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Title: What I Want 4: Our Weakness Author's Note: I think I've accomplished what I set out to with this series which mostly deals with Scully's personal life. Now I just want to explore her in a mature relationship that doesn't have all the pre-existing pitfalls and pratfalls a relationship with Mulder would have. Many assume that Scully (and Mulder) are unable to deal with complex personal relationships due to their dance around each other for seven years. I'm not convinced. Based on what we know of Scully from the show, I think that during the relationship she's built within this series I've had her act in a way that is consistent with her character. She's strong, caring, loving, proactive and true to herself. My goal is to keep her that way. This fic is mostly self-contained and can be understood without reading the prior three stories in my "What I Want" universe but it does have numerous references to those stories. If you haven't been reading (and why haven't you?!) there's an established committed, romantic relationship between Scully and a man that is not Mulder. But I have to say I like the character (hey, he's hot, muscular, devoted and loves Scully as much as this admitted Scullyist does so what's not to like?) and the relationship I've created between them (though it is on the ideal side). I did, however, have the intention to create that and to give Scully SOME happiness and normalcy. Fear not, however. There is plenty 'o angst to go around. The stories so far: This story contains some ideas that may be objectionable to some readers, so please read responsibly. I have no intention to offend. Continuity wise, the only thing I've changed is the location of Michael's house from Rosslyn, DC, to Annapolis, MD. Summary: While off-duty, Scully and Michael come upon a situation that turns into an unofficial case and has some unexpected and long reaching effects on them and their relationship. It's all over the papers. Front page news. "STUDENT KILLS WOMAN THEN SELF." They don't even know the half of it. They don't know anything about the woman. My wife. My wife the whore. The whore trying to keep me from my son. No father should ever be separated from his son. A boy needs his father. A father needs his boy. And I will have him. In the meantime, I've fixed her. I've fixed her but good and no one will ever be the wiser. It's a shame about my student. I needed Patrick's help, but I didn't think it would come to this. I didn't think he would kill himself but maybe it's better that he did in the long run. He would have had a hard time getting through life the way he was. I tried to help him while I could but I couldn't change him. And that's what he needed; that was the only way to really help him. Again, it's a shame but what's done is done. Now, it's only a matter of time before I have what I've wanted and longed for for three years. The love of my boy. 24 HOURS EARLIER--District of Columbia In no hurry, Michael and I sit comfortably in the theater as the credits to the movie roll. People scramble past us, eager to be on their way and we kind of shake our heads because we're in no such hurry; the time we have together is precious, every minute of it worth savoring. We've realized that with all we've been through and it's a shame most people don't ever come to that same realization. After the crowd has dispersed, we leisurely make our way out of theater hand in hand toward the truck, Michael unable to refrain from commenting on that poorly written action-packed farce, er film, we've just sat through. "Dana, the next time I pick out a movie remind me that we should sit toward the back of the theater." "Why?" "So if the movie's that bad we can fool around instead." "It wasn't that bad. And I'll be good and won't say I told you so," I smile enigmatically. "Well, I didn't think they'd get every FBI tactical procedure wrong." "Michael, c'mon, we're talking about Bruce Willis here. He's the man. He's a one man army. He doesn't need to follow procedure or call for backup." After joking around a bit more, we head to McDonald's for a rare visit. Rare because I don't go for fast food, and Michael's too health conscious to indulge in fat laden burgers and fries on any consistent basis. While on line there, Michael behind me, his hands resting comfortingly on my shoulders, a restless little boy catches my eye. Clutching his mother's hand, he stands in line with her, she facing forward while he faces us and makes adorably cute faces in a bid to gain our attention. We play along, and he alternately hides his face behind his mother's body, then peers out at us in delight. With his delightful expressions as well as his dark hair and eyes, he reminds me so much of Michael's son, Joseph. We continue to play along with him even while his mother is called away briefly to the front of the restaurant by a friend. Suddenly--from out of nowhere--a gunshot rings out. Michael immediately covers my body with his while I lunge to protect the boy, the rest of the patrons scrambling for cover wherever they can find it. Screams of terror fill the air and my ears, the scene deteriorating into utter chaos. After the immediate danger seems to have passed, it becomes eerily quiet. Michael turns towards the shooter as do I and we're both stunned to learn who it is. A teenager. A kid. An innocent boy. With the cold, hard steel of a gun pressed in his hand. His gun hand shakes wildly, his whole body trembling. But this boy is far from innocent. He's just shot the mother of the little one we'd been playing with while standing on line. Slowly, Michael approaches the shooter, hands up in surrender. "Easy, son. Let's just take it easy...What's your name?" "Okay, Patrick. Why don't you just take it easy. We don't want anyone else to get hurt. Why don't you just hand me the gun, and everything will be okay." "I'm sssorry. I didn't mean to hurt that woman," he utters on the verge of tears, gun hand still shaking wildly, the barrel aimed right at Michael. "Easy, Patrick. I know you didn't want to hurt her. But let's not make matters worse. Just hand me the gun, and we'll figure this out." "Is she dead?" "I don't know, but she needs medical attention. We have to stop this right now, right now, Patrick, so she gets