, he turned toward her, a deep frown etched on his face. She frowned back. "Mulder, you look like death warmed over." She knew he had not been sleeping well during this case. His nightmare the previous evening was just the latest in a series of insomnia bouts. This nap on the plane was probably the longest period of rest he had had in days. It wasn't enough to rid him of the pasty complexion and dark circled eyes. "What a coincidence. That's exactly how I feel," he snapped back with irritation. "But before you comment on my appearance, maybe you should check the mirror. You're not exactly a beauty queen right now." Scully looked away. It was useless to try to deal with him when he was in this mood. Unfortunately, this was the only mood he seemed capable of producing as of late. Irritable, short tempered, snide, and sometimes mean, he would lash out at her with a vengeance. She had tried talking to him on several occasions, but had met the resistance of a brick wall. Whatever it was that was upsetting his equilibrium, he wanted to keep it to himself. Mulder grimaced as he watched her turn away from him and instantly regretted his remark. Damn it. He didn't mean to treat her that way, and she certainly didn't deserve it. Sometimes words fell out of his mouth before he thought. This whole business with Marita was beginning to wear on his nerves. Cloak and dagger was not his favorite game and keeping Scully in the dark only made it more difficult. But thus far every piece of information that his new "informant" had given him had been verified. An acquaintance of Marita's superior had lost his son in 1972. Well, not exactly lost; the child had been taken from him. Abducted from the backyard of his Bridgeport, Connecticut home. No demand for ransom, no evidence of foul play, nothing. The local police had done a thorough investigation, but had turned up no clues. No body was ever found and no one claimed responsibility. Until now. Mulder glanced back at Scully, her body tensed in preparation for landing. And maybe something else. Guilt flooded his senses and he leaned closer to her, an apology on his lips. But before it could be vocalized, the captain's voice boomed over the intercom alerting the flight crew. The apology was left unsaid. They waited in line at the luggage carousel. Scully was still bristling from Mulder's remark, but her anger softened as she watched him sway on his feet as he tried to stay awake. She took a deep breath and prepared for the tirade that was about to take place. "Mulder. I think I should drive you home tonight. Okay?" To her surprise, he nodded his head in agreement. She took the proffered keys and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. As Scully pulled away from the curb, Mulder threw his hand in the air, the best "goodbye" gesture he could manage. He picked up his bags and headed for the front entrance of the apartment. As he started up the front steps, movement in the bushes caught his attention. Reflexes made him reach for his gun. "Agent Mulder?" the disembodied voice asked. Mulder tensed. "Who are you? Step out where I can see you. Slowly. Hands in front." There was a rustling noise and a man slowly emerged from the bushes, a plain envelope in his hand. "Agent Mulder. I have a message for you." ** March 17, 1997 Mulder's apartment 4:00 a.m. Mulder sighed as he picked up the telephone receiver. He really hated to do this, but he could see no way around it. He read the note in his hand once more before crumbling it and tossing it toward the trash can. He was to meet Marita in New York City this morning at 7:00 a.m. She had vital information that could not wait. Discretion was imperative. Yeah. Easy for you. You don't have a meeting with Skinner at eight. Not to mention a partner who was probably getting suspicious. He dialed Scully's number. It rang five times before she picked up. "Hello?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep. "Scully. It's me." "Mulder? What time is it?" "Four." He could hear her rubbing at her eyes, trying to focus on the conversation. "What's the matter?" He hesitated while he put his thoughts in order. "Mulder?" "I can't sleep. I'm tired...I want to take a pill." Scully frowned at the receiver. That was a big concession for him. He never took a sleeping pill until it was deemed absolutely necessary. The way his body reacted to the medication, he would be out for hours. "Okay. I think it's a good idea," she said, trying to reassure him. Again he hesitated. "Skinner." "I'll take care of it. Get some sleep, Mulder." As he hung up the phone, he bowed his head. Another lie.
New York City later that morning Mulder shivered as he rounded the corner and was hit with a blast of cool air. He pulled the collar of his coat up tight around his neck and held it there for a few seconds. It felt like a noose. How ironic. He stopped at the corner and looked up at the green street signs. 110 block. Four blocks to go. He checked his watch again. 6:55. He'd better hurry. As he picked up the pace of his stride, he sighed. Was all this really necessary? He had caught the red eye flight out of DC, took a cab from the airport to a hotel on 4th Avenue, exited through the back entrance of the hotel and caught another cab across the street, which had let him out seven blocks from his intended destination. He had to hoof the last part of his journey, alternating between sidewalks and alleys. All this in the name of clandestineness? He hoped it was worth it. His steps slowed as he approached the rear of the warehouse. A bright orange door. Just as the note had indicated. He stepped up to the iron gate that blocked his path and looked into the loading yard. The place was deserted, had been for some time; the blacktop pad was littered with cardboard boxes and oil drums. Two rats were frolicking in the debris. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Letting out a deep breath, he scaled the gate and landed on the other side with the grace of an old woman. He was too tired for gymnastics right now. As he struggled to regain his balance, a hand grabbed his arm. Mulder gasped in surprise and jerked his arm away. He spun and bent in a defensive crouch ready to fend off his attacker. When he saw the face, his body relaxed. "You scared the shit outta me!" he hissed. "You're late, Mr. Mulder." "Sorry. Do you know how hard it is to find a cab driver who speaks English this time of the morning? My Arabic is a little rusty." She fixed him with a glare and grabbed his elbow, pulling him toward the back door. "We don't have much time." "Great line. Bet you're a real popular gal," he said sarcastically. She tightened her grip in response. --- Marita opened the door and none too gently pulled him in behind her. The hallway went pitch dark after she shut the door and Mulder froze, waiting for his tired eyes to adjust. He heard her heels click on the tiled floor, moving away from him, but he couldn't locate her. After a second, the sound stopped, then started again. This time moving closer. "Come on," she said softly. She grasped his hand in hers and led him down the corridor. After a couple of twists and turns, they came to another door. She knocked twice and waited. There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and a few moments later the door opened. Standing on the other side was an older man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, Mulder guessed. But his eyes were older, much older. He was balding, pudgy, and moved with a stiffness that implied illness. He locked eyes with Mulder, but spoke to Marita. "This is him?" She nodded. "Yes. I can see that it is," he said. He continued to regard Mulder with a steady gaze for a moment longer, then turned and slowly shuffled back to his chair, waving for them to follow. Mulder and Marita both grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the circular table sitting in the middle of the room. Silence shrouded the room for what seemed like an eternity. They sat and stared at one another, no one talking or moving. Mulder's patience was starting to wear thin. He gave Marita a questioning look and turned his hands over, palms up. Okay, what now? "Mr. Mulder, this is Randolph Foster." She waited and watched as he processed the information. And a second later his eyes lit up with recognition. "You...your child was kidnapped in 1972," he stated. The man nodded. "Marita told me that you had looked into the old case records. Did you find anything?" Mulder cocked his head, confused. "Was I supposed to? It appears the police did a competent job, but no evidence became available to aid in the search." He hesitated, his hazel eyes narrowing. When he spoke again, there was a hint of suspicion in his voice. "But, I was also told that the situation has changed. You know something now. Don't you?" The older man held up his hand to stop Mulder's interrogation. "Mr. Mulder...Fox. I knew your father." Mulder flinched inwardly, but his face showed none of the emotions he was feeling. "So? A lot of people knew my father. What does that fact have to do with the your son's disappearance?" The man smiled, a sad smile that practically radiated pity. "I know that your sister also disappeared under mysterious circumstances at about the same time." Mulder looked at Marita, his eyes blazing with intensity. Suddenly, he stood, pushing back with enough force to knock the chair to the floor with a clatter. He reached over the table and grabbed the older man by the lapels of his jacket. He leaned in as far as the table would permit and closed the rest of the distance by pulling the man to his feet. "What have they done with her! Tell me what you know! Now!" he yelled, his face a few inches from Foster's. Marita was on her feet in an instant. She laid a hand on Mulder's arm, trying to pry his grasp loose. "Mulder! Stop!" Mulder whipped his head around toward her, searching her eyes. She smiled gently and softly repeated her warning. Mulder let go, but gave the man a light shove. He stalked away from the table, trying to regain his lost composure. Marita went to Mr. Foster. When she was assured that he had not been harmed, she walked over to Mulder who was standing in the corner staring at the brick wall in front of him. "He knows something," he said quietly. Marita let out her breath, choosing her next words carefully. She had not been prepared for Mulder's outburst and was glad the situation had defused so quickly. "Yes. He does. But this is a delicate situation. You can't go charging around like a bull in a china shop. I expect you to handle yourself accordingly." She laid a gentle hand on his back. "We are all here for the same reason; we all want answers." Her words soothed him. And he allowed himself a slight smile. Her words, like something Scully would say. The thought of his partner, ditched again, covered him in guilt. He wished she were here. Marita's voice in his ear brought him back to reality. "Mr. Foster has a long story to tell and we're wasting time. Come. Sit down." Mulder returned to the table and picked up his chair. He tried to communicate his apology to the other man with his eyes. Apparently he understood. He nodded his head in acceptance and cleared his throat. "I was working for the State Department in the early 70s, on a project that few, even in the highest level of power, knew about. We were all bound by an oath of secrecy..." --- same day Skinner's office 8:00 a.m. "Agent Scully here to see you, sir." Jeannie Phelps, Skinner's administrative assistant, smiled gently at Scully, the type of smile one gives to a person headed for an execution. "He's not in the best of moods today," she whispered conspiratorially, one target to another. Scully was surprised at the rare comment from Jeannie - she had always been very composed regardless of Skinner's rampages. Her inclusion of Scully in the list of people on Skinner's current hit parade did nothing to reassure the agent, who possessed the unenviable but oft-rehearsed task of covering for her partner yet again. Skinner's first words left no doubt in Scully's mind that Jeannie was being generous in her assessment of Skinner's mood. "Agent Scully, I expressly asked both you and Agent Mulder to be present for this meeting. Where the hell is he?" Morning target practice had begun, she decided. "Sir, Agent Mulder contacted me early this morning and indicated he could not come in today. He had complained of not feeling well during our time in Arizona." If anything, her words seemed to infuriate him further. "I want an explanation, Agent Scully, about an incomplete and unauthorized travel voucher filed by Agent Mulder last month. Exactly what case were you investigating in New York City and when were you planning on informing me?" "Sir, I am not sure to which case you are referring, as I haven't been to New York City since last year." Scully mentally calculated how many days of paperwork Mulder would owe her for this cover-up. "February 20 and 21, Agent Scully, plane fare and one hotel room." His eyes shifted warily, and Scully recognized the implication that she and Mulder had shared that room. "Sir, if you recall, I was asked to consult with the Arlington medical examiner on those two days." Scully's thoughts ran from the more vindictive, 'You're on your own now, Mulder' to the safer, better-with-every-performance covering lie for Mulder. "When Mulder recovers from his 'illness', inform him that he is to meet with me immediately." His tone of voice propelled her to the safe choice. "Sir, I believe that Agent Mulder might have been following up a lead to the Shakespeare Stabber case." "That will be all, Agent Scully." --- later that evening 6:00 p.m. Mulder could barely keep his eyes open as he shuffled down the hall to his apartment. He knew if he got the chance, he could sleep for a week. This confusing mess had gotten a whole lot more complicated after meeting Randolph Foster. The man had claimed that he had worked on the same project with his father. They had gathered samples and data; for the sake of identification purposes in the case of a nuclear disaster. At least that's what they told those in government who were not part of the group. What group Foster had been referring to still remained a mystery. The true purpose of the project had a much more insidious undertone. Mulder rubbed his face as he made his way toward the couch. His head was hurting like he'd been on a three day drunken spree. It even hurt to breath. He detoured from the comfort of his sofa momentarily and headed for the bathroom, pleading to any deity that would listen that there was aspirin in the cabinet. His prayers were answered. He popped two white tablets into his mouth and swallowed them dry. On his way back to the living room, he saw a light blinking on his answering machine. Scully, he thought. Checking up on me. He rewound the tape and listened to the message. "Mulder. It's me. You must really be out of it. It's four in the afternoon and you're still not awake? Call me when you wake from your coma." There had been a couple more incoming calls, but no messages had been left. Probably tele-marketers. Mulder glanced at his watch. It was after six. He had better call Scully or she would be sending out the National Guard. As he was dialing her number, there was a rapping on his door. He hung up the phone and moved closer to the door. "Mulder?" Scully. To the rescue. Mulder opened the door to allow his partner to enter. "Hey. You're awake," she said cautiously. Then she took in his appearance. Suit, tie, shoes? Had he slept like that? That wasn't the outfit he was wearing last night. "How are you feeling?" He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "Like I've been hit by a truck," he said around a deep yawn. "It's the medication. The effects will abate soon." He glared at her impatiently. "Look, Scully, what I really would like to do right now is take a shower and sleep for another day or two. I've got a mother of a headache." She smiled at him sympathetically. "What you need to do is take a shower and get something to eat. You've already slept for fourteen hours today, that's enough." The mention of food was enough to turn his stomach. He took a deep breath and tried to think of a tactful way of getting her the hell out of his apartment. "Sounds great. Now if you don't mind...." He made a gesture toward the door. Scully did her best to hide the hurt. She understood. Maybe. "Okay, Mulder. See you tomorrow?" "Be there with bells on, Scully." "Goodnight, Mulder." "Night." He shut the door securely and made sure it was locked. --- Well, he hadn't totally lied to Scully this time. He had taken a shower. But eating was still out of the question. He stretched out on the sofa and tried to sort through the information. Foster said the purpose of the project was to record DNA samples and determine which were suitable for cloning. From cloning, the plan was to move on to hybridization. An alien/human mix. Mulder shook his head. He didn't know what to believe. The story sounded plausible, at least to him, but he knew there would be no way to verify it. That had been the problem all along. He chuckled as he thought about what Scully's reaction would be. Complete denial. Without a doubt. He wished that he could have talked more with Foster, but the older man's strength had worn down quickly. Cancer, Marita had told him. She would contact him again and arrange another meeting. Mulder hoped it would be soon. End Part 4 The Partnership I: Dissolution (5/14)
March 27, 1997 basement office 8:30 a.m. I would like to linger here in silence if I choose to. This message, again from her own account, made less sense than the last one a month ago. Scully stared at the screen, more angry now than surprised. She entered her account maintenance file to see when she had last logged in. According to the record there, she had logged out at 5:30 the day before. Unfortunately, that was exactly when she had logged out the day before. So someone was accessing her account who understood how to cover it up. She decided against using more password protection - if the FBI's system wouldn't prevent it, than nothing she could do would stop the intrusion either. She reread the message another time. Very unsettling. The sender could indeed linger in her account silently, and she would never know. The office door opened, and her partner walked in, looking just as haggard as the day before. As the month before. Scully had debated for two weeks whether she should say anything more than her obtuse questions of concern. He turned his back to her without a greeting and opened a file cabinet drawer. "Good morning," she tried to keep her tone neutral, not overly cheerful or threatening. He slammed the drawer shut and sat down at his desk, shoving a set of research materials out of the way of his paper. "Mulder - " intending to offer a cup of coffee. "Not now, Scully. Okay?" He glanced at her in time to see her measuring stare transform into the resigned acceptance. He hadn't meant for his tone to be so brusque, but he was too tired to care. "I'll see you later, Mulder." She stood up with her briefcase and walked to the door, giving him one last look before her exit. --- same day basement office 4:00 p.m. Mulder shook his head as he reread his e-mail message from Marita. "The crow flies tonight." Oh yes. Very subtle. But if someone was keeping an eye on him, they probably understood the meaning of the message as well. Or not. He was "Spooky", after all. Maybe no one would think it was unusual for him to receive cryptic messages. They would be more suspicious if it had been encoded. Of course, to all other eyes, he had again sent this one to himself, meaning that Marita had accessed his account once again. He had received this message on his personal AOL account at home, the one with which he used a pseudonym and the corresponding credit card to register and the one he had accessed before coming to work that morning. It had put him in such a funk that he had barely been able to keep up the pretense of work that day. He knew he owed Scully an apology, as she had quietly left him to his own evils and retreated to her own office shortly after his arrival. Mulder let out a deep sigh. Maybe tonight he would have the answers he was seeking. He closed out of his mailbox and erased his messages. He looked down at his desk. A virtual sea of paper. The stack at the end even had a nice curve to it, like a wave about to crash on the beach. If he didn't do something about it soon, it would crash to the floor. He picked up the folders and headed for the file cabinet. The crow flies tonight. Not very informative, really. Undoubtedly he would be contacted again, in some surreptitious way. Then there would be a covert expedition worthy of the KGB. His musing was interrupted by Scully's return. "Mulder, I've got the autopsy..." She left the sentence unfinished as she watched her partner jump about three feet in the air. Again. "Mulder. Are you okay?" He turned to her trying to disguise the fact that his heart was beating a mile a minute. "Yeah, sure. Fine," he said with a pant. She frowned at him, unconvinced, but decided to push on. "As I was saying, I have the autopsy report from the Simmons case. Something strange is going on here, Mulder. We need to go over the autopsy reports of the other victims and from the old X-files. So, your place or mine?" Mulder grimaced. "Tonight?" She looked at him. At least he was saying something to her, so she decided to keep pushing. "Well, yes. We really need to find the connection between these cases." "Yeah, I know." Mulder's shoulders sagged. He was going to have to lie to her again. "But I can't. Not tonight." Scully settled into her chair and looked at him over the top of her glasses. "Okay. May I ask why?" He nervously ran his finger over the top of the file cabinet. "I've got plans." She cocked her head in disbelief. "Really?" Mulder turned to her, for some reason angered by her remark. "Yes. It's not totally inconceivable that I may have activities outside of the Bureau. I do have a life other than this one," he said gesturing at the office. Scully pursed her lips. He was up to something. She could tell. Still, he was communicating with her instead of shutting her out completely. That was a start. "No, Mulder. It's not at all inconceivable. In fact, I'm sure it's true." She sighed. "Just be careful, okay?" A slight smile crossed his face. "Always." --- Mulder found the envelope wrapped up in the evening paper. Marita had booked two rooms for herself and Mr. Foster at the Ritz-Carlton at Pentagon City. At least they were close this time. He didn't think he was going to get away with too many more overnight trips. Marita would meet him outside the tie shop in the mall next door at 8 o'clock. Again, discretion had been advised. --- Scully's apartment 6:00 p.m. She stared at the single page with the short message on it. I would like to linger here in silence if I choose to. Not anymore you won't. She picked up the phone. --- Ritz-Carlton Hotel 8:00 p.m. Mulder was admiring the wild colored ties that had come into fashion when he felt a hand on his arm. "You should be more careful, Mr. Mulder. You never know who might be behind you." He smiled. "I saw your reflection in the glass. See, I was paying attention in spy class." She rubbed her fingers up and down his sleeve as they continued to look at the neckwear. "Room 506, in ten minutes. Don't be late. Oh, and I think the blue one would look gorgeous on you." Mulder turned around toward her quickly, but she was already walking away.. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. --- same time "I don't know Agent Scully. I'm not real sure what we can do with this," Byers was focused on the computer screen, examining the report from the account server at the FBI. Langly walked across the room and peered over Byers' shoulder. "You say this is the second message like this you've received?" Scully paused. She had placed a certain amount of trust in these men, as paranoid as they were, but she was reluctant to reveal too much. This was the first time she had contacted them without Mulder, and she felt almost as if she were treading on his territory. Still, he had been clearly unwilling to help her today, and she wanted this issue resolved as soon as possible. "Yes, I received one about a month ago. Same origin, just three short lines like this one. I deleted it at the time." Frohike came to the long table piled with various equipment and set a pitcher of iced tea down. "Let us do some investigating with this. Why don't you pull up a chair?" --- Ritz-Carlton, room 506 8:10 p.m. Foster looked much older than the had the last time they had met. He had definitely lost weight and his skin was ghastly pale. Mulder shook hands with the him, hopefully conveying that this meeting wouldn't be so...violent. Marita pulled her chair next to Mulder and once again they were all seated around a small circular table. Foster took a deep breath. "Now where was I?" Mulder held up his hand. "Mr. Foster, I'd like to ask you a few questions before we start." Foster nodded his approval. "You claim that your son was taken because you wanted out of the project. Is that correct?" "Yes. They threatened me. Said that they would never allow me to leave. I knew too much." Mulder sat back in his chair and templed his fingers. "Pardon me for being blunt, but why didn't they just kill you? Why abduct one of your children, then create an elaborate cover-up to hide that fact. Wouldn't that actually increase the risk of exposure?" Foster leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I'm sure you're right, but there's a couple of details I didn't tell you before. I believe I was selected for the project for two reasons. One, I was a research scientist intimately familiar with concept of gene manipulation. It was a new field back then, mostly unknown, but I had been conducting experiments on lab animals for years. Secondly, my wife carries a specific gene that, shall we say, makes the possibility of cloning...easier. Not everyone is a carrier." Mulder chewed on his bottom lip as he considered this. He was beginning to get a little out of his element here. "So you knew your wife was a carrier?" "No, not initially. I only discovered that fact after I joined the project. Then it was too late." Foster picked up the glass of water in front of him and took a long drink. Mulder stood and began pacing the room. Motion and thinking went hand in hand. "So your children are carriers too?" Foster shook his head. "No. Not all of them. The gene appears to have a loose sex linkage; all three of my girls are carriers, but only one of my boys." "Let me guess. Tommy. The son who was taken," Mulder said. Foster nodded his head slowly. Mulder rubbed his forehead, not at all happy about where this discussion was going. He took a deep breath, trying to remain emotionally unattached. "So you did experiments on your own son?" Foster sat up, clearly agitated by the implication. "No! No! I would never do that!" "But he was part of the project," Mulder shot back. The older man crumpled. "Yes. I agreed to stay. I knew that if I didn't they would take my children one by one. Then, with that accomplished, they would kill me. If I was dead, there was no hope of ever rescuing them." Marita leaned over and took the man's hand offering her support. She looked at Mulder. "Maybe we should break for a while." Mulder ran a hand through his hair. The man was obviously in distress and getting tired, but they were finally getting somewhere with this. He motioned for Marita to follow as he walked over to the other side of the room. "How much more of this can he handle? I don't want to wait any longer, we're so close. How much has he told you?" Marita shook her head. "I know as much as you. He insisted that you be present. But I have something else to tell you." Mulder bent down and leaned in closer as she lowered her voice to a soft whisper. "I think we are being watched. Mr. Foster was approached the other day in New York. Four men in black suits attempted to question him outside our office. I think *They* know." Mulder frowned. "Then it is even more important that we find out all we can tonight." She nodded, then turned back to the older man. "Mr. Foster? Do you think you can continue?" He gazed up at her, his eyes sad and tired. "Yes, there is much more to tell." Mulder and Marita returned to the table. Marita reached across and squeezed the other man's hand reassuringly. Foster sat back in his chair. "I knew that my son was being kept somewhere, but I didn't know where. Delicate inquiries were met with open hostility. Eventually, I was transferred from the main center of operations in DC to another facility outside Chicago. It was there that I learned what was in store for me." Mulder met his gaze and urged him to continue. "I discovered that they were going to attempt to erase my memory with a new experimental drug." Mulder stiffened as he remembered what had happened to him and others at Ellens Air Force Base. Selected memory wipe. He had seen something that they didn't want him to remember, and they took that memory from him. Foster and Marita both stared at him as a slight shiver ran down his spine. After taking another drink of water, Foster continued. "When I found out their plan, I began making preparations of my own. I started taking documents and tapes, hiding them at the facility outside Chicago. I realized that one way or another they would be successful; my memory would be wiped or they would kill me in the process. I wanted a record of what was happening. As it turned out, the drug worked. I forgot about everything I knew concerning the project." "But you remember now?" Mulder asked, intrigued. Foster chuckled. "Yes, in an ironic twist of fate. Four months ago, I found out that I had cancer. One of the side effects from the treatment is that my memory is beginning to return." Mulder's eyes lit up. "So you remember everything?" he asked, unable to contain his excitement. Foster shook his head and smiled "No not everything. But it is coming back to me. Sometimes in huge leaps, sometimes in little spurts; flashes if you will." Mulder hopped up again, adrenaline keeping him from remaining still for very long. "It's a start." He momentarily stopped his pacing and turned toward Foster, a gleam in his eye. "Is there anything else that you remember?" Foster's smile quickly faded. "Yes. There is something else I need to tell you." Mulder waited, but the older man remained silent. "What? What is it?" Foster cleared his throat and stared at the table top, unwilling to meet the agent's eyes. "Fox...your mother also carries the gene." Mulder froze. He stared at the other man, hoping that he had just become the butt of a practical joke. When the other man still refused to meet his eyes, he knew it was no joke. Mulder brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed them vigorously. He started to speak, but the words became lodged in his throat. After a second, he tried again. "You're saying that they did...experiments..." He stopped, fists clenching, fight for control. "They did experiments on my mother?" Foster could no longer control his tears. "Not your mother, Fox. Your sister." No! No! I don't want to hear this! Mulder's mind screamed. He cupped his hands over his ears and tried to block everything out. It didn't work. He could hear Foster's voice repeating it over and over again. His hands fluttered frantically. Searching for something, anything to hold on to. He stumbled to the wall and pounded it with his fists as hard as he could. "Damn it! That son of a bitch knew, didn't he?" He turned toward Foster, his eyes burning with fire. "Didn't he?!" Marita stood and put herself between Mulder and the other man. She put her hands out in front of her, uncertain of Mulder's next move. "Come on. Settle down. You're going to draw attention to us," she said quietly. Mulder glared at her, then acquiesced. He sank down to the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Moments passed, no one moved or said a word. Finally Mulder's soft whisper broke the silence. "Tell me." --- Scully rubbed her eyes and yawned. Staring at a computer for three hours was definitely not her idea of a fulfilling evening, yet that was about as much excitement as she'd had in a while. "Thanks very much for your help, but I need to get home. I'll work with this tomorrow." She hoped Frohike would not bring out more heavily caffeinated beverages. "Let us know if you get another one. We'll keep researching what information we've uncovered tonight." Byers turned toward her, a friendly smile on his face. Scully had always liked Byers, his demeanor made for an excellent professorial candidate, if he could get a degree in conspiracy history. She smiled and moved to the door. "I'll let you know." --- Marita helped Mr. Foster to his room. The whole ordeal had exhausted the man beyond comprehensible thought. She returned to her own room and opened the door. The interior was bathed in the eerie glow of city lights from five stories below. She had fully expected the agent to be gone. Although she knew little about him personally, she now knew a great deal about his past; a past that had been a mystery to Mulder himself just a few hours ago. She was sure he would have run from this emotional situation. But there he was, sitting on her bed staring out at the Arlington skyline. She sat next to him on the bed. He didn't acknowledge her presence. Carefully, she laid a hand on his back. When he didn't flinch, she began rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. Mulder turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "We need to go to Chicago." She nodded and continued to stroke his back. "We will. Soon. But Mr. Foster needs to rest and I need to make preparations to keep him safe." Mulder drew in a deep breath and exhaled. "I want to tell Scully." Marita stopped. "No. You can't do that. It's become too dangerous. They know, Fox. And now we know." Mulder shook his head. "She deserves to know too." Marita took his hand in hers, stroking the back with her thumb. "You have to protect her from this. The stakes are too high, only those directly affected should be involved." He gently tugged his hand from her. "Then why are you here? Why are you risking everything to help me?" Marita smiled. "Because I know how important it is to know the truth. For Mr. Foster, for you." She hesitated. "For myself." Mulder looked at her, his eyes full of questions. She met his gaze. "I think my father was involved, as well." End Part 5 The Partnership I: Dissolution (6/14)
Wednesday, April 9, 1997 Richmond, Missouri Scully's personal journal Another night. Another case with tenuous leads and uncooperative local authorities. No clear motive. Suspects that seem as likely to be elected mayor as to orchestrate a cult-like series of murders. This one hits close to home. It's too much like the Pfaster case, young women murdered and defiled in their death. Just as that case affected me, this case seems to try on my soul. Another disagreement with Mulder, with him deciding that working alone suits him better. It has happened more and more frequently. Our relationship has been comprised of spurts of symmetry and long episodes of a tense rift I can't quite comprehend. We're in a rift now. I can feel it. My usually limitless tolerance of him has waned even further here in Missouri. Another hotel. A lumpy bed and orange curtains. My laptop. My medical bag. My always-packed suitcase. Yes, there was a hot shower. A halfway decent meal. But tonight I can only see what's not here - the comfort of my own bathrobe, the tea to sip while reading my latest fiction. No Queequeg to snuggle with on the couch. More evidence of how my life is not what I once dreamed. I wish I could focus tonight, work on the field notes. Skinner has let up on me a bit, stopped hounding me for the debunking reports, that's true, but I can't give them any reason to discipline me. Lord knows Mulder finds enough reasons for both of us, and lately, our ability to close the case has waned. Our success rate still exceeds the Bureau standard, but Skinner's words to me so long ago, "that is our only saving grace", still echo for me. I don't think Skinner holds us to that unrealistic level of performance, but I fear the repercussions if we fail to measure up in someone else's eyes. Who will suffer the next time? Why can't I just relax for a moment - not think about ritual murders, public health crises, government conspiracies? If I could just be in a place without worrying about eavesdroppers or looking over my shoulder or being watched every minute. I remember how the signal from the television affected me. I still feel that fear, that paranoia. You know, I've never asked Mulder how he deals with this. He's been at it longer than I have, and I've seen what he's had to endure. Constant ridicule to his face, little recognition or appreciation when he's proven himself right, and an overwhelming sense of frustration at knowing that others have what he wants and refuse to give it to him. Loss. Samantha. Melissa.. Mulder's father. Ahab. Myself. When did I start adding myself to this list? Was it when I had a gun on Cardinale? Or when I almost shot Mulder again? Be honest. I know when it was. It's okay if I say it, isn't it? I can feel myself falling. Each time it hurts deeper. Each time it is harder to pull myself back. But I can't stop the images. She told me she knew I wasn't a mother. That I could never understand what it felt like. Could she discern how much I wanted to know? Did she pity me for lacking this most basic of human capability? No, no kids. Not anymore. Mulder said he never saw me as a mother before. Why not? Every girl I went to high school with is a mother. Did my face reflect my heart crying out? Why not me? Did my body recoil with force I can only imagine I would require to give birth to a child? Giving birth. I had a nightmare earlier tonight. I was in the white room, the train car. I was watching myself from a distance. I lay on a table, white sheets draped over me. Except for my abdomen. It was distended, unnatural. I was pregnant. I don't recall much of what happened next, except that it was peaceful. They must have given me a sedative. I was floating. On a fishing boat. I heard my father speaking to me. A woman was whispering soft, comforting words into my ear. My mother and Melissa were nearby. Mulder. Standing close to me. Then I unwrapped the baby. And my child was bloody and dirty. Deformed unlike anything I had ever seen, had ever imagined. His scream fought with my scream. His terror at being born, at leaving the protective haven of my body, matched my terror at producing such hideousness. He was crying when I buried him. Leaving traces that the dirt was inhaled. No priest could ever absolve me. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou among women, and Blessed is the fruit of thy womb - No doctor could heal me. Mulder's words haunt me even more. Just find a guy with spotless genetics and a really high tolerance for being second guessed and start pumping out the little UberScullys. Doesn't Mulder know that some man's perfect genetic makeup will never conquer my own artificial deformity? Defeat this malignancy inflicted upon me by evil so intense that I can only relate it to the words I once repeated back to the priest? Women like me are dying from tumors generated by some minuscule implant these bastards put in ME! Am I fine? Will I ever be? I don't have the strength to find out. I can't take the risk to find out, only to have this fear exposed to the world. Loss. It was then that I started adding myself to the list. So why do I continue? Why not just quit before I lose what's left? --- Thursday, April 10, 1997 Richmond, Missouri 8:30 a.m. This day was cloudy and rainy, and the weather only increased the tension between the two agents. He had snapped at her when she offered to drive, not caring how little sleep he had gotten or how she had been unable to conceal the hurt from her face. She sat in the car, her face now a mask of stone, as he struggled with the directions to the latest crime scene. She decided to make one last attempt. "Mulder, please let me help." "Scully, what is with you? I'm not some stubborn idiot who can't read a map! I don't need you hovering over me, so just sit there and leave me alone!" She stared at him for what seemed to be an hour-long second, then focused her glare out the window. "Fine." --- 3:15 p.m. "Scully, there is no point in pursuing the damn fingerprint. By the time the lab figures it out and begins a trace, the suspect will be long gone. And we're just wasting time sitting here and arguing about it." Mulder ran his hand through his hair for what seemed to be the fiftieth time that day. "Mulder - " Scully could feel the anger rise just as quickly as the reliably cool professional demeanor quickly slipped away. "Scully, you just don't get it - " That was enough. "What, Mulder? What don't I get? I don't get why he's killed three women? I don't get why he defiles them after they are dead? I don't get how anyone could possibly do this to another human being? Well, let me tell you something, Mulder. I don't _have_ to get it, I just have to get _him_. You can stay wrapped up in your self-centered psychological profiler mode on why killers kill for all I care, but I'm going to find him, whether you are there with me or not." With that, she whirled around and headed for the rental car, leaving a stunned Mulder and a very confused sheriff looking at her departure. End Part 6 The Partnership I: Dissolution (7/14)