the help she needs." "I don't want her to die." "I know you don't. Neither do I. Hand me the gun, and we'll end this; we'll get her help." Michael continues to talk to Patrick in that appeasing but convincing manner we were taught to use in hostage negotiations. I tend to the victim's little boy, slowly easing us both to safety in the dining area, instructing him not to move an inch. Once I'm sure that all the other patrons are relatively safe, my attention falls to the woman lying on the floor, blood oozing steadily from the wound in her chest. She's losing too much blood. I know that if we don't get her to a hospital soon it'll be too late. Very slowly, I appear from the dining area and approach Patrick, his gun now pointed at me. "Patrick, listen--" "Dana, NO!" Michael grits through clenched teeth, cutting me off and easing his way into the space between me and Patrick's gun. Damn him. What the hell does he think he's doing? I'm an FBI agent for Christsakes. His eyes plead with me to stay out of this, to keep myself safe but how can I do that as a doctor? How can I just stand by, watch someone suffer, and not do what I can to help? Ignoring Michael's maddening inclination for being overprotective, I slowly approach Patrick again. "Patrick, I'm a doctor. Let me see if I can help. None of us here wants to see anything happen to her." "No, I don't. Please help her. Please," he begs. I kneel beside the victim and begin to assess her condition but she's already gone into cardiac arrest. For the next three to five minutes(which feel like the longest of my life), I desperately attempt to revive her with CPR and chest compressions. Sadly, though, it's no use; she's already dead. My useless efforts cease and fear and frustration cross my face, the same emotions mirrored back at me on Michael's own face. Tears have welled up in my eyes along with sweat on my brow and I wipe at both with a shaky hand. I'm afraid to contemplate what comes next. When Patrick wails at me with a mixture of rage and fear, I'm startled half to death. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! Why did you stop?!" Then he turns to Michael. "Why did she stop?!" I tell him the truth as calmly and gently as I can. "She's gone, Patrick. There's nothing more I can do. I'm sorry." "No!" he cries, shaking his head emphatically. "She can't be gone! She can't be dead!" Again Michael tries to convince him to listen to reason. "Patrick, c'mon. Just hand me the gun. I know you didn't mean to hurt her....Once this is over, I'll help you, I promise. I won't let you down." Despite Michael's efforts to comfort, Patrick's beside himself with grief, tears streaming down his face. The cold steel of the gun lies flush against his skin as he cradles his face. And when he feels that coolness, that strength that lie within his own hand, an epiphany seems to take place. One that provides escape. Freedom. Peace. And, of course, punishment. A punishment he knows he deserves for taking an innocent person's life. OH, GOD. I have a terrible feeling. Don't do it, Patrick! But it all happens so fast. Within split seconds, no chance to change what's coming next. No chance to change fate. Fate that will be played out by that cold, hard steel in Patrick's hand as he looks to the heavens . . . "You don't have to do this!" closes his eyes . . . "Patrick, let me help you!" positions the gun in his mouth . . . "NO, JUST HAND ME THE GUN!" Michael desperately yells, rushing at Patrick in a last ditch effort to save him from himself. and fires, the shot shattering all our illusions. All our illusions of ending this nightmare without further tragedy. Patrick Wilson, male, age 15. DEAD. Melina Asmikopoulos, female, age 32. DEAD. What a fucking waste. That's all I could think when these two young people lie dead as the DCPD canvassed the scene, asking their questions. Two people had died, and we hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it. But we had tried. We had tried so desperately hard it physically hurt. And unfortunately, it had hurt a vulnerable Michael most of all. He was still recovering both mentally and physically from a near fatal drug overdose, and the last thing he needed was this harrowing nightmare, not to mention the old memories it surely dredged up of him kneeling over his best friend's body after Chris had been gunned down in cold blood by Michael's own brother. While we awaited further questioning at the DCPD, they put us in an area off the squad room which I presumed they used for conferencing. When we sat down, Michael mumbled off some questions inquiring about my well being and I returned the sentiment. He was then quiet for awhile and at one point grabbed my left hand, stared at the gold wedding band there for a long moment, twined his fingers through mine, and pulled my hand into his lap. Afterward, he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. No doubt he was replaying every instant of his confrontation with Patrick, wondering if he'd done something wrong, wondering what he could've done to prevent that boy from putting a bullet in his head. But there was nothing; he'd played it perfectly, did everything by the book. Disturbing things were ticking through my own head as well. The heartbreaking sight of Michael falling to his knees at Patrick's side flashed through my mind yet again. He had stared at Patrick's body, the kid's head a bloody mess, and I had kneeled down beside Michael with my arms wrapped around his body in an effort to comfort him. To reach him. But no matter what I did or said, Michael was unresponsive to me, his body actually cold and trembling slightly like he was in some sort of shock. Why, I'm not sure. I knew he had seen far worse than this; we both had. Scared, I moved in front of him, pushed his head down and away from the sight of Patrick's body all the while gripping onto him tightly and whispering my love and understanding. When he finally tightened his arms around me, too, I knew we would be okay. And we stayed just that way until the police arrived. After Michael came around, I held onto Melina's son with every ounce of strength I had left. It seemed to be up to me to protect him and shield him from this nightmare and I would not dare let him down. When the police removed him from my arms, I felt strangely emotional and territorial, like my own flesh and blood was being ripped from me. I pushed those raging feelings aside then as I do now thinking about it and come back to myself, back to the present. Almost another twenty minutes ticked by as we waited, and I was getting anxious to get on with it, not to mention angry. Angry because I could hear a small crowd of detectives in the squad room gossiping about Michael and I. These yokels actually questioned our involvement in the case, what we could possibly be covering up, or how we'd screwed up and scrambled around to cover our own asses. It was bad enough that they pondered our relationship; but when they joked around about us getting it on while on the job, I was about to lose it. The one about Michael being a pussy for "allowing" his wife to keep her maiden name capped it off. I was just glad Michael hadn't heard any of this juvenile crap. Finally, one of the officers from that wonderful bunch in the squad room came to retrieve us, but I wasn't about to play into their hands as they seemed to have a bug up their ass about us. Tension between local law enforcement and the FBI was nothing new, but Michael and I were civilians tonight. Just a married couple trying to enjoy a pleasurable night out. But somehow, our involvement turned it into a government conspiracy. Faced with an obvious bias, I respectfully requested that Lieutenant McCarron be the one to interview Michael knowing McCarron would more than likely treat him fairly. From just some limited interaction with the lieutenant in the past, I knew he was a good man. That request, however, brought a stern, disbelieving look from my husband for suggesting a forced meeting between the two after the last fiasco. Months ago, Michael had a run in with the DCPD, and McCarron threw him in a jail cell for a couple of hours to cool him off. McCarron was within his rights but it had created some hard feelings on Michael's part even though he wasn't in control of himself at the time. I shot him a look back that told him it was okay because McCarron held nothing against him and that above all, he should trust me. Ultimately, he did and the questioning went off without incident except for the fact that they grilled us separately for over an hour. Though I had yet to speak to Michael alone, I was sure Lieutenant McCarron was indeed fair with him and I'd say Sergeant McCall was fair with me, but the questioning lasted far too long. The real problem came when Sergeant Gold questioned the two of us together. Gold had also been one of those assholes in the squad room joking around; and when he actually had the nerve to openly suggest that we knew more than we were letting on, that we were covering something up, Michael became fucking furious. And the questioning was over just like that. After a heated, expletive filled exchange between the men, Michael stormed out of the room without another word, and I followed his lead. If we had to return tomorrow for additional questioning, which was unfathomable at this point, we would; but for now, we just wanted to go home. I was as furious as Michael at Gold's ludicrous suggestion but held it close to my vest. Eager to be out of the police station, we practically flew through the hallways, hand in hand. Unfortunately, McCarron was bounding down the opposite hallway looking for us. Or me to be precise. "Agent Scully, there's just one more thing--" While McCarron is in mid sentence, Michael immediately barks at him to back off, his body standing protectively in front of mine. "No, McCarron...No way! No more questions tonight! We're exhausted and we've had enough! If you have any more questions for us, we'll gladly answer them tomorrow." I pull my hand out from Michael's grasp and glare at him in disbelief, wondering what the hell he thinks he's doing speaking up for me; McCarron was clearly talking to me. We stare each other down even as I address the lieutenant. "Yes, Lt. McCarron. What can I do for you?" "The little boy is asking for you." McCarron's words catch me off guard, my attention reverting back to him. "Really? I would've thought he would be with his father by now." "That's just the thing. We can't seem to identify who his father is, where he is. There's no record of any next of kin." "Did you call Family Services?" "Yes, but being it's Friday night, they're not sure someone can get down here before Monday. And we really can't get him to talk other than his asking for you. We'd really appreciate it if you could--" "You don't even have to ask. Of course, I will." McCarron touches his hand to my shoulder with what seems like affection. "Thank you, Agent Scully. I really appreciate this." I accept his thanks but it's really unnecessary; again, there's no way I would let this child down. Not after this cold, cruel world already has. They've got him off in one of the interrogating rooms. What a scary, intimidating place for a little boy, but he seems unfazed by it as he doodles on some paper with black, blue, red, green & yellow colored markers. Off to his right side is a small plate of Saltine crackers and a paper cup full of water. I laugh to myself wondering how the PD of all places didn't have a damn donut lying around. Officers have gently explained to him that God has taken away his mother but since he wouldn't speak to anyone, they're not sure he understands. I hope I can help him to even if I don't quite understand what has happened myself. Apprehensive as I am about approaching the child, knowing Michael and McCarron are on the other side of the glass is comforting. When I slide into a chair next to the boy, he greets me with a shy smile and big, wide eyes. "Hi," I murmur to him softly. "Hi...I'm drawing," he announces happily. "I see that; that's a wonderful picture...Is that your mom?" "Yeah." "She's beautiful," I praise and then gently attempt to acquire some information. "What about your dad? Where's he in your picture?" "Mom says I don't have a dad." I scoff mildly. "Everyone has a dad." "Not me. That's what my mommy told me...Why can't my mom be with me?" he asks me expectantly. My heart breaks at his question, and I pray I can come up with something simple yet meaningful. "Because...because God needs her to help him do good things in the world. He knew what a special person