Monday, April 14, 1997 Arlington, VA noon She locked the door of her car, squinting in the sun as it reflected off the windshield. As she walked by the rows of cars toward the mall entrance, she wished she could blend in as easily as her car did. Anonymity. Obscurity. What was it that set her apart from others her age? Mulder's comment that he never saw her as a mother was another grain of salt in the festering wound she had nurtured since medical school. She had entered the FBI to distinguish herself, yet that very action had resulted in the disappearance of her hopes, her desires, her belief in the goodness of humankind and her ability to combat it. With all she had lost, though, Scully was still able to focus on her accomplishments. She had earned respect from many - comments about Mrs. Spooky were nonexistent now, even Skinner seemed to value her opinion, particularly when it came to Mulder's state of mind. She was often called to consult with pathologists assigned to various divisions or to assist in the evidence labs on occasion. Those who had initially gossiped about her partnership with Mulder had cowered under her intense glare and now seemed to admire her professionalism, her poise. She hoped that Mulder would recover that same respect he had once held for her. His typical late-night and weekend visits had ceased, along with the phone calls. He had even taken a four day weekend without medical cause, although he had lied to Skinner to do it. Earlier in the year, during their case investigations, he had remained solicitous toward her, but he continued to pursue avenues of investigation alone, a trait he had always possessed. It had never been as frustrating before. She found herself asking him what he was thinking more and more often, feeling like a spectator at a lecture. A witness to the investigation, but not a participant. Not a partner. This last case had been the worst. They had been unable to prove the guilt of the main suspect, and after three days of vainly looking for the evidence they needed, Skinner ordered them back to Washington. The fact that it was their fifth consecutive case without a successful resolution was not what troubled Scully. It was that she might as well have conducted the investigation by herself. Mulder had been more than just distracted, he was now near the definition of uncooperative. She hadn't even bothered to carry her cellular phone with her, as she knew he had turned it off. It didn't surprise her when she learned from the sheriff that Mulder had returned to Washington on an earlier flight. They had gone through a similar pattern before, after Melissa's death and the murder of Mulder's father. The complementary nature of their investigative styles had become almost competitive, marked by attacking arguments that contained the bitterness of the grief each were feeling. Without talking about it, as was customary, they regained their rhythm and began functioning as a unit again. Why was this time so different? Scully ended her train of thought as she entered the noisy mall and aimed for her favorite shoe store. Just replacing another pair of pumps ruined in the latest nighttime stroll through a sewer. No matter what the state of their partnership, she always seemed to be around when the dirty work had to be done. Shoes were a woman's luxury, and she allowed herself the secret joy of purchasing them frequently. One of her few positives in her life was the revolving wardrobe of shoes subsidized by the FBI expense account. Scully smiled at the vision of Skinner getting an expense report that included The Body Shop and Victoria's Secret receipts. As she walked along the mall's upper deck, she found herself abandoning her traditional routine of window-shopping. Young couples hand in hand walked by, a salesperson was assisting a well-dressed man in a jewelry store. The Disney store was overwhelmed by families buying stuffed animals and singing the "Heigh Ho" song from Snow White. Three girls, perhaps junior high age, were giggling loudly at a group of boys dressed in jerseys and $100 sneakers. Two women were sitting at a nearby table, their lunch spread out before them. Each had a variety of shopping bags set next to them, indicating their status as friends out for a day of shopping at the mall. When was the last time I spent a day at the mall with a friend? What friend would I spend time with at the mall? When was the last time I got a phone call from anyone except Mom? Mulder doesn't even call me at home anymore. Alone. Lost. Scared. How had she gotten to this point so quickly? How had she withdrawn so completely from the outside world, isolated herself so totally that she could count the number of significant people in her life on one hand? Her mother, her brothers, her nephew. Mulder. Yeah right. Mulder. When the mood suits him. Shake it off Dana. Go home and use some of this bath oil mixed with a little music and leave this day behind. Take the rest of the day off, Mulder won't care. He probably won't even notice you're gone. She exited the mall entrance, sidestepping a couple with a toddler and baby in a backpack. The toddler had been asking his mother for gum, and Scully decided to indulge herself as well. As she threw the wrapper in a nearby receptacle, a slender black man approached her, holding out a piece of paper. He was dressed simply, and did not resemble the many homeless persons she saw every day on the streets. Scully tried to stick with her usual routine of ignoring strangers, a practice she had perfected during her time in Washington, but this man's smile exuded warmth and friendliness. She felt her resolve ease just enough to extend her hand and take the paper from him. His eyes lit up, and her stern "street face" broke slightly and offered a small tight-lipped grin as she passed him. His hearty "Thank you" revealed a thick accent. He seemed too friendly to have lived in the country for long. Scully walked to her car, digging in her coat for her key ring. As she settled into the driver's seat, she stared at the paper in her hand, intending to throw it out the window, litter laws be damned. The image of the man's smile made her pause, and she unfolded the paper to reveal an address and a short statement. "I am looking for friend. Please write me." And just as quickly as her defenses had deserted her when she initially took the paper, they failed her again. She felt the tears on her cheeks, the tightness of her throat, the ache her muscles produced whenever she was overcome with sadness. Such a simple request, made by a man with a lightness in his heart that she begged to possess. He wanted a friend, someone with whom to share his thoughts, to find a common hobby, to learn more about himself and about a new world he had entered. And that's what I want too. I had that friend, that companion. A person who understands, who knows what I've been through, even if we rarely discuss it. What's happened to our friendship, Mulder? Scully bent her head forward to rest it on the steering wheel and let the sobs echo in her car. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into the skin, the pain a minor physical accompaniment to the emotional sorrow. She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating only on getting enough air to sustain her, wishing that she could curl up and disappear into the hole she felt in her heart. As her head dropped further forward, her gold cross dangled away from where it had been caught on her blouse to droop against her chin. She reached up to run the chain between her fingers, feeling a small thread of the love her mother had extended to her. For eighteen years, she had worn this necklace, save one exception. She had not worn it when she believed Mulder died in a boxcar fire. I had the strength of your beliefs. But I don't feel them now, Mulder. You've shut me out. You've made this quest a solitary one again, like it was before I was assigned to you, to the X-Files. I don't know why. It's not about you alone. It's not just about me either. But we can't find the answers separately. We'll never succeed that way. You once knew that. What's happened? I have to find out, Mulder. I have to know what is going on. I'm afraid to, because we've always found our way together in the past. We've withstood poisonings, abductions, shootings and we've emerged stronger for it. But now I feel our partnership disintegrating, and we're the ones who are doing it. We've got to stop it, Mulder. We're doing their work for them. Scully looked up at her reflection. Her eyes regained a bit of their usual resolve. She took a deep breath and started the car. Her bath could wait, she decided, as she headed back to the office. --- As Scully exited the elevator, she could hear Mulder rustling in the office. The door was open, which only happened when he was preparing to leave. She knew he would hear her approach, and she quickened her pace, intending to speak with him before he left. He nearly ran her into the wall in his haste. She tried to cover her disappointment with a one-liner, searching his face in a futile attempt to make eye contact. "Fire in the office, Mulder? He jostled the folders and papers in his hand in what she considered a weak ploy to divert her attention. "What? Oh, no, uh, I've just got some reports I've got to get up to, uh, Skinner before he decides to dock my pay." He turned up his mouth in a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, which darted around nervously in an effort she recognized from her own attempts to conceal the truth from him. She realized then how transparent she had been then, and her determination to talk with him, to reason with him, to have it out with him, faded. She trained her eyes on his face, willing him to look at her just once, ready to display the compassion and concern she felt. He continued to look at her forehead, her coat, the poster on the wall. "Look Scully, I've got to head out for a couple of days. I think I'm going to go see my mom, see how she's doing." Okay, Dana, you can relate to needing to see your mom. Perhaps that will help him regain his equilibrium, help him feel more rested. He jostled the papers again, distracting her enough to drop her gaze and focus on his hands. To focus on the plane ticket to Chicago. No. No. No, Mulder. Why are you lying to me? How did I never notice that you are just as bad a liar as I am? Because he's only started lying to me. Or has he? She looked back at his face, feeling her eyes boring into him, targeting her anger on him. She steeled her voice, not wanting to give him any hint of her discovery. "Oh, well then, you'd better get going. Have a safe trip." "Yeah." His smile faltered again. "See you later, Mulder?" Until the next time you lie to me? "Yeah. See you." She went into the office and shut the door firmly. --- Mulder had decided to use BWI airport in Baltimore when he made his travel arrangements for this trip. It was not used as much by government types as National and Dulles, yet was large enough to inconspicuously blend in with the crowd. He also thought the drive would be good; give him a chance to think, prepare for what he hoped was the last leg of this quest. Now, he was not so sure. He had hoped against all hope to be out of the office before Scully returned. He had been wondering all morning how to explain his sudden interest in seeing his mother. When she had said that she had errands to run, his heart almost jumped with a shameless joy. It wouldn't be the first time he had left her behind, but at least he could leave without telling another lie to her face. He hated lying to her, keeping her in the dark. In the beginning it had been easier, meeting Deep Throat secretly, signaling X with the masking tape. But as their partnership and their friendship developed, a dependency also formed, slowly, piece by piece. He remembered her lying on the bed in the hotel room on their first case, imploring him to trust her. He had silently envied her ability to place her faith in him so easily, without hesitation. By lying, he felt as if he was pulling out the cornerstone of their partnership and it was only a matter of time before the whole thing would come crashing down. I should have told her, he thought as he changed lanes to pass another car. She knows how to take care of herself, and her insight would help me clear the murkiness. I need her objectivity on this. But then he thought of Marita's warning - "You have to protect her from this" and he knew deep down she was right. This was his quest, had been from the very beginning. He could rehash the guilt trips and the angst-filled evenings staring at the blank television screen all he wanted, but it came back to one simple point. It was his responsibility to find his sister. Scully definitely had her own motivations for joining with him, and he never wanted to make her feel as though her reasons were less important to him. In the end, though, Scully had been an unwitting participant in this journey; believing wholeheartedly that she followed him with open eyes. In reality, she had instead been pummeled by the intensity of his passion to know the truth, a passion that she had once warned him about. Despite her prescriptive dose of skepticism on each case, she had come to believe just as passionately, just as blindingly. And what had it gotten her? Nothing but pain and heartache. They had used her to get to him. Taken her away and covered it up in a blanket of deceit. Three months. Three long and lonely months, full of self-doubt and despair for him and who knows what for her? In a weird twist of logic, he had been glad that she remembered nothing of her experience. He, the man who valued knowledge of the truth above all other, was relieved she had been spared the agony of memories. But it hadn't stopped there. He knew all too well the guilt she carried concerning Melissa's death. She had never really mentioned it since that night in the hospital room, but he saw the look she sometimes got when she was thinking about her sister. Memories, regrets, and if only's. Scully did need to be protected this time. This time, it wasn't about her. She had nothing to gain, but everything to lose. --- later that day Scully always sat a little straighter in Skinner's office, trying to add a few inches that her high heels could not offer while sitting down. Skinner had kept her waiting, which he only did when he was furious with them, but rarely was that anger aimed at her alone. "Agent Scully, do you know that Agent Mulder has requested a one-week vacation for the purposes of visiting his mother?" Skinner's voice took on the tone he must have learned from his drill sergeant in the Army, while he shifted files from one side of his desk to the other. Damn you Mulder, for making me participate in your lie. "I was unaware of the length of his request, sir, but I do know he wanted to see her." Scully relaxed a bit, the smoothness with which she delivered the ambiguous response helping her maintain her poise. "I have approved his request. He will return on Monday." "I'm sure he will appreciate your concern, sir." She felt the back of the chair against her back as she took a quiet, calming breath. Skinner's hands stilled, his eyes raised up to meet hers. Suddenly, she could feel the shift in his demeanor, knowing that she was to be interrogated. "Have you and Agent Mulder experienced any tensions recently?" Calm, Dana. Keep very calm. She allowed her face to reflect mild surprise. "I'm unsure of what you mean." "Let me stop beating around the bush, Agent Scully. Are you aware that Agent Mulder has requested a formal review of your performance?" This time she could not contain the flurry of emotion reflected on her face. "Excuse me, sir?" "I have here a request from Agent Mulder to conduct a formal appraisal on your performance on the X-Files. His statement cites a lack of collaboration on investigations and disparaging comments made by you in the presence of cooperating law enforcement officers on a recent case." Skinner's stare at her and not the paper revealed that he had read this statement many times before confronting her. Her mind raced over the last case in Missouri, the argument in front of the local sheriff, her insistence on pursuing the fingerprint with the lab in Kansas City instead of staying with him in the little town. "Agent Scully?" She swallowed audibly and tried to regain her composure. "Sir, not only am I unaware of any disapproval Agent Mulder may have toward my performance, but I am also unsure of why you are informing me instead of Agent Mulder doing so." "Agent Scully, you are aware of the sensitive nature of this request and the delicacy with which it must be handled. Your position is tenuous, and any hint of ineffectiveness between you and Agent Mulder will result in the closing of the X-Files and your reassignment." "May I see the request, sir?" As he extended the piece of paper toward her, she remembered the similar action of the man at the mall. 'I am looking for friend.' Mulder, I'm your partner, your friend. Why are you doing this to me? She looked down at the typewritten memo, his signature approving what could be the destruction of their partnership. Skinner's voice interrupted her thoughts. "I am surprised that Agent Mulder filed this report, but I have to initiate a formal review of your work. I have to respond to a notice like this, Agent Scully, otherwise others will question why it was not addressed. I want all field journals and pertinent data relating to this case on my desk by tomorrow noon." His words thundered in her head. Reassignment. A formal review. Her career advancement had not been a serious consideration for over four years now, but that she may receive a reprimand at Mulder's request was too much to comprehend. "Is that all, sir?" "Yes, that is all." Tuesday, April 15, 1997 basement office The next morning, Scully entered the office early, her fatigue and worry weighing her down as much as the five years of paperwork stuffed into her briefcase. She had not slept at all, instead printing out her field reports, reviewing the files, searching for some rationale for why he could have done this. She had tried calling him on his cellular phone, but hung up after the twentieth ring, fighting a combination of sadness and sickness the entire time. It was obvious to her he had left so that she could suffer this humiliation alone. Perhaps he knew that she would be harder on herself than any review board, and he wanted to inflict that self-recrimination without being around. She had not confided in her mother when she had called to invite her to dinner. The memories of her induced paranoia still haunted her - she clearly remembered pointing a gun at Mulder with her mother standing in the way. 'Scully, you are the *only* one I trust.' What happened, Mulder? Why don't you trust me anymore? What did I do to deserve this? She gathered up her materials and went to Skinner's office.
Chicago, Illinois same time They had left the motel early in the morning, knowing that they had a long day ahead of them. Mulder took a sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup and waited as Marita showed Foster the map again. He was trying to be patient with the older man, but at this rate, they could be out here for months. "Okay, Mr. Foster, this is where we are now," Marita said pointing to a spot on the map. "Midway airport is here. This is Lake Shore Drive; the Chicago River runs here. Does any of this sound familiar?" Foster smiled. "Unfortunately, my dear, it all sounds familiar. My memory of the project is all that is missing; I don't suffer from total amnesia." Marita turned back to Mulder who was lightly thumping his hands on the steering wheel in time to a song in his head. The look in her eyes said that she was as frustrated as he was. "Any suggestions?" Mulder shrugged. "I guess we keep driving around the city. Hopefully something will jog his memory." He looked up to the rearview mirror, trying to catch Foster's attention. "Hey Foster, did you ever catch a ball game? Maybe we could swing by Wrigley Field." Foster sat up a little straighter in the back seat, his brow furrowed in concentration. "What did you say?" Mulder turned around to face him. "I asked if you'd seen a ball game at Wrigley Field." The older man's pupils dilated slightly. "Field...Oh, god. The facility is in the country. I remember that it was completely surrounded by corn fields."
later that day Skinner's Office "Agent Scully?" Skinner's look was foreboding, and she experienced the latest in the series of doubts about this step. "Yes sir. I have the files you requested sir." She entered the office, briefcase in hand and crossed to stand in front of his desk. "Sit down, Agent Scully." She slid into the chair, hoping the maneuver was controlled enough to mask her uncertainty. She coughed slightly, looking up to find Skinner staring at her as if she were transparent. "Sir, after my sister died, when you spoke to me about coming back to work, you mentioned a possibility in a pathology unit. That I could work outside of the DC area." She attempted to keep her voice even, not realizing her hands had tightened their grip on each other. "Scully, that was over a year ago. I don't know if the assignment or the need still exists." He leaned back in the chair, measuring her response. "I understand that sir. I was hoping you would be able to check on the availability of such a position." She felt her body continue to tense, a physical response to what she had once considered an impossible action to take. "Agent Scully, are you officially requesting a transfer?" Again, Skinner cut through the shroud of the conversation to strike at the one word she had not found the courage to utter. She looked at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. Is that what she meant? Is that what she wanted? "Sir, my effectiveness on the X-Files and as Agent Mulder's partner has diminished to the point where I believe the Bureau would be more ably served by assigning another agent in my place." An articulate sentence, filled with the precise grammar on which her English teachers had drilled her. She even delivered the line with dignity, almost with pride, although she was staring at the window behind Skinner's desk. "Agent Scully." His voice commanded her to look directly at him, her eyes fearing what he would say next, hoping he would leave any discussion of Mulder out of the conversation. "This course of action is one I encourage you to consider very thoroughly. Have you consulted Agent Mulder on this decision?" What was it about Skinner that enabled him to hear what she was thinking? "Sir, I believe that Agent Mulder's current dissatisfaction with my work will lead him to concur with my assessment." "Very well, Scully. I'll look into the matter." His eyes locked on hers, impressing upon her his disappointment with her decision.