your mom was. She still loves you very much, though, and always will. Never forget that." "I won't. Do you think I'll ever see her again?" "Someday, I believe you will. In the meantime, you can think of her and remember her often. Keep your memories of her here and here." I tap his head and his heart for emphasis. As he continues to draw, I struggle for words, any words that'll both draw him out and earn his trust. When I glance at his latest picture, somehow I think I've already earned that trust. "Who's that?" I ask feigning uncertainty and pointing to the woman in the drawing. The bob of red hair has already given away the answer. "You," he states simply. "Oh...That's so beautiful," I gush. And it truly is. In his rendering, stick figures and all, I stand amid a field of colorful flowers with the bright sun above warming me. We're both quiet for awhile as he continues to draw and then out of the blue, he asks another question. "What's your name?" "Dana. Here, let me write it down for you," I offer and he allows me to add it to the picture right under his rendering of me. "What's yours?" "Mike," he replies and smiles endearingly. "I like that name," I tell him and then glance up briefly toward the glass in the general direction of my husband. "I like it a lot." "My mommy likes it, too." "I bet she does," I tell him, lightly ruffling his hair. My little Michaelangelo continues to draw adding another person to his masterpiece. This time it's a man with dark hair and a goatee, the man standing alongside me in the field, holding my hand. Again, I gently inquire about who he's drawn though I already know. For a young boy, his keen observation is amazing. "Tell me who that is." "Your friend." "Mike, that's...that's wonderful. You know, my friend's right outside, and I know he would love to see you. His name's Mike, too. Would you mind if he came in?" He shakes his head indicating it's all right and without further hesitation, Michael joins us and drops a small but full brown paper bag on the table. Michael eyes me and then regards Mike when the boy greets him with an expectant though brief look. "Hi." "Hey, little man. How are you doing?" "Okay." "Just okay, huh?" "I miss my mom." "I know you do," Michael says sadly, our eyes catching. "Mind if I sit down next to you, Mike?" "Un-unh," he mumbles, still drawing. It seems that nothing can tear him away from his artwork. "You know, Mike...I've got a little treat for you. You want to see?" Michael gently teases, reaching for the bag. Ah, yes. That brown paper bag. I've been wondering what's in there myself. "Yeah!" Mike exclaims excited, finally losing interest in his drawing. Much to the child's delight, Michael pulls out a bag of Oreo cookies plus a quart of milk and three paper cups and plates. Based upon the look on Mike's face, I'd say he likes Oreos. "Milk and cookies," I murmur aloud with a knowing smile, having an affinity for the goodies myself and fondly recalling all those times my mother whipped up a batch of cookies when one of us kids was down and out. "A growing boy can't survive on bread and water alone, Dana," Michael smiles warmly at me. No, Saltines and water just doesn't cut it with little kids. Mike climbs up into Michael's lap to get closer to the cookies, and we then instruct him on the fine art of eating Oreos. That is, carefully removing one end of the cookie to lick the scrumptious cream center away and then dipping the chocolate ends that are left into the cold, delicious milk. Such a little thing as this brings back some wonderful memories for me as a young girl, and it's doubly rewarding to see Michael partake in it as he once must've when he was a young child. When Mike's had his fill, he turns his attention to Michael getting a small thrill by rubbing his hand through the soft but prickly facial hair of Michael's goatee. My husband indulges the boy's playfulness and curiosity and then proceeds to tell him a delightful story. The only time his attention wavers for even just a second is when he notices the gold chain around Michael's neck and pulls the cross up and out from behind Michael's shirt to admire it. I observe the two of them with immense pleasure and affection, awed by Michael's ability to connect with this child in such a short span of time. Besides being a wonderful person, he's really a wonderful father which was impossible not to note in all the time we've spent with Joseph. Like now, those times stir in me a longing to be able to have his baby, our baby, a child in our very image with the best traits of both of us. There's nothing I wouldn't give for that, to be able to give us that gift though I often feel like Joseph is ours. And I hope it'll always be that way. While I silently contemplate this and suggesting to my husband that we bring Mike home with us until Family Services is able to take him, McCarron enters the interrogation room and informs me that one of his female officers has offered to care for Mike in the interim. I open up my mouth to protest, the disappointment in me sharp and unexplainable just as it was at McDonald's when they took him from me. The words won't come however. Michael catches my state of distress and tries to calm me with that way that he, and only he, has. It's a look from his eyes that has the ability to touch me, to reach into my soul and envelop me in its strength. I end up biting my tongue on the matter to McCarron, not willing to start any type of disagreement in front of Mike; that's the last thing I want. That plus the fact that I have no idea what's right for a 4-year-old whose mother has just been murdered. And though Michael appears fine at the moment, I think he has some serious issues of his own that we have to deal with first. Needless to say, my emotions have become a jittery mess. My anger with Michael from before also rears its ugly head though I try to push all of it away and carry on. Like I always do. When the time comes for Mike to say his goodbyes, I pull the little one into a fierce hug. Unshed tears sting my eyes though I'm still unsure of what's come over me. I just know that I don't want to let him go, but I must and force myself to do so. With these uncertain feelings so close to the surface, I step out into the hallway beyond the confines of the room, unable to watch Michael