Thursday, April 17, 1997 Illinois It had taken the better part of three long and frustrating days, but they had finally succeeded. They had been driving down the back roads farther and farther from the city. Interstates had given way to two laned paved roads, which had eventually turned to one lane of gravel. Mulder carefully maneuvered around the near hairpin turn; the urge to become Mario Andretti and break up the monotony was almost overwhelming. They had crossed a set of railroad tracks near an abandoned farm, when Foster suddenly yelled from the backseat. "Stop! Stop the car!" Mulder jumped and quickly pulled over to the side of the road, fearful that his driving had made the man carsick. Foster opened the back door and was out of the vehicle before either Mulder or Marita could stop him. He limped through the grassy ditch and grabbed hold of the barbed wire fence for support. Mulder quickly followed and stood next to the other man. Foster was staring intently at the dilapidated buildings. "Foster? What's wrong? Do you remember something?" The older man turned his face toward Mulder, tears coursing freely from his eyes. He raised a shaky hand and pointed to the farm. "That's it," he said in a hoarse whisper. Mulder looked at the buildings, then back to Marita who was waiting in the car. Damn. Damn. Damn. There was no way this place used to be a research laboratory. Foster's memories were obviously skewed as well as screwed. Mulder laid a hand on Foster's back. "Come on. We'll take you home." Foster jerked away. "No! We have to get the tapes and papers! I hid them where no one would find them, they're still there. I know it!" The agent sighed. This was going to be tough. "Look, Foster. Look at this place. It's ready to collapse. You're telling me that highly sensitive genetic research went on in there?" He softened his tone. "We have all had a really long day. Let's go back to the hotel, maybe get some dinner. Okay?" Foster shook his head. "You disappoint me Fox. I have given you what you have been searching for and you're turning your back on it. I remember, damn it! I remember like it was yesterday. Yes, the house has fallen into a state of disrepair, but that's not where the facility was located. It's underground. Below the basement." Mulder glared at him intently. "Underground? You're sure this is the place?" Foster nodded. "As sure as I am of anything. I was here for three years." Mulder motioned for Marita to joined them. He met her half way, taking her arm and pulling her to the side. "He thinks this is the place." Marita raised her eyebrows. "Here?" Mulder shrugged. "I think it's pretty unlikely, but I should check it out to be sure. Why don't you take Foster and wait in the car. This shouldn't take too long." Mulder walked back to the car to the car to get a flashlight. He returned to where Foster and Marita were standing next to the fence. With a quick nod, he lifted his long legs and gingerly climbed over. When he started to walk away from them, Foster called out. "Wait. I'm coming with you." Mulder turned back toward the fence. "I don't think that's a good idea. This place is a rotting mess." Foster gave him a look of indignance. "I might not be as agile as I used to be, but I'm no invalid. Besides, you'll never find it without me. The door is very well disguised." Mulder grudgingly agreed and helped them both over the fence. The house was a disaster. Huge chunks of plaster had fallen from the walls and ceiling, exposing the lathe work behind. Every window was either missing or broken, causing the tattered remains of the curtains to flutter in the breeze. Thick dust coated everything in site. "Looks like the maid's taken the decade off," Mulder commented wryly. Foster stood in what had been the kitchen and just looked. His newly recovered memory supplying images from twenty years previous. "There was a family that lived up here," he said. "Not a real family, of course. They were all part of the project, but they took care of the children." "Children?" Mulder asked. "How many children?" The older man rubbed his hand across his chin as he thought. "It depended. Sometimes there were only a couple; sometimes as many as fifteen or so." Marita, who had been quiet up until now spoke up. "These children, who were they?" Foster shook his head. "I don't know. They were brought to us." "For use in the project?" Foster nodded. "But didn't the neighbors think it was odd, different children coming and going?" He shook his head. "This place isn't exactly in the suburbs. They were prepared to say that the family took in foster children if anyone asked. The kids would stay here until permanent homes could be found for them." Mulder rubbed his head. The web continued to get more tangled. "We should try to find the door," he said, tired of hearing how deep and ugly this conspiracy had been. Foster held up his hand. "Fox. Before we continue, there's something I need to tell you." Mulder gestured for him to continue. "I didn't want to say anything, until I knew for certain. But standing here, now, I know it's true." He laid a calming hand on the agent's arm. "Your sister was here." Mulder jerked as if he had been jolted with an electrical current. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open as if to scream, but no sound came out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "Let's find the door." End Part 8 The Partnership I: Dissolution (9/14)
same day It's like you've lost touch with your own intuition. She looked at the simple headstone surrounded by short blades of new grass. Her own name, Scully, in large capital letters, as if proclaiming to the world her role in her sister's death, this week two years ago. Her fresh bouquet of flowers lay at the base, a small gathering of daisies bound by a simple ribbon as her regular penance. She raised her hand to examine the faded roses her mother had brought the previous week, the leaves curled and crumbling, the petals nearly gone. She knew she had been responding to the symbolism more frequently in the last few weeks, and had reeled from the contradiction to her precise, methodical nature. Oh, Missy. You are so right. I'm completely lost. I know what the evidence says. I know what I hear. I know what I see. But I don't know what to believe. The few remaining petals dropped as she lowered the bouquet to her side. This is how I feel, like each piece of my existence is slowly drifting away from me. It isn't all wrapped up in Mulder's shutting me out. It's everything - my abduction, my career, my own health, my future. Missy, even when I tried to deny my own instincts, pursuing the scientific explanation for all in nature, I knew that I could sense things. I've had dreams, I've felt hunches that could only be what's called the sixth sense. And now I'm feeling that I've been betrayed by all that I've done, all that I've worked for. And by everyone I've worked with. Everything is crashing down around me. I want so much to know that there will be a good and just result to all of this. That for every trial I must endure, there will be a reward. Her eyes drifted to the tombstone behind Missy's. Engraved upon it were the beloved words from the 23rd Psalm. 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' But I *do* fear the evil, its presence becomes more palpable every day. I fear that deliverance will come at a higher cost than I can pay. I'm losing my job, I'm losing my best friend, I may even lose my life. I want the happy endings again. I want the innocence, the laughter, the unguarded moments of pure happiness, the treasure of the simple things in our lives. I want to know that I will have that back in my life someday. I have to find that faith again. Every time it slips away, it comes back to me diminished in some fundamental way. I don't know this time if it will come back to me at all. But I need that faith to keep going. I want it. Missy, please help me. I need to believe.
same day The door to the facility was heavily disguised, hidden behind several false walls in the basement. Mulder realized that they never would have found it without help. The metal door groaned as the rusted hinges were used for the first time in at least a decade. What they saw behind the door made all but Foster gasp in surprise. The steps and the walls leading down to the lower level were made of shiny stainless steel. The beam from Mulder's flashlight nearly blinded them as it refracted and reflected. They cautiously made their way down the stairs and entered a large area, probably once a laboratory. Stainless steel counters ran the length of the two longest wall, matching cabinets hung above. In the middle of the room, there was a huge table, also made of the same material. Mulder shone his flashlight toward the back of the room, highlighting another door. "What's through there?" "More of the facility. My office was there." Mulder went to the door and pushed. It opened onto a long corridor. The whole right wall was made of glass, behind which were several smaller rooms; complete with hospital beds. There were two other doors, one at each end of the hallway. He held the door open for the others. "What are the hospital beds for, Foster?" Mulder asked, his voice carrying slight hostility. Foster stared at the floor. "Probably exactly what you're thinking. Sometimes the "patients" became ill from the procedures. I don't know everything that happened here. They had doctors to attend to the needs of the sick. I worked in the lab down there," he said pointing to the door behind them. "But you saw what they were doing to these children. You saw the end result," Mulder shot back. Marita grabbed his arm, tugging him down closer to her. "Mulder. He's on our side, remember?" Foster nodded. "Fox is right. I did see. That's why I stole those documents. I knew there was nothing I could do. But somebody needed to know." "Speaking of, where is this documentation hidden?" "Upstairs, in the basement. But I want to see my lab and office first." Mulder lit the way and they followed Foster to the other end of the corridor. The office looked like that of any other researcher, except that all the papers and equipment had been removed. A row of file cabinets stood empty, their drawers hanging open. Foster motioned for them to follow through yet another door. They entered Foster's personal lab. More stainless steel. There were marks on the tiled floor where heavy equipment had set and been moved. Quite some time ago. The back wall was lined with shelves, containing hundreds of small specimen jars. Mulder picked up one of the jars and held it up for Foster to see. "What are these?" Foster looked at Marita, as if hoping she would save him from all these questions. "They're DNA samples. Taken from project participants." "Participants?! These were people, Foster, little children," Mulder shouted unable to temper his anger. "You did experiments on helpless children. On my sister!" "Fox!" Marita shouted. "That's enough." Mulder started to say more, but she stopped him with her hand. "It's been a long day. We are all getting tired and irritable, but we still need to find Foster's documents, so let's stop playing judge and jury. We need to work together." Mulder pushed back through the door, leaving them in the dark. When the finally found the exit, Mulder was waiting for them in the hall. He had calmed down visibly. "I'm sorry. Okay? This is just a little overwhelming." Marita slid her hand up and down his back. "I know." Foster lead them back upstairs to the basement. He made his way behind the old furnace and pointed to some stones on the foundation. "Behind those rocks, that's where I hid everything. There should be a metal lockbox." Mulder crouched down and began removing the stones. He took the flashlight and shined it in the opening. About two feet back was the box. --- Friday, April 18, 1997 basement office The dial tone echoed ominously in her head, mirroring the progression of dread traveling throughout her body. While she knew that what her logical, reasoned intellect insisted upon was the truth, she could not escape the taste of denial that tinged the boundaries of her rationale. Scully pressed the End button on her cellular. The gesture held more symbolism that she wanted to admit. The end of her stubbornness. The end of her refusal to admit what had happened to her. Perhaps the end of the last bit of innocence she possessed. She looked again at the file in her hand, a file she hadn't known existed until she was alerted to its presence by her anonymous caller. She examined the cover, the red edging outweighed in familiarity only by the name on the jacket. Dana Scully. X73317 I am an X-File. This is something I have always known, a vague realization I can bury as deeply as the paperwork on Mulder's desk. But seeing it here brings it into focus. More so than I want. She flipped the file open to reveal the black and white photo, its border crimped from repeated handling. Her frightened eyes looking up at her abductor, the gag preventing her from audibly releasing the horror she felt at the trooper's senseless death. The feelings and images assaulted her mercilessly - the claustrophobia of the confined trunk, the sound of the song on the radio marked in time by the gunshot, the certainty of her impending death. The whirring of the helicopters drowning out the horrid cackle of Duane Barry's triumph - a successful exchange of specimens. The imaginary white lights blinded her so suddenly she swayed and grabbed the file cabinet for support. The thick stack of 302s, requests for research materials, incident reports of a murder at a tram, and Duane Barry's autopsy results. All reviewed by Fox Mulder. Her medical report. She had never wanted to see it, didn't want to know the extent of the experiments they had performed. Learning about Operation Paperclip had given her enough vision into the minds of the Axis powers that had set this unceasing chain of events in motion. She crossed the office floor, the clicking of her heels accentuating the thumping of her heart. The ingrained mental exercises began, strenuously testing each hypothesis against the evidence she had accumulated in the past six months. Her secret envy of Mulder's irrational theoretical leaps faded as she compiled the list, pro versus con, betrayal versus trust. She replayed the conversation in her head again. "Find Duane Barry's X-rays. You are linked more closely than you suspect. Your partner knows this." Click. She flipped again to the file, switching on a desk lamp to illuminate the film of his X-ray. She could clearly see three foreign objects, in his mandible, in his nasal cavity and in his abdomen. What was the link? There was nothing in his neck. Oh my god... She spread out the file, wrecking the precise piles she maintained as easily as Mulder maintained his disordered organization. She began sorting the sheets, separating into three sections the information on her, on Duane Barry and on the tram operator. Her medical report lay on top. Her breathing became more labored as she opened the medical documents, remembering Frohike's tale of smuggling them out of the hospital. There were no X-rays. Each paper had been worn like the earlier photograph, with Mulder's scribbling lining the margins. Branched DNA. Ideas of designer antibiotics and hormone therapy, reminding Scully of the retrovirus that nearly killed Mulder in the arctic. More sheets with bloodwork and cardiology reports. Her immune system had been compromised, doctors noted that isolation strategies had been dismissed so her family could be near her. They didn't believe she would live long enough to require isolation efforts. Another report, this time a post-ICU summary by her attending physician, Dr. Daley. Rehabilitation therapy and nutritional upgrading, occasional blood transfusions to remove more impurities from her system. Pain medication from her old appendectomy scar that had been lanced again. Dental work to repair damage from stress- induced teeth grinding. Frequent diagnostics to identify remaining areas of concern. A short procedure to relieve pressure in her sinuses. Mulder's notes indicated that he had reviewed this information after she had been released from the hospital. Her eyes riveted to his next scribble. "Implants." Mulder knew about the implant? Why didn't he tell me? He's known for over a year about the thing in my neck. He had to have known how that would affect me. What made him think he should keep that from me? He dismissed it so casually when I told him about Betsy Hagopian. "That is disturbing. But I don't think you should freak out until we find out what this thing is." No, what you really meant is that there were more important things for you to pursue. Whatever else got in the way of your search for Samantha, nothing else mattered next to your selfish, all- encompassing paranoia. Not even me. "I've got a fax coming in." She skimmed the paragraph, metal fragments, perhaps shrapnel from gunfire, lodged in the neck and sinus passages. NoNoNoNoNoNo Earlier in the summary, dental work to repair damage from stress- induced teeth grinding. The dental work involved placing a cap on one of her lower front teeth. But grinding would involve the back teeth. The report indicated her lower front jaw, near the gumline. A procedure to relieve pressure in her sinuses. Her appendectomy scar, the one she had had since she was seven years old, had been lanced. Duane Barry's implants were in his nasal cavity, his gums, and his abdomen. The only one she had found was in her neck. The only one she had looked for. And Mulder's scribbling verified that he knew. He had known the whole time. And he had done nothing. In her battle between logic and emotion, Dana Scully finally succumbed to the mounting hysteria. The file flew across the room, fluttering to the floor piece by piece like the scattered remnants of her trust in him. Her living will remained on the desk. Her signature, crisp and concise, next to Mulder's scrawl, one she knew he'd come to regret so soon after affixing it to this document. His signature was yet another symbol of their trust, how they placed their lives in each other's hands. Another example of how he deceived me. What was happening? How had this partnership, this friendship of reliance and trust on one person disintegrated into harsh personal attacks and petty jealousies? How did these events, easily believed for their perceived nobility and honesty, get so twisted into evil and lies? Did I lie to you, Mulder? Forgive me, but yes, I lied. I lied every time I said I was fine, every time I shook off your questions of concern. I lied when I said I didn't regret a day of our partnership. But I lied to you because I didn't want to add to your burden, to reinforce the honed practice of guilt that you have endured for twenty-four years. I lied because I cared. For that reason alone. Why Mulder? Why did you lie to me?