with him; seeing the two of them together will only remind me of all the times we've had to leave Joseph behind. McCarron again thanks me for my efforts and just as they're ready to depart, Mike tugs at my fingers, looking up at me expectantly. "What is it, sweetie?" I ask. "Will you come visit?" "Oh, yeah. I promise you. I promise you I'll see you again real soon. Nothing could keep me away," I pledge to him, trying to muster a smile. We hug again and I watch them go, Mike's hand safely tucked in McCarron's. When they reach the end of the long hallway, ready to turn the corner, Mike glances back at me and I wave, my heart breaking for him and for myself. Then I blink and they're gone. Soon afterward, Michael approaches and, thankfully, doesn't say a word about what has just transpired. He just wraps his strong arms around me from behind, holding me close. Even with Michael holding me, I still feel inexplicably empty and alone. Silent torture. That's what the 15 minute ride home from the police station has been like. It's amazing how awkward you can feel in such a small amount of time. If Dana doesn't speak to me soon, I think I'm going to go crazy. This shooting has left me a mental wreck; I have so much guilt and uncertainty consuming me that I need to talk. I need to talk to her above all because she has this amazing way of assuring me and calming me. But she seems intent on being angry, and I'm afraid I'm not exactly sure what I've done. It could very well have to do with Mike but I don't have any answers for what either of us is feeling or how to alleviate that ache. The only thing I do know is that after such an ordeal we should be drawing each other close, not pushing each other away. With that in mind, I attempt to start a conversation. "You okay, Dana? You haven't said a word the whole ride home." "I'm fine." Upon hearing those awful words, my hands automatically tighten around the steering wheel. "Please don't give me that." There's a long moment of silence between us before she continues. "I was just...I was just wondering about some things." "You know, as much as I'd like to, I can't read your mind. Care to elaborate?" "It's nothing. Just forget it." No way. If she has a problem with something I've done, I won't just let her dismiss it like this. "What is it? Just tell me." I approach our driveway, signaling with the blinker my intention to turn in. A sigh precedes her explanation. "I was wondering why you felt the need to step between me and that kid's gun. And why you spoke up for me at the police station." Surprised and angered by what she has chosen to taken away from this, my foot unintentionally slams on the brake, bringing us to an abrupt stop. "Are you serious?" I ask incredulously, turning to her. "I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't." Of course. My wife and her control issues. I should have known better but apparently, I don't. "After everything that happened tonight, I can't believe you're worried about that," I snap. "I'm sorry but I am. I didn't appreciate what you did. Have you forgotten that I'm an FBI agent? I can handle myself." "No, Dana, I haven't forgotten," I sigh with resignation. "You're a damn good FBI agent, but I'm your husband, not your partner in the Bureau. My concern for your well being is my one and only priority. And for that, I won't apologize." Let Dana chew on that. Without granting her another word or glance, I exit the vehicle in a huff, slamming the door closed behind me. Though it's summer, the cold seems to plague my skin. As chills run through my body, I wonder what the reason is, whether it's the slight breeze of the night air from the coming storm, flashes of the nightmarish scenario we've just faced flitting through my head, or the fact I've made Michael angry with me. While he showers away the grit, grime and horrific images of tonight, I sink into the couch, my mood grim but nostalgic, longing for happier times. Framed pictures of Michael and I and his son, Joseph, at our wedding catch my eye and I hold them with reverence, lovingly recalling that time nearly five months ago. It was right after Michael had practically died that I had had an epiphany. And with the absolute craziness my life had become the previous six years, it shouldn't have taken that much for me to reach said epiphany. But it had in the grand tradition of the Scully family even though I had told Michael I was ready and wanted it. Stubborn, thy name is Scully. I did want it but I was just prepared for the preparations to take some time; if it stretched into a year or two, even more, so be it. What it took was nearly losing Michael forever to amphetamine poisoning at the hands of his partner to light a fire under my ass and marry the man I love. I decided that we weren't going to waste another minute, life was too short and uncertain to do so, and I started making wedding arrangements as quickly as possible. Nothing elaborate because we didn't need pomp and circumstance; the only thing we did want and need was each other, the only extravagance I insisted upon was flying Joseph in to be a part of it. That and a professional photographer to perfectly capture one of the most important days in our lives. While it teemed rain outside, we--Michael in a black tux and I in a simple, elegant white dress--exchanged vows in a Catholic mass followed by a reception dinner at the Italian restaurant Michael proposed in. Joined by 20 of our closest friends and family, Guillermo Mastrantonio and his staff at Cesco's took good care of us as they always did. There was plenty of good music, food, drink, and dancing as well as an extraordinary wedding cake courtesy of Guillermo. Despite the hurried preparations, I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful wedding. When the door to the bathroom clicks open, my thoughts return to the present as Michael and I eye each other warily from about 15 feet away. Suddenly, realization hits me and I recognize that I've made a terrible mistake. And it's the horror of tonight contrasted against my memories of the love we share and our wedding that have brought me to this revelation: How could I be so ridiculous and petty? How foolish have I been to allow my issues of control to affect our relationship? My issues are nothing in comparison to what we've been through, what Michael's been through. The truth is he was only doing what's natural. Protecting his wife. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's just difficult. I admit it's difficult for me to let go and allow him (or any man) to put himself on the line for me. Not after I've worked so hard and long to be treated as an equal. Damn my FBI instincts; there's nothing wrong with my husband trying to stand between me and a perceived danger. I know this. Now, I've got to try to make things right. "Michael, please c'mere a minute." Despite my request, he stands rigidly in place. "Dana, I ran some water for a bath. Why don't you get out of those clothes and get cleaned up." "I will. Just come over here. . . Please." I'm nearly pleading. He comes to stand in front of me, a look of concern on his face, the back of his hand caressing my cheek. "You all right?" "Yeah, how are you doing?" I ask, reaching up to grasp his hand which is ice cold to the touch. "Somewhat better. The shower helped a lot. I had to get out of those clothes...What are you doing with those pictures?" "Sit down next to me and I'll tell you...You know, Mike reminds me so much of Joseph." "Dana...I don't want to think about Joseph or Mike right now. . . I just want to go to sleep...go to sleep and forget what I'm feeling...go to sleep knowing you're safe . . ." "That's what I wanted to talk to you about." "No, I don't want to fight." "I don't want to fight either." "Dana,...the bottom line is I can't be the way that you want me to be. I love you very much, you're my wife, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect you. Claiming that I could try to be different would be a lie, and I don't ever want to lie to you. Ultimately, your being an FBI agent means nothing and you either accept the way I feel or you don't but it doesn't change my instinct to protect you." "I know that and I do accept it. I accept it as a part of who you are, a part of what makes you such a wonderful human being, a part of why I love you so much. And I don't want to change a thing about you...although I could do without the whiskers in the sink whenever you decide to shave...but...I digress." That earns a smile from my gorgeous husband. "I just want to say that you were right and I was wrong tonight. I apologize for making you feel that what you were doing was wrong. I know it was instinct borne out of love, and I'll try not to fight you on it anymore." Michael barely offers a contented smile at my admission, one I feel to be of significant importance since he knows how I am. Something's wrong. "Baby, what is it?" He hesitates to answer and when I reach for his hand again, he jerks it away. He rubs at his face and it feels like forever until he finally gets his thoughts together and speaks, looking at me with dread plainly written on his face. "Dana, I want to ask you something, and I want you tell me the truth." "Of course." How could I not? I don't want to see that look on his beautiful face ever again. ". . . Tonight...Did I talk Patrick down--...Was it by the book? Did I--" "Yes, yes and yes," I answer without hesitation. "Are you sure because the way my head is these days I really wonder...I'm pretty sure I got the details right for my statement--but now that I try to think about it and I'm trying so hard to concentrate on the details, it all seems unclear. It seems like it happened...so long ago . . ." "I'm certain. No agent would have done anything differently. No one could have handled it better. I swear to you." "The only thing I recall clearly is the look on Patrick's face; I could feel his fear. . . But why can't I remember? Why can't I remember the rest of the details?" "You said it yourself--you're trying too hard. Just relax and it'll come." He shakes his head in despair, his voice clearly distressed and angry. "I should have been able to save him...It was just like I was eighteen again and standing over Chris' body. I couldn't do anything then, and I couldn't do anything now. That kid killed himself because--" "No--" "I failed and he killed himself--" God, how can he think that? "No, listen to me--" "Maybe if I had my head more together, I could have saved him...He fucking killed himself . . ." I can't, I won't let Michael do this to himself any longer. I turn his face to me, making him see me, making him believe the truth in my words. "Michael, stop this. Blaming yourself isn't going to change anything. There was nothing, nothing more you could have done. Do you hear me? You know I would never lie to you." He shakes his head like that of a child but I'm not sure he understands what I've said. There certainly doesn't seem to be any recognition on his face or in his eyes. When I touch my hand to his forehead, I really feel the chill that has overtaken him. "Why are you so cold?" I murmur with concern, drawing his face to mine and pressing my cheek to his. "Dana, I'm freezing," he murmurs, his body trembling slightly. "I know, baby, I know. It's okay. Let me take care of you. Let me keep you warm." I lie back on the couch and pull his body to mine, wrapping him in the warmth and shelter of my arms. Nearly a week had passed since the murder/suicide, and Michael and I were doing the best we could to move ahead. He had experienced a Few unsettling nightmares since the incident and we were working our way through them. I wondered about his bad dreams, whether they were really a result of the shooting or whether they were a part of the nightmares he already had in coming down from the high of the drugs his body had been pumped with. At the moment, though, I was trying to concentrate on other things since I was back at work at this late hour. After only being home for less than two hours this evening, I headed back to the office, needing to keep busy since the house was empty and had been for three days; Michael was out in the field on a case, his first since the OD. And frankly, I was worried. As always he was on my mind, and I kept thinking or hoping that when I turned around in that big, old house of ours he'd be there. No such luck though. I worry that he's trying to do too much too fast--a new case, a new partner, not to mention our new marriage and some residual complications from the overdose. That's a lot for anyone to deal with especially