Friday, April 18, 1997 2:00 pm He was an FBI agent, not a safe cracker. To his two companions, that fact became fairly obvious in a short period of time. Although they had found the box yesterday, it still remained locked as tight as ever. Mulder grunted his frustration as he threw the lockpick set down on the table. "How the hell did you expect anybody to get into this thing in the event of your demise?" he asked the man sitting across the table. Foster shrugged and gave the agent his best apologetic look. "I guess I never really gave that aspect much thought. My only goal was to keep the contents safe from the elements and spying eyes." "Well, you did a great job," Mulder said with annoyance. "I can't believe this. Against incredible odds, we finally managed to find the place, retrieve a box that has been stashed away for over twenty years, and what is our stumbling block? We can't get the damn thing open. What's it made of anyway, kryptonite?" Foster chuckled. "I don't know. Periodically, supplies would come into the lab in these containers. They were durable and handy. I didn't want to raise any suspicions by buying a regular lockbox." Mulder closed his eyes and rested his chin on templed fingers. He had broken into facilities that boasted some of the highest level security systems, had picked locks on cars, doors, and file cabinets. Why the hell was he having so much trouble getting into a small metal box? "Maybe, I could shoot the lock," he said, thinking out loud. Foster sat up alarmed by this idea. "No, you can't. You might damaged the contents." "So what do you suggest? Finding someone with a laser in their garage and politely asking to use it for a couple of hours?" At that moment, Marita entered the room through the connecting door carrying a room service tray. "Why didn't I think of that before?" she asked pushing the box aside and setting the tray in its place. "You know someone who keeps a laser in their garage? Oooo. My kind of woman," Mulder said sarcastically. She gave him an unamused glare. "I know someone who might be able to help. Let me make a few calls." Two hours later they were on the road, bound for the Canadian border.
same day outer corridor of Skinner's Office She sat on the couch, wondering if this might be the last time she waited in this particular location for news of the latest case, the latest lie or cover-up. His assistant, Jeannie, had phoned her and requested her presence for a brief meeting. Skinner opened the door and noticed her slight jump. "Agent Scully," he commanded. She rose unsteadily and moved past him into his office. She again stood in front of his desk, waiting for his permission to sit. His tone had softened somewhat. "Please have a seat, Scully." He moved to sit in the chair next to her, and the gesture made Scully even more nervous. He had always sat behind the desk, allowing the large piece of furniture to create barriers indicative of his position as her superior. "Scully, I have made inquiries at other field offices for a pathology position. There is one opening, but it would be a complicated assignment." He looked at her intently, noticing her averted eyes. "Sir - " "Scully, I don't know what's going on between you and Agent Mulder, but I recommend that you take some time to think about this. A rush to judgment on your part may cost you down the road." He leaned a bit closer to her, and she imitated the action, moving further away. But this time, she looked up at him. "Sir, you once told me that it would be okay for me to step away." "Scully, the circumstances here are very different - " "Sir, if I accepted a transfer, would it delay the review of my performance? Would it satisfy those who have always wanted me out of the way?" She went back to staring at the wall. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Scully, I don't know the answers to your questions. But I want you to think about this - very carefully." She started to rise from her chair, and he quickly moved to stand in front of her, forcing her to look at him again. "Very carefully, Agent Scully." End Part 9 The Partnership I: Dissolution (10/14)
Saturday 11:30 a.m. Marita glanced at the man beside her in the front seat; admiring, just for a moment, the long outline of his body. She had been surprised when he suggested that she drive at least part of the way on this trip. She had been even more surprised when he had dropped his defenses long enough to fall asleep. He was paranoid by nature, that much she did know about him; always checking over his shoulder for shadows. He was guarded, reserved, and unnaturally wary of his fellow man. But for some reason, he seemed to trust her. Most of it was probably an act. She wasn't naive enough to think otherwise. But still, the look he sometimes got said, he wanted to believe her. The sign on the highway indicated that they were four miles from Clinton, Michigan, where they were to switch drivers. She gently tapped him on the shoulder and watched as his eyes slowly drifted open. "Fox? We're at Clinton. Do you still want to drive?" Mulder shifted in his seat and cleared his throat trying to give his body a chance to wake. "What time is it?" he asked in a voice still thick with sleep. "It's 11:30." He rubbed at his blurry eyes. "I could use some coffee and a restroom break. See if there is a all night gas station in town. We'll change drivers there." Marita found a small convenient store and pulled up next to the gas pumps. Mulder went inside to pay for the gas and other necessities, as Marita woke Foster. Two men in a dark blue van watched.
2 hours later Mulder shook his head as he pulled into the driveway of a rundown building on the outskirts of Windsor, Ontario. The rusted sign above the door indicated that this had once been an auto mechanic shop. "Are you sure this is the place?" he asked Marita. "Yes. I'm sure." Mulder narrowed his eyes at her, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Just who is this mysterious contact?" Marita smiled at his blossoming paranoia. "It's okay. And as I told you earlier, a friend from long ago." That smile did nothing to alleviate Mulder's sense of uneasiness. "He keeps a laser here?" "Please, Fox. You have to trust me on this. I know it looks suspicious, but the man likes his privacy. He has agreed to help us, no questions asked. All right?" Mulder drew his bottom lip through his teeth as he considered their options. He was not happy about this situation, but thus far, he had no reason to doubt Marita's integrity. And he had been unsuccessful with his attempts at opening the container. Finally, he gestured for them all to get out of the car, but he pulled his gun from its holster and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Saturday 6:00 a.m. Hallelujah. The box was finally open. The first rays of early morning were beginning to light the sky as the three weary travelers emerged from the garage. Mulder glanced over his shoulder at Foster, who was carrying the box and grinning like a kid at Christmas. They had resisted the urge to inspect the contents too closely in front of Marita's laser-toting contact. No need involving someone else. But Foster insisted on a quick check. He grabbed the box and turned his back on the others in the room. When he turned back around, his face told them nothing. He nodded stiffly and motioned for the Marita and Mulder to proceed him through the door. But Mulder could now tell by the expression on Foster's face that they had succeeded. Mulder's curiosity had reached it's peak by the time they got settled into the car. He turned in his seat to face Foster, who had once again claimed the backseat for himself. "Well?" he asked impatiently. Foster grinned. "Everything appears to be in order, at least as far as I can remember." The agent waved his hands in frustration. "What's in the box, Foster? Let me see." The older man clutched the box to his chest possessively. "No. Not yet. I want to study it first." Mulder gaped at him in disbelief. "Study it? Look, we haven't gone through all this just so *you* could keep us in the dark. We all have a stake in this, remember?" Foster shook his head. "I have no intention of hiding anything from you or Marita. But we need to proceed carefully. The contents of this box may present some very damaging information. We need to take precautions." Mulder snorted, but Marita laid a hand on his shoulder. "He's right. We are still outside the country, if something were to happen, we may not be able to get protection. Let's drive back across the border. We can get some rooms in a motel and have a chance to look at the data more closely." With a deep sigh, Mulder started the vehicle and turned the car in the direction from which they had come.
7:00 a.m. She stood at her mother's back door, crying softly, returning once again to this place of safety. What she once considered sanctuary. She knocked on the door again and checked her pocket for the missing key just one more time. She knew that she couldn't talk to her mother the previous evening, after storming out of the office and dissolving into a sobbing huddle on her couch for hours. She spent the night pacing in her apartment, and finally changed into her running clothes and ran, leaving behind her phone and her gun, not caring where she ended her run, just trying to escape what her mind was telling her. They still had control over her. At any moment, they could inflict some poison, some disease, and she would always be susceptible. There was no place she could run to where she would be protected. Maggie Scully opened the door, wrapped tightly in her robe to defend against the morning chill. She pushed the door open just enough to catch her sobbing daughter as she stumbled over the threshold. "Dana? Dana, honey, what's wrong?" Scully didn't understand exactly why, but the one thing she wanted to hear most at that moment was that familiar male voice, not using her given name, but her family name. The person she had believed in, the person who had denied her the truth. Instead she looked at eyes so like her own, reflecting her pain. A woman she could always depend on, trust with all her heart. "Oh, Mom. I've done it again. I've made a terrible mistake. And it's all my fault."
Saturday 1:00 p.m. Mulder paced his room nervously as he waited for Foster to awaken from his nap. They had all been exhausted by the time they had found a suitable motel and checked in. Marita had suggested that they try to get some rest and Foster had wearily agreed. Mulder's protests had fallen on deaf ears. His offer to inspect the information while they rested was also rejected. He was too wired to even think of sleeping. The contents of that box could hold the answers to all the questions that had been burning in him for so many years. Or it could hold no information at all. Either way, he had to know. Thoughts of his partner drifted into his conscience. If Scully were here, they would already have the data documented and thoroughly inspected. Hell, she would probably have already had the box itself analyzed. Moving at this snail's pace was making him crazy. He nearly jumped out of his skin when there was a knock on the door. After peering through the peep hole in the door, he quickly undid the safety chain and swung the door open for Marita and Foster to enter. "Now that we've had our beauty sleep, can we start?" he asked curtly. Marita eyed him questioningly. She could tell by his frazzled appearance that he had not slept at all. Foster also noticed that Mulder was in no mood for any more delays and headed for the table with the box. As they had done at almost every meeting, the three pulled up chairs around the small motel table. Mulder held his breath as Foster reverently opened the lid and lifted out the contents of the box. Two audio cassettes and several notebooks. The older man picked up the cassettes, running his finger over the top edge of the plastic case. "These are recordings of phone conversations made at the facility, both incoming and outgoing. Every call was monitored to prevent the leak of information. This is how I found out about the plans for erasing my memory." He put the cassettes back on the table and gestured to the stack of papers. "This is a collection of all types of information: logs, journals, lists. Everything I thought that would be important for future reference." Mulder reached to pick up one of the books, but Foster stopped him with a hand on his wrist. The agent looked at him sharply, daring the other man to try to get in his way. "Before we begin Fox, I want you to remember that all this happened a long time ago. We thought we were doing our part to protect this country from unwanted aggression. We were not evil people." Mulder's heart pounded in his chest, excitement and fear overwhelming him. He nodded and Foster removed his hand to let Mulder pick up the first book.
1:00 p.m. The Spirit is The Truth. She stared at the headstone, not quite believing that it was her name she read, carved in stone forever. In some ways, she was glad she had never known about this, but today the symbolism felt horrifically appropriate. The tombstone to go over the coffin in which she had been nailed. Her mother moved up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Dana, I'm so sorry. Please know that I didn't want to do this. I didn't know what else to do, and I needed to find some closure for you, and for me." Scully wiped her eyes again before pulling her mother into a tight hug. "Mom, I know it must have been so hard for you, so soon after Dad." Maggie pulled away from her daughter's embrace to look at her exhausted face. "Fox, he argued with me for so long about it, and he wouldn't stop fighting for you. Dana, please know that he couldn't just stop fighting for you now. He couldn't." Scully shook her head, moving away from her mother. "I wish I could tell you, Mom, but he's changed. He's lied to me, he doesn't trust me anymore, he's tried to get me kicked off the X-Files, out of the Bureau. I know it sounds like what I said before, but I have so much proof, so much evidence this time. He's lied to Skinner too. He knows what happened to me when I was taken." She leaned against the wall and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "Have you talked with him about it?" Maggie moved over to her daughter, but she shook her head and lowered herself to the floor, putting her head on her knees. Maggie remembered similar scenes from Dana's childhood, the long red hair obscuring her daughter's legs as she rocked herself back and forth to ward off the latest nightmare. She knelt down and ran her hand up and down Dana's back. Her voice was now muffled, mixed with large gulps of air. "I tried, and he just ended up lying to me again. He's shutting me out, just like he's always done." "In the past, Dana, you said he'd shut you out to protect you." Maggie wrapped her arms around her daughter and hugged her tightly. "Now he's just protecting himself, Mom." --- Saturday 8:30 p.m. Several hours later, Mulder rubbed at his tired eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind the bed where he had taken up residency. Most of this information meant nothing to him. Coded number sequences, lists of chemicals and procedures, documents of the success and failures of cellular experiments; all written in technical jargon that would rival any episode of Star Trek. He questioned Foster, but the answers were often just as confusing. Until he came to the last book. A listing of all the test subjects from 1972 through 1976. There were hundreds; each with a complete description of their condition upon arrival, medical history, procedures performed, and results. No names were listed, but each subject was assigned a test number. With shaking hands, he turned back to November 1973 and ran his finger down as he quickly scanned each page. His heart stopped when he came to an entry in May of 1974. Subject Number: 3456-JK544. Female, age 8, brown hair, brown eyes... Mulder tried to slow himself as he read through the entry, but his eyes drifted toward the bottom of the page. ...suffering from erythroplakia and other indicators. Terminal. Pituitary DNA sampling ordered immediately upon expiration.. He drew in a sharp breath which caught the attention of the others. He held the book up so that Foster could see. "What does this mean? This part at the end - pituitary DNA sampling?" he asked in a voice tight with apprehension. Marita got up and retrieved the book from Mulder, handing it to Foster with the page marked. The former researcher scanned the area of text to which Mulder had alluded, then set the book carefully on the table. He removed his glasses and looked the agent straight in the eye, rubbing his chin as he chose his next words. "When we were at the facility, you mentioned the hospital beds and questioned the reasons for their presence." He cleared his throat nervously before he continued. "As you suspected, the beds were reserved for patients who were suffering side effects from the various experiments. Sometimes a test would not have the expected results, so a patient's cells would be altered by exposing them to doses of radiation. The radiation would cause the cells to mutate or change structurally. We had discovered early on that some body cells responded better to radiation exposure than others. One part that did not respond well was the brain. Altering cells within the brain had devastating and catastrophic side effects - retardation, loss of motor control, and in severe cases death." Foster stopped when he saw the look that had appeared on Mulder's face. The held up his hands to stop him. "Before you say anything, let me finish. We were not trying to harm these people, Fox. We tried to be as careful as we could." Mulder swallowed his retort with difficulty. He closed his eyes and laid down on the bed, the sight of the man suddenly making him nauseous. Foster looked from Mulder to Marita, trying to gauge her reaction. She met his eyes with an understanding smile and nodded for him to go on. "As I said, exposing brain cells had a negative effect, so we would protect that area with a lead lined hood. Like the lead blankets or vests that are used to protect patients who must have x-rays. As a result, there was a part of every individual that remained unaltered. A backup supply of the original DNA. If a subject became seriously ill and the prognosis was...terminal, the doctor would write the order that the pituitary gland be removed immediately upon death." Mulder sat up quickly and shot the older man a look that could kill. "Those bottles...in your lab, were they...samples...taken from...." He shook his head, unable to finish the question. His breath was coming in quick pants and Marita feared he was on the verge of either hyperventilation or explosion. Foster stiffened in his chair, bracing himself for Mulder's outburst. "Yes. Mostly. Some of them were taken from subjects before they became ill, but..." His sentence was cut short as Mulder sprang from the bed like a madman. "Shut up! Just shut up!" he screamed. "I don't want to hear any more about your experiments or tests or samples in bottles. The *person* in that book was my sister. You took her from me and exposed her to things that would kill her. Then you hacked her brain out and put it in a bottle for the sake of posterity? So you could do your little experiments on what was left?" He took a deep, shaky breath. "I should kill you right now, you son of bitch!" Marita, genuinely fearing for Foster's life, stood and approached Mulder as if he were a wounded animal. "It's okay. Calm down." she soothed softly. "We don't know for certain that the person in the book is your sister." Mulder turned his glare from Foster to her. "She was there! He said so himself!" he said pointing an accusing finger at the other man. She edged closer. "I know. But that may not be her." Foster stood, now fearing for Marita. "She's right. I know your sister was there, but I don't remember what happened to her." Mulder turned his attention back to Foster. "Well, that's a pretty convenient memory loss, isn't it? Nice try, but I've seen all the tricks." Foster shook his head vehemently as he moved to stand next to Marita. "No. It's true. There were so many, we didn't have personal contact." The agent chuckled, but there was no laughter in the action. "Oh, and that's supposed to make me feel better? To know that there were other children taken away and the people you left behind had their lives messed up too? Yeah, that's real comforting." Marita shot a horrified glance at Foster, afraid that Mulder's words had cut to the bone, but to his credit, Foster held steady. "Fox." He took a step closer. "That's the point. I know exactly how you feel. I don't know what happened to Tommy, the same as you don't know exactly what happened to your sister. Not every child that came to the facility died. Not all of them became ill. The only reason I remember your sister at all is that your father called and asked about her. I knew she was there, but I couldn't tell him; to do that would have certainly resulted in the death of my son." Mulder moved to sit on the bed and the others cleared a path for him. "So, I still don't know where Samantha is or what happened to her at the facility?" Foster sighed, not sure if what he was about to say would be a wise decision. "That's not necessarily true. If...if you truly believe that the entry in the book pertains to your sister and if you are absolutely certain that you want to know the truth, there might be a way to find out." Marita and Mulder both stared at him, but it was Mulder who asked first. "How?" The older man closed his eyes. "From the looks of things in my lab, it appears that all of the samples were left on the shelf. I don't know why. Perhaps there was no longer a need for them. But we could find the sample that corresponds to the subject number in the book and run a DNA text against a sample from your mother. It won't be an exact match, of course, but the indicators will show a relative match to within a few percentage points." It was Mulder's turn to close his eyes as he thought. It took only a few moments for him to reach a decision. "Let's go." End Part 10 The Partnership I: Dissolution (11/14)
Sunday 12:30 p.m. It had taken them several hours to travel from the motel back to the facility. Mulder had insisted on driving at a high rate of speed despite Marita's warning not to attract attention. Fortunately, there were no close encounters with the highway patrol. He had been nearly silent during the entire trip, reducing any forced communication to single syllable answers. And for some reason, that frightened her more than his uncontrolled outbreaks at the motel. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Foster had been equally uncommunicative. He had slept most of the time and Marita was afraid that he had finally reached his breaking point. It was becoming apparent that she would have to be the one to keep a level head. Her thoughts were interrupted as Mulder spoke for the first time in over an hour. "Did you find anything?" She frowned, confused by his question. "Excuse me?" "In the documents. Did you find any link to your father?" "No. Nothing." she said carefully, gauging his reaction. He nodded and returned his attention back to the road.
As they crossed the railroad tracks about a half mile from the abandoned farmstead, Mulder tapped her arm lightly. She turned to him and saw the apprehension in his eyes. But that look quickly disappeared to be replaced by stony determination. "Wake him up," he said pointing toward the back seat. Marita unfastened her seatbelt and leaned over the back seat to gently shake the older man awake. "Foster. We're nearly there," she said softly, trying not to startle him. He nodded and slowly sat upright in his seat. As Mulder rounded the final curve, he had to fight to maintain his balance. The metal box, which he had insisted upon keeping by his side, slid to the other side of the vehicle. Mulder turned into the drive and braked just inches from the rusted chain that blocked the entrance to the lane. "Stay here," he said as he opened the car door. Marita grabbed his wrist before he had a chance to get out. "Fox. Wait. You shouldn't go in alone." "I'm a big boy. I'm not afraid of the dark," he said as he defiantly yanked his arm free from her grasp. She glared, rapidly becoming weary of his chameleon mood. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." She glanced back at Foster, who had almost returned to sleep. "I'll come with you. He needs his rest." Mulder nodded and began making his way up the lane, forcing Marita to jog to catch up. She stopped suddenly. "We left the book in the car." Mulder turned back toward her impatiently. "So?" "We need to know the number to find the correct sample." Mulder toed a small stone with his shoe. "I know it. By heart." As they neared the house, Mulder drew his gun and held his arm out to keep Marita behind him. She looked at him, her eyes wide with questions. He smiled slightly and shook his head. "Just in case." Mulder quietly mounted the back stairs and listened. The only sounds were birds in a nearby tree. He cautiously turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Everything looked as it had the other day; nothing had been disturbed. Marita followed him in to the kitchen and shut the door behind her. After listening intently for a few moments, Mulder dropped his arm to his side. He looked around the ruins of the large farm kitchen, allowing his mind to wander. Had Samantha been here? Is this where she ate meals? What had it been like for her? Did she think of him while sitting in that chair? He reached out his finger and ran it lightly over the back of the wooden chair, wondering if he could still feel her presence. Marita allowed him a few moments, then tugged at the sleeve of his coat. "We should get what we came for." He nodded and led the way to the basement lab. When they reached the metal door, Mulder took the other flashlight from Marita and lead the way down the stainless steel stairs, through the lab, and into the corridor. He paused at the windowed wall and looked in the hospital room. Were you ever in there, Sam? Did they hurt you? Is that where you lay until you couldn't go on? He closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. There would be time to think later. Marita continued on to Foster's lab, Mulder a few paces behind her. The silence of the lab was almost painful, quiet as death. They stood for a second and looked at all the shelves filled with small bottles. Not just samples and test subjects anymore. "What number are we looking for?" Marita asked in a hushed whisper. Mulder started slightly and let out the breath he had been holding. "3456-JK544," he answered with a shaky voice. She started at one end of the room, Mulder at the other. He walked up to the shelves and looked at the number on the first bottle, then the next. They appeared to be organized numerically by the first four digits. 3200. He moved down the shelves a little farther. 3300. A little more. 3400. Getting closer. 3450. Almost there. 3451, 52, 53, 54, 55. That was the last bottle on the shelf. 3456 was missing. "Damn it!" Mulder yelled, causing Marita to jump. "It's not here! Mulder slumped against the counter and let his head droop. Why? When he was so close. Suddenly, Marita gasped. "Fox. I believe I found it. 3456-JK544, is that correct?" Mulder's head jerked up in surprise and he quickly strode to stand beside her. She carefully handed him the bottle. "Is that it?" she asked softly. Mulder continued to stare at the bottle and she could see tears welling up in his eyes. Finally, he nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. As he held it up to the flashlight, his hands began to tremble. Quickly Marita placed her hand around his to keep the bottle from falling from his grasp. "We don't know anything for sure, Fox. We need to take this to the genetics lab in Baltimore. Foster gave me the name of a technician who can run the tests as soon as we get back. Okay?" Mulder took a deep breath and nodded his approval. She smiled at him sympathetically and ran her other hand across his cheek, wiping away the lone tear that had escaped. "Why don't you let me take that," she said pointing to the bottle. He looked at her. Hard. His eyes searching hers. She met his gaze and gently pried the sample from his grasp. "I'll take care of it. I promise." He sighed and loosened his grip. After taking one last look around, he quickly made his way up and out of the lab and outside. Mulder waited for Marita on the back porch. The fresh air and sunshine felt good after the gloom of the lab. Life versus death. As she started down the stairs, he placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the car. "When do you think we will know something?" Marita shook her head. "Foster said we should know something by tomorrow night if we get this to the technician by morning. I'll contact him as soon as we are back in Baltimore." They waded through the tall grass, stepping carefully to avoid tripping over unseen objects. When they had almost reached the car, Mulder noticed that the rear door was standing open. He jogged the remainder of the distance, eager to tell Foster the news. He looked in the back seat. It was empty. When he looked up, Marita saw the panic creeping into his expression. "He's gone." "What?" Marita said with disbelief, bending down to check the back seat for herself. She stood up and looked around for any sign of the missing researcher. "He must be here somewhere. Maybe he went for a walk?" Mulder shook his head angrily. "No." He motioned for Marita to join him on the driver's side of the vehicle. As she approached, he stabbed his finger toward the interior of the car. There was a spot of blood on the seat. "The box is gone too. They got him." --- Monday, April 21, 1997 basement office Mulder entered the office halfheartedly, knowing that today may prove to be the turning point in his twenty-three year quest for his sister. He stopped short at the sight of papers all over the floor; it was very unusual for Scully to leave the office in disarray. He knelt down to pick up the nearest sheet and uncovered a photograph. The image was one he had stared at so many times - he knew it was permanently on display in his mind. Scully, bound and gagged, knowing she could die at any moment. He replayed the answering machine message, her cries for help mingling with the image of her blood and hair matted to the table, her smashed phone cutting off her final link to him. He saw her lying in the hospital, the memory of her covered with a blue sheet spliced with the imagined view of the tests they ran on her, the drill, the laser. Scully entered the office and found him kneeling on the floor, pieces of the file in her hand. "Enjoy visiting your mother, Mulder?" Her voice was as sharp as the laser he viewed in his mind. "When did she move to Chicago?" He looked up at her then, seeing not the fury in her eyes, but the vision of her smile when he woke in Alaska. The last time he thought he had found Samantha. "So Mulder, when will you be turning in your report to the OPC? Lack of collaboration on investigations? That's weak, Mulder. You and I both know you cut me out of this partnership whenever the mood suits you, depending upon me to cover your ass to Skinner, to whomever you pissed off this time." The anger surged through her body, and she balled her fists and planted them on her hips to keep them from visibly shaking. "Mulder, I knew from the start that you didn't want a partner, but believe me, you didn't have to go through all of this to get rid of me. I didn't want a partner either, Mulder. Did you ever think of that? What happened? Too much guilt to bear over me? What made you think you could just push me aside?" His mind was reeling from her tirade. She was furious, that much was clear, but he was too tired, too worn out, to understand her motives. He tried to find the words to respond, but failed. His lack of response infuriated her further. She walked toward him, towering over him as she had never done, making him look up to meet her eyes as she had always been forced to. "Mulder, I'm not some heartless robot pathologist only working on dead bodies. I see, I think, and I feel too. You don't care if you never understand what I feel just as long as I understand what *you* feel. You didn't make me trust you. No I just played right into your hands, so you could wash them of me at the most opportune time. So let me make this easier for you, because of course, I can't stand it when you get on your pity parties." With that, Mulder felt a spark of anger grow among the doubts and confusion. He opened his mouth to speak. "No, Mulder, I do not want this. I do not want to feel this way. When I was in the hospital, I told you my worst nightmare was you betraying me. You know that, and still, you act less with honor and integrity than with egotism and deceit. You lied to me. I once told you I couldn't figure out your reasons, but now I understand why you kept the truth from me. It wasn't some noble, protective instinct toward me, but it was a selfish self-preserving attempt to deflect your own guilt because you knew you were responsible!" "Scully, what the hell - ?" "Look Mulder, to maintain this partnership has required an almost-total sacrifice of my own needs - I have to tolerate the questioning and the lies I've discovered to have a functional working relationship with you. And with your deflections and your half-truths and your insistence on keeping me in the dark, you have demonstrated that you truly offer nothing more than contempt and tolerance in return." She threw her medical report at him, the action offering little release from the torrent of emotion. "Can you try to imagine what defenses I put up whenever we go on a case, whenever we confront some unbelievable horror? Try to imagine what I thought when I read this. It tells me not only that you know what they did to me, but that you've known all along. It tells me that you were responsible for it just as if you were one of the doctors!" He stared at the report, still not comprehending what she was saying, but realizing he needed to try to defuse the situation. "Scully, please, calm down. Look, I don't know what's going on - " "No, you look. Look at me Mulder. Look at me. I'm so much like you, but you just ignore that whenever you need the pity. I've lost my father. I've lost my sister too, and she's never coming back Mulder. I'll never see her again, and I have no hope, no stupid abduction theory to explain away the bullet in her head." His eyes flared at the suggestion. While he knew he should try to reason with her, identify the cause of her anger, the intimation that his quest, both past and present, was not legitimate, was prompting a more impulsive reaction. "Scully, I know you're upset... "Oh, you know a lot of things, don't you? You know what I have that you don't? Or, more correctly, you know what you have that I don't? You've got three months, August 1994 to October 1994. You've got memories of the baseball strike, the cases you worked, your birthday party, how many fish you went through. I have nothing but some Navajo words describing me as merchandise for the goddamn Nazis. I have nothing to look forward to except some inoperable tumors that no doctor will hope to even diagnose, much less treat." "That's enough Scully! What the hell do you think you're saying? You think I made it up? You think I wanted this to happen to you?" "Mulder, I don't care what you want! You've made it very clear that my feelings don't matter one damn bit. So fine, I'll just move on and figure out what happened to me, since you haven't seen fit to tell me. But you sure as hell know, don't you? You know about the implants in my gums and my sinuses and my abdomen. You know about their ability to track me wherever I went. Is that how the alien traced me to the hotel room pretending to be you? Is that how they found us in New Mexico? You knew that it could inflict some illness on me whenever they decided we were too close to the truth. So was the television thing just a charade? What's next? Will I have some pathetic past life regression too?" Just as he could not understand why she was saying such hurtful things, he could not halt the words that would wound her just as much. "At least I know that I'm capable of more than just hovering over dead bodies. You know, I never understood why people called you the Ice Queen, but I guess I understand now." She had believed she had reached the height of her anger, but the old hated name propelled her further, removed the last shred of composure and discipline. "I'm leaving, Mulder. I'm leaving before giving you the opportunity to humiliate me professionally with the review board, as if the Senate didn't do a good enough job the last time." She stepped over the paper she had thrown and slammed the door of the office, leaving a stunned Mulder sitting on the floor surrounded by the evidence he had generated the last time she had left him.
Skinner's office 1:30 p.m. He wasn't surprised to see her in his waiting room, but he had expected her to wait until later in the day. He opened the door to allow her in, nodding at her to combat her hesitation. "Agent Scully." He looked at her closely again, seeing the circles under her eyes and the set of her jaw. She was determined, but had evidently spent many hours on her decision. "Thank you for seeing me on short notice, sir. I'm sorry to be disturbing you." She looked around the room, seeking an object or item to focus on and settled on the closed door. "I take it you have made a decision?" Skinner had never been one to make small talk. Scully looked at the doorknob as if gaining strength for her speech. "Yes, sir. I've decided to take the transfer." Only after she said the words could she look up at Skinner. He exhaled slowly. "Scully, sit down for a moment, will you?" Staying to discuss this with him was the last thing she wanted to do at this point. Scully felt the same trepidation she had when she had informed her parents of her decision to enter the FBI, a decision her father had bitterly protested. She imagined he still held the same contempt for her decision today, just another form of running away. "Sir, I've taken up enough of your time - " "Yes, you have, but I want to make sure this is a decision you have thought through." He knew by the spark of anger on her face that he had hit a nerve, which was better than the passivity he had been witness to for the past week. She paused for a moment, the weariness beginning to show. "Sir, it seems black and white to me. I transfer, no review. No review, the X-Files stay open." "Scully, it's not that simple." "It is." She wasn't sure she could say much more than that. "Scully - Dana. You need to stop for a moment, talk with Mulder on this." Which saddened her more? His use of her first name or his advice to talk with her partner? She looked down, unable to stop the single tear. She angrily wiped her hand across her face, and the sting on her cheek gave her the resolve she needed. She looked up. "Mulder has already made his opinions known. This is my decision, and it is final. I would appreciate it, if you would please not inform him of my whereabouts. "Scully, there won't be any way to hide that information." "He doesn't have access to my personnel file, not if I'm no longer assigned to him. Skinner saw the fire flash in her eyes, although the motive for it still seemed fragile. "I'll process the paperwork tomorrow." End Part 11 The Partnership I: Dissolution (12/14)
Monday night Mulder checked the time on his watch. It was now 8:58. A whole three minutes had elapsed since the last time he had looked. Come on. Come on, let's get this show on the road. Marita had called this morning (no cryptic message this time?) to inform him that the parcel had been delivered and he was to meet her outside the Baltimore lab at nine tonight. He checked his watch again. 9:01. So where was she? He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Why was everyone making this so difficult? Foster was missing. Marita was late. Scully...he had no clue about what had gotten into her. She had been, for lack of a better term, bitchy lately. Questioning his motives, inquiring into his whereabouts. Okay. Be fair. She always did that. It was her job as his partner and his friend. But this afternoon she had been hostile, even brutal. She'd said something or another about leaving. Maybe she just needed a little vacation, some time away from him and the office. He had intended on telling her everything today, needing her guidance with this matter. It was just way too close to the heart for him to think rationally. He was so tired and so confused. But when she had stormed into the office and nailed him to the wall with her words, he lost his nerve. Maybe he should call her right now. Explain the situation. Marita would probably hit the roof, but he didn't care. Scully would know what to do. As he reached into his coat pocket for his cellular, he was blinded by the headlights from an approaching car. He dropped the phone and went for his gun instead. Suddenly, Marita appeared at his window. "Come on. We have to hurry. I think I'm being followed." Mulder grabbed a folder from the front seat and followed her as she ran to the side entrance of the building. When he rounded the corner, she was knocking furiously on the door. "Are you okay?" he asked with concern. She glared at him coolly. "Yes. I'm fine, but I will feel better when we are inside." At that moment the door swung open and a hand motioned for the to come in. They entered hastily and Mulder slammed the door behind him. He pulled on the door again to make sure that the automatic locking mechanism was working. By the time he had turned back around, Marita and another man in a white lab coat were half way down the corridor. He had to jog to catch up. When he was even with them, he looked from Marita to the man at her side. The technician caught Mulder's stare and reached a hand out to him. "Mr. Mulder?" he said shaking the agent's hand without breaking stride. Mulder nodded, waiting for an introduction, but none was offered. "Is that the comparative sample?" the man in the lab coat asked gesturing toward the folder in Mulder's hand. "May I see it?" Mulder hesitated momentarily, then handed the folder him. The technician pulled the PCR sheet from its covering and held it up to the light. "Yes, this is good. It will work just fine." Mulder breathed a sigh of relief. It had been difficult to obtain a DNA sample from his mother without her knowledge. He couldn't come right out and ask; not without scaring her. When Foster had alluded to the fact that his mother was a carrier of the gene that made cloning easier, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. He wanted to see for himself. As he stood in his mother's house, searching for a way to delicately broach the subject, an idea struck. In many of his investigations, DNA tests had been run on small amounts of trace evidence found at the crime scene. Trace evidence, including hair follicles. He nonchalantly excused himself from his mother's presence and went into her bathroom. He had felt like a voyeur and a spy rummaging through his mother's personal toiletries until he found her comb. Agent Pendrell assumed the sample was from a current investigation and had run the DNA test, no questions asked. They reached the door at the end of the hall and the man held the door for Marita and Mulder to enter. "Excuse me. This will take a few minutes to set up," he said over his shoulder as he made his way to the bank of computers along the far wall. Mulder gazed around the room at all the technical equipment. Complicated machines with complicated functions. He shook his head in amazement. Fearful of touching anything, he took a seat in a hard plastic chair in the corner. His body was coiled tight with both nervous energy and fatigue. It had been weeks since he had been calm enough to get any useful amount of sleep. Leaning forward in the chair, he hid his face behind his hands, silently willing the technician to hurry. Sometimes the waiting was the hardest part. Marita watched him out of the corner of her eye. She could almost see the waves of