after what he's been through. As I try to deal with a large stack of backed up paperwork, I've lost count on how many cups of coffee I've had to assist my endeavor. I've drained just about every drop of the precious brew, the large, fresh pot now nearly empty. Despite the caffeine, I still find myself yawning, the boredom and loneliness impossible to keep at bay. When the phone on my desk rings, I'm a little caught off guard but thankful for the distraction just the same. "Scully." "Mrs. Anzotti, I miss you something awful." God, the deep bass of Michael's voice is so exciting and welcoming. "Same here, Mr. Anzotti. Sorry I missed your call last night." "It's all right. I didn't want to wake you anyway." "So, tell me how you're doing." "Hanging in there." "How's your hand?" "Still trembling a bit." I can't say I'm surprised. "Well, you're body's still healing. We need to give it a little more time. How about your head? Anymore nightmares?" "No, no nightmares, surprisingly, but my concentration is still off and my short term memory is definitely not what it used to be as we both know. This first case back has certainly illustrated that fact." "Well, maybe Dr. Carr can give us some exercises to strengthen your concentration...Michael, I think you may be pushing yourself too hard. I mean, I'm not even sure you should be back in the field." "Dana, I've been checked out thoroughly--" "Yes, but I think you're trying desperately to get back to where you were mentally and physically and it's just not possible right now." "I know, I know," he murmurs regretfully. "What about your new partner? How's that working out?" "Crawford seems like an okay guy. I'm just not going to trust too much like I did with Brian. . ." My stomach churns at the mention of his former partner's name, the mere thought of him raising my ire. Thankfully, Michael and I seem to be on the same wave length as evidenced by his next words. "You know what? How about I change the subject?" "Perfect idea." "What about you? I tried you at home--everything okay?" "Yeah, I came back to the office to catch up on some of my reports. The house just isn't the same without you." "I'll be home tomorrow, I promise. Nothing could keep me away." "How about I pick you up?" "No, don't go out of your way. My truck's at the airport. . . Oh, you didn't hear back from the DCPD, did you?" "No, not after they gave me the run-around yesterday. I told you they left me on hold so long the day before I had to hang up." I wish I could tell him I had some luck since he's been preoccupied with trying to gleam some information from them regarding the murder we witnessed. He's convinced that something very wrong is being perpetrated by the DCPD. I'm inclined to agree with him as we've been unable to acquire any answers to even our most basic questions, our inquiries and offers of assistance met with severe contempt. It's starting to wear on us both, and I know how much this means to him. "I didn't do much better. If my flight lands on time tomorrow, I'm going to drop by the police department. See if I can accomplish something in person." "Are you sure that's such a good idea?" "I take it you don't think it is." I grow quiet. "It's just that this is their case and they don't want us involved. Maybe if we back off for a little while they'll give us some answers down the line." "I would back off if I thought they were actually doing something to find out what really happened. No one seems to give a shit why a seemingly normal 15-year-old boy killed an innocent woman and then killed himself. Why am I the only one who cares?" "You're not the only one," I amend. "Yes, but you're reluctant to get involved." "I just don't want to ruffle any feathers, Michael. They were against us the minute we walked into that police station. Even though we were nothing but bystanders that night, it was like we had FBI stamped on our foreheads. They don't want our input. What makes you think they're going to give you any answers?" "Baby, you're right. I know you're right. But it's not going to stop me from trying." "This is true," I sigh. I appreciate his tenacity and sense of justice tremendously but feel nothing good will come of it. "Michael?" "Hmm?" "Do me a favor, and don't get in anyone's face," I propose gently. "Since when do I get in anyone's face?" he responds, humor evident in his voice. "Do I need to rattle off a list?" "No, baby. No list necessary. And don't worry. Your buddy McCarron will probably be around to keep me in line." "What, because McCarron helped me out in the past, he's now my buddy? How do you figure?" "It's just something I noticed with the way he regarded you the other night. McCarron's smitten if you haven't noticed." "Smitten? Please, he's nearly old enough to be my father," I guffaw. "That doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate beauty and intelligence. Mind if I throw your name around?" "And which name would that be?" I question with amusement. "Scully of course. Unfortunately, no one knows you by Anzotti but me," he pouts. I ignore his wounded puppy act. "Yeah, throw it around if you think it'll help though I think you're exaggerating." "If you say so...Listen, it's getting late there. Before I let you go, promise me you're going home soon." "I will if you assure me of one thing." "What's that?" "That you're not losing sight of the real victim here. . . Melina died horribly for no reason. And Mike. He's a victim, too." "I realize that. I do. But you don't think Patrick is a victim? You think I'm wrong?" "No, you know I trust your instincts. But the possibility still remains--what if you are wrong? How is that going to make you feel?" "Then I'm wrong. And that'll be that...Hey, we're going to see Mike on Saturday, right?" "Yeah. They tell me he's asking for us." "Well, once he's settled in, he won't be able to get rid of us...Anyway...D, go home and get some rest." "I'm going, I'm going. See you tomorrow, my love." "I'll be counting the minutes." Not too bad. Not too bad at all. I arrive at the DCPD only fifteen minutes later than I anticipated. Plenty of time to try and get some information out of the local boys in blue and get home to my wife at a decent hour. My case put to bed, everything was smooth from LAX to Dulles, and I'm hoping things will go as smoothly