anxiety radiating from him, he twitched with every sound. But she could also sense that any attention would be unwanted, so she let him have his space. Mulder jumped when the technician finally announced that he was finished. He walked over to stand behind the technician seated in front of one of the computer monitors. "Very interesting results," he said pointing to the computer screen. "This is the PCR from the tissue sample that you brought me this morning. The other is from the sheet Mr. Mulder brought tonight. Computer analysis shows about an 85 percent correlation. Very high. If I had to guess, I would say that these two individuals are closely related. Probably mother and daughter." Marita turned to watch as Mulder took a staggering step back. His eyes were dilated with a look of shock and disbelief. He looked as if he wanted to speak, but the only sound was his breath coming out in ragged puffs. Slowly he shook his head as he continued to back toward the door. Mother and daughter. Mother and daughter, the voice said over and over in his head. NO! When his back hit the door, he quickly turned and fled from the room. He was running. Running as fast as he could. Away from the man and his correlated percentages. Away from the building that housed the complicated equipment. Away from Marita, her eyes filled with sympathy. Away from the truth that Samantha was dead. He kept running until he burst through the door and into the cold night air. As he drew in a shaky breath, his first thought was of Scully. She would know. She could tell him that there must be a mistake. He had felt, deep down, that he had found all that remained of Samantha. But to actually hear the words took his breath away and made his mind scream with pure agony. He fumbled in his coat pocket for his cell phone, his constant link to the one person who would always tell him the truth. With shaking hands he dialed her number. The recording said that the number was out of service. No. That was wrong. He must have mis-dialed. He tried again with the same result. Scully! Where are you? he screamed in his head. In frustration, he threw the phone as hard and as far as he could. Marita exited the building in time to witness his act of anger. She went to him as he stood at the end of the parking lot, his head bowed in defeat. She laid a hand on his back and waited as he flinched. "Fox, I'm so sorry." She ran her hand up and down his back for a few seconds, her eyes constantly scanning the area. "Fox. It's not safe here. We need to leave." She tugged on his arm, willing him to follow her. "I'll take you back to my hotel. You're in no condition to drive." After a moment, he turned and shuffled to her car, his feet dragging on the pavement as if it took too much effort to lift them. The ride to the hotel was silent. Mulder was lost somewhere deep in his thoughts and she didn't want to intrude. She wished he would say something or do something. It was if he had shut himself down. Marita guided him down the hall to her room and unlocked the door. With a gentle hand on his arm, she lead him to the bed and sat him on the edge. "You need to rest. You're exhausted," she said quietly. She knelt on the floor to remove his shoes and when she looked up she saw tears silently running down his cheeks. A wave of sympathy washed over her and she leaned forward to wrap her arms around his waist. She laid his head on her shoulder and rubbed his neck. Warm drops fell into her hair, bathing her with his grief. She sat up and cupped his face in her hands. "Fox, it won't always hurt this bad." Her thumbs wiped the tears from his face and she placed a gentle kiss on each check. "I promise." She looked at him intently, sending a message not so much with her words as with her eyes. --- Tuesday, April 22 8:30 a.m. Skinner's administrative assistant, Jeannie, picked up the telephone receiver as soon as Mulder came through the door. Glancing up quickly, she caught his attention by holding up one finger; a signal for him to wait. "Agent Mulder is here," she said into the mouthpiece. There was a moment of silence as she nodded her head in response to her boss's directions. "Yes, sir. I will." She hung up the phone and turned in her chair to face the waiting agent. "Assistant Director Skinner is in an important meeting at the moment. I was told to tell you to wait here." Mulder closed his eyes and threw back his head in an outward display of frustration. "Did he say how long?" Jeannie shook her head. "No. He didn't." He was powerless to stop the tiny snort that came from his mouth, content with having stopped the snide retort that was burning for release. When Jeannie looked up at him, he gave a slight smile and sat down on the vinyl sofa next to the door. He rubbed his hands over his eyes before slumping back in the seat. It had been a long night. Hell, it had been a long week. He was emotionally and physically exhausted. He thought it would be different, finally knowing the truth about Samantha. Thought it would give him a sense of closure, but in fact the opposite was true. Last night, he had felt naked and raw and had fallen into a deep sleep on Marita's hotel bed. Now, he just felt numb. He wished he could talk to Scully. She, more than anyone else, would understand his feelings and know how to put them into perspective. He had tried to call her again this morning, but found that her cell phone was still out of service and her answering machine wasn't picking up. She hadn't come into the office, either. Maybe she had decided to take a few days, cool off, work through whatever it was that had made her direct her frustrations at him. As the moments passed, Jeannie watched him as he sat with his head tipped back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling tiles. "Agent Mulder?" she asked finally. "Have you heard from Agent Scully?" He sat up quickly. "No. Why?" Jeannie shrugged. "I thought maybe...." Her sentence was cut short by the insistent buzz of the intercom. She picked up the receiver. "Yes, sir." Mulder was still staring at her when she turned toward him. "The Assistant Director will see you now." He rose and stood in front of her desk. "Ms. Phelps? You thought maybe what?" Jeannie shook her head and pointed toward the door. "You had better go in," she said curtly. Skinner was intently studying the file in front of him when Mulder entered. "Sit down, Agent Mulder," he said without looking up. Mulder settled himself in the chair in front of the desk and waited for Skinner to continue. After a long moment, the AD sat back and pinned the younger man with an icy stare. "Would you care to tell me what you have been up to for the past two months?" Mulder cocked his head in confusion. "Sir?" Skinner's tone took on more exasperation. "Let's start with an unauthorized trip to New York City on February 20." The agent shook his head, wondering why that particular event had caught Skinner's attention. It was not unusual for him and Scully to take off on an investigation at a moment's notice. Sometimes it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. "Sir, I was following up on a potential lead in connection with the stabbing case in Virginia." Skinner nodded his head slightly. "And what did you find?" Mulder shrugged. "Nothing. There was no connection to our investigation." "Where is the 302 and other paperwork for this...follow up?" Mulder broke eye contact for the first time since Skinner had initiated it. He looked at his hands folded in his lap, a slight grimace crossing his face. "I haven't filed it yet, sir. Scully and I got involved in another investigation and the stabbing case wasn't ours. We were only called in for a consult. I'll work on it right away." "See that you do," Skinner said with an air of authority. Mulder nodded and silently breathed a sigh of relief as he started to stand. "Is that all, sir?" Skinner held up his hand. "Sit down, Mulder. I'm not finished." The AD rose from his chair and turned his back to the younger man, directing his attention to the scene outside his window. "Where were you last week?" Mulder tensed and sat up straighter in his seat, unclear where this line of questioning was headed. "Sir, I took some personal time. We discussed this before I left." Skinner removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly struggling to stay in control. "Where did you go? What did you do?" Mulder shook his head in disbelief. "The term personal time implies that I attended to some *personal* affairs. With all due respect, sir, it's none of your business what I do on my own time." Skinner whirled to face the man seated in front of him. "It becomes my business when one of my agents is being accused of murder." Mulder's next breath caught in his throat. "What? What are you talking about?" The AD picked up the file from his desk and tossed at Mulder. "Randolph Foster. Found yesterday morning, floating in the Chicago River, a single bullet to the head. A bullet that matches a ballistics record on file with the ATF. Your gun, Mulder. According to statement taken from Foster's wife, he met with you in Chicago last week." The agent shook his head. "Sir, I did meet with him, but he disappeared Saturday..." Skinner held up his hand. "Save it for the review committee, Agent Mulder. You are in too deep for me to protect you this time. I suggest you get your affairs in order. Full documentation of your whereabouts and activities since April 14." Mulder ground his jaw and tried to keep from screaming. The bastards had set him up. Let him know the truth, but had stripped him of the proof of their dirty work. Skinner gave him a minute, then continued. "In the meantime, you have been suspended. The X-Files are to be closed and any current investigations have been transferred to other units." "Sir, Agent Scully is perfectly capable of carrying on with our cases until this mess has been cleared up. Transferring these cases to other units will certainly result with them being classified unsolved." Skinner looked at Mulder, suddenly realizing that Mulder had not been told of Scully's reassignment. He remembered her face the previous day, her loss of composure in front of him, and felt the anger swell up in her defense. He placed both hands on the desk and leaned across it, staring straight into Mulder's confused eyes. "Oh really? So she can ride in and save your ass again? Not anymore, Mulder. Agent Scully has been transferred from the X-Files, effective as of last Friday." Mulder looked as though he'd been punched in the gut. Hard. "What do you mean, she was transferred?" "Look Mulder, while you've been basically screwing off for the past two months, Agent Scully has been covering your every move. And it cost her. She had a choice, transfer out of the division or risk the closing of the division, a closing I might add, that your actions have effectively initiated. She chose to leave - one last effort to save you and the X-Files." "Sir - " He looked up at Skinner, trying to get his mind to work again. "She cited that irreconcilable differences in investigative procedures and in your working relationship had left her with no alternative but to seek reassignment.." She's leaving me. "Irreconcilable differences?" Skinner stood up abruptly and held out his hands. "Her words, not mine. Considering that you submitted - " He stopped, deciding not to continue. "Did she go back to Quantico?" Skinner turned back to face the window "That will be all, Agent Mulder." Mulder stood up, the pent up anger fighting for some sort of release. "Damn it, Skinner, where did she go?" Skinner turned once again to look at Mulder. It was obvious that he was exhausted, overworked and on the edge of the breakdown he had always just avoided. And many times the difference between Mulder's crossing that line had been Agent Scully, a fact her disappearance had driven home. Whatever lessons Mulder had learned during that time seemed to be forgotten. Skinner hesitated for a moment, weighing the potential damage of breaking his promise to Scully and losing the most effective agent he supervised. "Agent Scully has been reassigned. As you are no longer her supervisor, her file is now off-limits." "But sir - " "Close the door on your way out, Agent Mulder."
Tuesday, April 22, 1997 7:30 p.m. He stood at the entrance to her building, seeing the light on through the drawn shades. He hadn't been able to spot her shadow moving in the apartment, but he knew she was there, knew she was avoiding him. He'd called her countless times, both on her home number and on her cellular, and the realization had finally been absorbed that she had deliberately cut off her phone number. He had been reviewing everything she had yelled to him the previous day and combined that with what he'd gleaned from Skinner. He knew now he had been wrong. Problem was - he wasn't sure if he could right it. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, and fumbled through them awkwardly. It wasn't often that he came to Scully's apartment. In fact, it had been a long time since he had visited, whether work related or just to ease the loneliness. But he'd never had occasion to enter without her. She, of course, had to search his apartment three or four times a month, it seemed, to find some clue as to his whereabouts. Still, when they had first discussed sharing keys, she had made it clear that she was willing to trust him as far as he trusted her. He had never offered access to his apartment to any of his previous partners before, and he remembered the odd feeling that struck him as he had handed her the key. He hadn't been nervous or unwilling. He had almost felt - relieved. Someone to share his burden. Someone to support him, someone who would question his theories without questioning him, a quality he had not recognized he needed until she presented it to him. She had always disagreed with him, countered his leaps in fantasy with her precise logic. But she had never mocked him. Had she realized then how much influence she exercised over him? Would she be willing to extend that to him again? He knocked on the door and bent slightly to detect any sounds of movement. Her stereo was usually playing at a low volume, whatever the latest female singer she had taken a liking to. He could almost see her inside, curled up on her couch reading a book or snacking on her cookie dough ice cream. The vision did little to improve his mood. He knocked again, this time, louder and longer. He'd give her another minute to reconcile herself to his presence before keying in. After the difficult cases, which numbered many more than the easier ones, he usually left her alone for a while. He knew he was truly a pain in the ass to work with, despite her diplomacy in avoiding the comment when they first began working together, and that a little recovery time was necessary for her. Perhaps he was underestimating how long she would need. He grasped the door knob and extended the key, then paused and stared at the door. The lock was different that what he had remembered. And by the look of the sawdust on the floor, the locksmith had visited today. In the past, he had had motive and justification for kicking her door in to find her. Tooms. Pfaster. He had burst into her hotel room to find out exactly who was shooting at the hotel manager. Each time he had possessed a valid reason - her safety. Tonight he considered his options. His wish to pour out his soul to her. Her wish to isolate herself from him, sent by messenger through Skinner. Well, he'd give her what she wanted tonight. He walked away. End Part 12 The Partnership I: Dissolution (13/14)
Wednesday, April 23 Scully's apartment 7:00 a.m. She swung her knapsack over her shoulder, looking all the more like a young college student instead of the established career woman headed out for a new chapter of her life. She picked up her keys and airline tickets from the table and walked into her living room. This apartment had served her well in the six years she had occupied it. She remembered moving in, lugging the pathetic collection of plastic milk crates and cardboard underbed boxes, symbols of her poor college student existence for so long. Her first major purchase had been the striped couch, with big cushions perfect for curling up against with her latest novel. That would be a novel, not a textbook. Next came the armoire, the small kitchen table, and the stereo. She hadn't had time to put things in storage, and her mother had mentioned a young couple at church who were looking for an apartment. She would take care of the sublet agreement, and Scully knew this offer was really just another task she could keep herself busy doing while her daughter went off on assignment. Maggie Scully walked out of the kitchen, satisfied that all electrical appliances were unplugged and that all traces of food and crumbs were removed. After long hours of conversation the previous weekend, Maggie had privately come to the decision that nothing she could say would persuade her daughter to stay. She reconciled herself to be supportive, knowing the time for regrets for her Dana would come soon enough. She slid an arm around her daughter's waist. "Ready to go, honey?" A look at Dana's face told her that the regrets had begun sooner than she had anticipated. Scully paused for another moment, looking at her hand on the new doorknob. She had heard Mulder's knocking the previous night, had been packing up her books in her bedroom. For a few moments, she had traveled back and forth between forgiving him and forgetting him, and she had decided between the two just as she heard Mulder's car engine sputter in the street. She hadn't moved to the window to look, instead busying herself with old medical textbooks she probably would wish she had brought with her on her trip. "Dana?" Maggie bent forward to look more closely at her daughter's face, and was met with a small smile. Most definitely, the introverted nature her daughter had developed would allow for many regrets on the long plane ride. "Mom, I know you want to take me to the airport, but I'd rather take the shuttle this time. Like I did in college. This is an adventure, just like those others." Maggie considered the request for a moment. She remembered her daughter's excitement at going back to school, pursuing her degree with a zealousness of which her father had been very proud. She also knew of her daughter's fierce need of privacy, and suspected this was more an opportunity for her daughter to cry in solitude. She wavered back and forth for a moment and looked at her daughter's blue eyes, so much like her own. "Mom. I'll be fine. Trust me." Maggie nodded a quick agreement before clutching her daughter into a tight hug. "I love you, Dana." "I love you too, Mom."
Wednesday, April 23 Skinner's office 6:00 p.m. For the first time in a long time, the smell of smoke permeated the corridor to Skinner's office. Mulder almost didn't catch the odor, but the whiff he finally identified put him even more on edge. Jeannie was not at her desk, having been allowed the sanctity of a contract enforcing an eight-hour day, so he knocked on the outer door. "Come in." Mulder stepped through the door and stopped, looking down at the floor in dejection. Cancer Man sat in the corner couch, puffing on the latest Morley, defying once again the "Thank you for not smoking" sign on Skinner's desk. "Agent Mulder, have a seat." Skinner turned to face him fully, but his expression was unreadable. Mulder quietly placed his report on Skinner's desk and sat down. Skinner picked up a piece of Bureau letterhead and began reading. "Agent Mulder, due to your involvement in the death of Randolph Foster, I am placing you on suspension until May 7, 1997. You will not receive compensation for this time, nor will you be allowed to use any Bureau services. At the conclusion of your suspension, you will be temporarily assigned to the Violent Crimes Unit, at a pay grade two steps below your current position. Your supervisor will be Special Agent Thomas Colton. Any further misconduct will result in your immediate termination from the Bureau." Skinner paused and looked at Mulder. The agent looked at the desktop with the gaze of a death row prisoner hearing his last rights. Skinner gritted his teeth and continued. "The X-Files division has been permanently closed. All case logs and related material will be removed to Central Files for storage effective Friday, April 25." Skinner waited for some reaction from the agent in front of him. Indignance, fury, even a mild anger. What he saw was resignation. Mulder stood slowly, pulling his badge and service weapon and laying them on Skinner's desk. Skinner watched him closely, waiting for him to spring. He turned toward the couch, staring at the personification of Evil. "You took everything from me." The words were soft, almost inaudible. "If you only knew what I've given you, Agent Mulder. It will be more valuable than you imagine. More important than anything you've known." The voice crackled with smug omniscience. With a last glance at his former supervisor, Mulder left the office.
He walked into his apartment and looked around for the ringing cordless phone. His survey caught the answering machine light, and he resented its insisting blinking, knowing another message waited for him that would draw him further into the darkness. How much more could it cost him? He let the machine pick up the call, wishing it were Scully on the line. He was startled by the sound of her voice. "Fox, this is Margaret Scully." He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully. I'm so sorry. I know I've hurt her. I know I drove her away. "I was hoping you would call me when you get home. I'd like to speak with you." He picked up the phone. "I'm here." But he only heard the sound of the dial tone.
He had stood on this porch once before, looking in the window, waiting impatiently for her to answer the doorbell. He didn't know the end result then, and he felt the same uncertainty now. His only consolation was that he didn't have to tell Mrs. Scully that her daughter was dead. He only had to tell her that her daughter hated him. No, Mulder, you drove her away. You made her go. She didn't just leave you either, she left her family too. A twelve year old voice echoed quietly, I lost her. What could he tell Mrs. Scully that would make her understand? What words could he use to describe his regret, his shame? How could he atone for this sin? I have betrayed your daughter, Mrs. Scully, one last time. And she will never forgive me. He heard her footsteps nearing the door and steeled himself for her condemnation. He felt his neck muscles tense and ground his teeth together, an oft-practiced response from his youth. The door swung open, revealing Maggie Scully, her face reflecting fatigue and worry. She smiled wanly at him, and stepped aside to invite him in. His initial response was to flinch, although she had made no move toward him. Her face turned quizzical, and he quickly coughed to try and cover his nervousness. As he entered the home, he half expected Scully to plant herself in the entryway, a gun aimed at his head. He turned to Mrs. Scully and, mindful of his last encounter in this very place, asked quietly, "Is she here?" She winced at his words, and he quickly regretted reminding her of that event too. "Fox, I'm glad you came." He hadn't realized he was holding his breath, but her simple words of welcome caused the air to rush out of him before he could disguise it. She continued to look at him, and brought him into her living room to sit on the couch. "Would you like some coffee? You look like you could use some." "Uh, thank you, Mrs. Scully, but, uh, no thank you. I haven't been sleeping well, so..." He looked down at his hands, waiting for the expected reproach, knowing that what she was going to say would only cut him into smaller shreds. "I'm sorry to hear that." Was she lying to him? Setting him up for a long tirade about abusing her daughter? Preparing for a rampage about bringing more sorrow and pain into her life? He didn't dare look at her, just in case her Scully-blue eyes held the same contempt her daughter's had earlier that week. The tone of her voice was calm, soothing. "Fox, I know that you and Dana, well, that Dana has ended your partnership." He nodded just a bit, continuing the motion unconsciously, the rocking comforting him as it did when he was a child. "Fox." Her tone held the maternal 'Look at me' quality he had been trained never to ignore. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Scully. He breathed in deeply one last time before raising his head to meet her eyes. Where he saw compassion. Understanding. Even forgiveness. The same qualities Scully had bestowed upon him so many times, before he had exhausted her supply. A look he had never expected to see again. "For her last birthday, I gave Dana a journal to write in. I knew that she was having a difficult time, and I thought keeping a diary might be good for her. She used to do that when she was a little girl, but stopped writing when she started studying so much." He smiled faintly, glancing at the picture of a pig-tailed Dana on the shoulders of her older brother. "She gave me the journal and asked me to keep it while she was away. It had a letter for you in it." He watched her rise and cross to the mantel, pulling a slender crimson volume from the shelf. She turned and came to stand in front of him. "Fox, I know that you respect my daughter. I know you trust her. I don't know what happened or why she left, but I know she's hurting. And you are too." He could not hold her gaze any longer, the guilt and sorrow washing over him. He looked at the book in her hands, watching with amazement as she extended it toward him. "Perhaps you should be the one to keep this." He took the envelope and shoved it in his coat, not wanting to see his name in her handwriting. His fingers traced the journal, feeling its fabric cover. Again, the last thing of hers he would have. Scully. I need your help. Scully. She was gone. Now when he realized how deeply he truly needed her, she had left him. 'You don't care if you never understand how I feel, just as long as I understand how you feel.' He stared at the journal. Here were her private thoughts, her feelings. Here he could understand what he had done to her. "Mrs. Scully, I can't." "Fox - " He stood up, pushing the book back into her hand. "No, please, Mrs. Scully. I can't do that. She believes I betrayed her, and...she's right. Taking this would just be one more betrayal, and I can't do that to her again. Please, thank you, but I can't take this. I'm sorry. I'm so sor - " His voice broke, and he lowered his eyes, walking quickly to open the door. "Fox, please don't go." Mrs. Scully followed him to the door, catching it before it could close. He turned to look at her one final time. "Mrs. Scully, please. Just know that I'm sorry."
He sat in his car, the security light of his building's parking lot giving him enough illumination to read the letter he had been handed. Mulder - I wish that you had trustworthy people in your life like my mother, older people with valuable life experience and the caring and compassion toward you, who could advise you, support you, console you when you grieve, listen when you need to yell. Perhaps that is one of those needs you looked to people like Deep Throat to fill. At one time, I thought I filled that need for you. I stand on my own, Mulder. I choose to do so. It is not my most ideal way of living my life, but I will follow my instincts because they are now the only thing I can rely upon. I'm taking a different path in my life than I ever dreamed of walking. I have to depend upon myself and no one else to assuage the needs I have. There are but few confidantes in my life. My mother, my sister. You once were a confidante. You were the only person whose opinion I sought about so many issues, perhaps because you were the only one who could possibly understand. I gave you the most precious of possessions I have - my respect, my loyalty, my trust. Our partnership has always seemed just a bit fictional, fantasy-like. With us there were just too many similarities in two people with such opposite experiences. Too many complementary differences and too many idealistic parallels. Based on respect, on trust. Trust No One, Mulder. That's your mantra. Who is more trustworthy than someone who trusts no one else, someone who understands its paramount importance so thoroughly that he offers it to no one? That's why I trusted you. I see now I was wrong, so terribly, terribly wrong. And I have no one to blame but myself. I leave you now, heading on to a new assignment, a second chance to distinguish myself. Few are so lucky as to receive a second chance, and I must maximize this opportunity. You will continue your search for answers. Without me. But your search was always yours - it was never ours. Don't write. Don't call. Don't try to find me. Grant me the security of not having to look over my shoulder for you. Allow me the peace of mind that I need, that I deserve. I need to be away from you.
9:21 pm His footsteps on the walk to his apartment were those of an old man, shuffling with the dejection of knowing his best days were behind him, that all the lie ahead was the waiting. Waiting for the end. He reached into his pocket for his keys and felt the leather holster at his side. His gun. Not his standard issue weapon, but his spare. He usually kept it by his ankle, but now he only carried one. Loaded. Ready. The key slid into the lock, the deadbolt sounding more like a thunderbolt in the hallway. Mulder pushed the door open and threw his keys on the table. He caught his reflection in the picture frame - disheveled, defeated. His eyes were unfocused, almost dead. He was almost dead too. His apartment was pitch black. Appropriate. He sat on his couch, and moved his hand to his weapon. He had given thought to this before, wondered how it would feel to put the gun to his head of his own volition. His hand shook and his breathing became wildly erratic. He was exhausted. It wasn't just one night, or even the last few days. It was the knowledge of twenty-three years, searching, believing, enduring the sarcastic comments, hitting walls everywhere he turned. The culmination of his life's work resulting in one small bottle of human tissue, the last relic of his baby sister. The guilt of knowing he was to have ended up in that bottle, were it not for some fateful decision to take Samantha instead. The relief that it hadn't been him, compounded by the self-recrimination at the fleeting thought of wishing his sister dead. The anger at being played for a fool for so long, following the lure of Samantha like a bear to honey, not realizing the manipulation. The sorrow of never seeing his sister again. And the disorientation as to what he should do next. He was finished with the X-Files. If Samantha determined his life's course, then the X-Files were his livelihood. Day after day he retained the same fascination he had experienced when he first found the archives. Like a mathematical genius relegated to adding single digit numbers, he had merely been waiting for these cases to come along, the true test of his abilities. He flourished, and with Scully's help, he finally felt the satisfaction he craved. He hadn't found Samantha, but he could make a difference for the families in a way no one had been able to offer him. As Scully kept reminding him, his involvement saved lives. Just not Samantha's. Not his. Not Scully's. She was gone, beyond his reach. Furthermore, she had said she didn't want him in her life anymore. She had reached her limit, or more correctly, he had pushed her over her limit. His best friend - hell, his only friend - and he had driven her away from him. Not just from him, but from her family, her job. She had given up everything she had. Not the act of a reckless woman, but one considered carefully - Scully never did anything without measuring the pros and cons. She was precise, methodical, logical, and he knew without invoking a god that he had needed that scientific method of hers now more than ever. He held the gun in his hands, the sweat gathering on his palms making it slippery and warm. Could he do this? What stopped him from just finishing it, right here on the couch where he'd spent so many terror-filled nights anyway? He was scared. "Mulder." A woman's voice. "Scul..." he started, his voice giving out before the last syllable. He stood slowly, swaying as if intoxicated, and she turned his body toward her. She stepped closer and placed her hand on his neck, gently bending his head down to her shoulder, rubbing his neck soothingly, reaching to put her chin on his shoulder. One of his hands clutched her shoulder, and the other moved up to her waist for balance. His eyes squeezed tightly shut to fight his tears. At first he thought he would rest a minute here, taking a small measure of comfort before talking to her. But he would rest just a minute first. He pulled his head away from her shoulder, wishing he had some privacy to compose himself instead of facing her. He looked over her shoulder and waited for his head to empty itself of the jumbled visions... a picture of Samantha on a jungle gym his bloodied partner held hostage by the morphing alien a newspaper-covered lair his father's lifeless body on the bathroom floor a gold cross necklace in the trunk of a car a computer printer furiously spitting out the evidence of contact Alex Krycek extending his hand, looking for all the world like a paper doll G-man Scully aiming a gun at him the black cancer entering his body as he struggled with the wire mesh his mother hooked up to the life-sustaining machines, unconscious a letter written on simple white paper, the last contact with the most important person in his life He looked at her suddenly, dazed. Her eyes were dark. "Let me help you." He stared into her eyes. How her blue eyes reminded him of deep pools of water, like the sea, swirling endlessly, drawing him in... Her arms are strong. She will support me. She is here to help me. She's always helped me. And I'm so tired. She leaned toward him, brushing her lips softly against his. He straightened abruptly, his breath escaping him as sharply as if he had been struck. He stared into her eyes again, looking for a message. Again, she met his stare without flinching, without doubt. She placed one hand on his cheek and moved her other hand around his waist. She met his gaze evenly. He tightened his grip around her waist and pulled her close. The heat from her body both comforting and electrifying him. As he drew a deep breath, the soft scent of her perfume filled him with desire. I am not alone. She has come back to me. She pulled away slightly and whispered softly in his ear. "I'm here." Mulder's pulse raced at the sound of her voice. She really was here for him. Body and soul. She is here for me. When he opened his eyes, he was mesmerized by the sight of his hand tangled in her silky blond hair. Delicate strands of spun gold. Just for tonight, when he had lost everything else, he would not let *her* go. He closed his eyes and urgently sought her lips. Finis
Author's Notes For those of you that may be interested, we wanted to provide some background into our journey in composing this little ditty. Obviously, the Roman numeral used in the series title implies that more is coming, so we'll try not to tease while exploring our motivations as authors. This is one of the purposes of the fictalk list, so we'd like to start some of that conversation here. First, you have to understand the collaboration, which originated in the Beta Readers Circle moderated by Kathleen Lietz. Glymax had the initial vignette and Anne was the editor. Then we switched roles for the second vignette, and put both under the series title Perspectives. One fateful October day, Glymax mentioned another work she had been composing, but was tired of the story. She offered it to Anne, who suggested a character change. That character was initially named Marissa, who transformed into the just-introduced Marita Covarrubias. From there, off we went. Dissolution is actually the prequel to Glymax's original story. Second, our individual perspectives. Glymax writes from Mulder's perspective, and Anne is a diehard Scully-ite. If you can discern each individual writing style and have suggestions for smoothing that out, let us know. Both of us have now put forth the term "Partnershipper" to describe the ideal Mulder-Scully interaction. It's not just a friendship and it's not a romantic relationship - it delves much deeper than that and involves many complex layers of trust, respect, faith, and fear of betrayal. It is an integral component of the show, one that an episode such as TFWID contradicts, IMHO. But as characterized on the show, the silent communication and link between Mulder and Scully, beautifully played by David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, can be a downfall. That's where we come in - heh, heh, heh Third - how to break up the duo? This story is a classic example of the lack of *verbal* communication, desperately needed, and compounded by serious misinterpretation on both character's parts. The silent communication between them is almost always evident, but what happens when they lose that link? Because the emphasis of the show is on the cases and not the characters (with the exception of some brilliantly written gems by Darin Morgan, Morgan and Wong, and Vince Gilligan), we rarely see the conversations that take place. We know of the conversations in the car and on the rock and the bench and of the entire episodes of Pusher and Paper Hearts and now of Memento Mori. Yes, Mulder and Scully trust only each other, but the most precious of gifts they could offer - their feelings - is rarely exchanged honestly (Anne insists that Scully lied about regrets in TFWID and Anne also insists that Mulder assumed what Scully believed regarding Samantha's abduction in Paper Hearts and then the entire episode of Never Again is about two people who just can't SAY what they are really feeling). Read Scully's second journal entry again for our opinion about that topic. Well, the underlying postulate for this story is the one way the Consortium and Cancer Man have not attempted thus far in the show. Yes, they've kidnapped each of them, erased memory, provided implants, killed sisters, killed fathers, sent bounty hunters and sister-clones, but it hasn't worked. They should have asked us. Here's our theory... To effectively separate Mulder and Scully, They, meaning Mulder and Scully and *not* the nefarious MIB, have to lose that faith, that trust in each other. And this has been tried by doping Mulder's water and using the cable television signal, but it succeeded only temporarily. This time, each shuts the other out willingly, severing their link and proving, as one reviewer constantly berates after each episode, NOTHING good happens when Mulder ditches Scully. Here, nothing good happens when she's on her own either. Fourth - what happens next? Nice try, but we're not going to spoil this one. Fifth - it doesn't match the show's timeline! Yeah, we know. We wrote this as quickly as we could and then the current Leonard Betts/Never Again/Memento Mori blows us out of the water. But it was too good a plot to drop at the time and fanfic is not limited to those of us fortunate enough to be on season four. Please though, enjoy our story regardless of the timeline. CC and Co. have given us many a plunge by introducing another blonde in Tunguska/Terma (ask Glymax what she said when she first saw Dr. Bonita Cairn-Sayer), giving Marita a Victoria's Secret robe in the same episode, and hinting at lots of things that would really destroy this. It's an alternate universe, one we hope you've found remotely plausible. If the rest of fourth season doesn't drastically alter this too much, we can make adjustments if possible. But we're on this bus now and we're going all the way to the last stop. All aboard! Sixth - what about the inside jokes? You mean the comment about Mulder's unfamiliarity with literature or Scully wishing her salary could be higher in comparison to Mulder's? There are some tidbits thrown in for the avid X-Phile, some more obvious than others. They were meant really as a tribute to those of us who have watched episodes repeatedly, reel off dates of character's birthdays and deaths easier than our own family's, or bought three copies of the Hot/Cold TV Guide, two to save and one to read. For those that believe there was a third season rift - yup, we agree with you. In fact, a lot of what you read here is based on the interaction in Oubliette, Revelations, Syzygy, WOTC, Nisei/731 and Piper Maru/Apocrypha. Seventh - when's the sequel? There is more coming, just give our fingers a chance to rest and our minds a moment to rev up again. We would love to hear feedback on the story or on what you've read here - preferably privately instead of posted (Anne can't access newsgroups). The creative process is somewhat new to us, so constructive critique on the dialogue, characterization and writing techniques is avidly sought and appreciated. If you are _really_ interested, we composed a list of questions our beloved Beta Readers and editors Jeannie, Emily, and Je Nie answered (character motivation, effectiveness of certain plot devices, etc.) and we would love to have more input. Thanks for sharing your time with us! Glymax - glymax@aol.com Anne Cologna
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