here. Somehow, though, I doubt it. With long, purposeful strides, I head toward the reception desk almost wishing I'd bump into Lt. McCarron and bypass all this BS. That even despite our recent run-ins. But he strikes me as an honest, hardworking cop, one who could have come down on me harder than he had. Plus, Dana likes him and I'm sure he likes her. At least I know he has good taste. The young woman at the reception desk has a bright, cheery demeanor and a big smile to offer. "May I help you?" "Yes, I'd like to speak to the officer in charge of the Asmikopoulos murder." "And you are?" "Michael Anzotti. I was a witness and I have some additional information I'd like to add to my statement." "Okay, let me just see who's heading up that case." Her finger skims through the large stack of papers on her clipboard, coming up empty. "Mr. Anzotti, I'm afraid that case isn't on our docket. Are you sure you gave me the correct name?" "Positive. She was the young woman killed by the 15 year old." "I remember but it's not here on my list. I don't know what to tell you." "Well, someone here must know about that case. What's your name? Laura? Laura, would you please ask one of officers here what the status is." "Okay, just give me a minute." Before she can move a muscle, the lecherous Sgt. Gold joins our par-tay, eyeing me with disdain. "Laura, is there a problem here?" "No, no problem, Sergeant Gold," I chime in, my merry tone obviously irritating him. "What do you want, Anzotti?" he scowls in return. "To talk to the officer in charge of the Asmikopoulos murder." "There's no one in charge. From what I understand, the case is closed. So why don't you go on home and quit wasting everyone's time." Apparently, our exchange has confused Laura. "Have I missed something here?" "No, Laura. Mr. Anzotti is just an overzealous FBI agent sticking his two cents in where it doesn't belong." "My being an FBI agent has nothing to do with this, Sergeant. I'm a concerned citizen, and all I want is to talk to someone in reference to this case." "I told you there's no case. Captain Gilmore closed it. Now, go home, Agent Anzotti, before I make you go home." "Is that a threat, Sergeant? I'm not here in any official capacity and I don't take too kindly to threats...I'm sure your lieutenant wouldn't appreciate his officer threatening civilians." "Bite me, Anzotti," Gold snarls and then wanders back to his hole with his tail between his legs. I smile broadly, appreciating my own accomplishment but not nearly content enough to walk out of here just yet. "Laura, would you do me another favor? Tell Lt. McCarron there's someone here to see him. Tell him...tell him I'm a good friend of Dana Scully's." Not five minutes later, McCarron greets with a mixture of surprise and wariness plainly written on his face. I guess I'm not his favorite person, which is of no surprise, but I shall do my best to convince him that I'm not so bad after all. He shakes my hand and indicates I follow him to his office. Once seated, we get down to business. "So, Agent Anzotti, this is definitely a surprise. How's your lovely wife?" "Very well, thank you." "Glad to hear it. Please say hello for me...Now, what can I do for you?" I hesitate, knowing I've got to get this apology out first. "Lieutenant McCarron, before we get off on the wrong foot again--" "When did we get off on the wrong foot?" "You know, with my...speeding incident." "Don't worry about it. Your wife and I cleared up the matter to both our satisfaction." "But I still want to apologize for then and for the other night. I didn't mean to bite your head off." He again waves off my explanation. "I'm sure you didn't come out of your way for this." I have to hand it to the man; he doesn't hold a grudge. That being the case, I decide not to dwell on the subject. "No, no. . . I came by to get an update on the investigation into the Asmikopoulos murder...But for some reason, I'm told the case is closed." "Mmmm." "You don't sound too surprised." Leaning back in his black leather chair, he reflects for a moment and then ends up goading me. "Why don't you tell me what more there is to investigate? The suspect killed himself." "But why? Why would a good, bright 15 YO kid with apparently everything to live for do something like this? And why on earth would he kill a woman he, I assume, has no known connection to in such a precise, premeditated manner?" "What you say, to the best of my knowledge, is true. Why, indeed?" he challenges. "You're wondering why as well, aren't you?" "Oh, I wonder about so many things, Agent Anzotti," McCarron suggests mysteriously, rolling his chair to the file cabinet off to his left. After digging through his key ring and opening up the cabinet, he roots around for a moment. When he finds the file he's looking for, he flips it right in front of me and onto his desk. "What is it?" "The Asmikopoulos case file." I pick up the thin file, noting only a few sheets of paper inside. "This is it? Where's the rest of it?" I ask perplexed. "There is nothing else, Agent Anzotti. Captain Gilmore cut everyone out of this, told us would handle all further investigation into the matter personally. He was adamant. Privately, I demanded a explanation and was just about handed my balls, pardon the expression, on a silver platter. Soon thereafter, the entire file mysteriously disappeared. I tried to get copies of all the reports but was only successful in obtaining Melina's autopsy report, which is what you're holding. Your statement, your wife's statement, Wilson's autopsy report--it's all gone. Everything. Gone." I shake my head in disgust and flip the file back on his desk. "And there's not a damn thing you can do about it." "Not if I want to keep my job, and I'm only a few years away from retirement. My hands are tied. For all intents and purposes, the case is closed." "Is Gilmore around?" "No, he's already gone home for the day." "Something's got to be done." "Do you have something in mind?" "Yeah, some pressure from an unlikely source. Catch the good captain off guard in his comfort zone. Watch his reaction." "A house call?" McCarron asks, thumbing through his Rolodex but not offering a hint of his feelings on the matter. "Yeah, what do you think?" "I say...be my guest," he smirks, handing me a small slip of paper, that sheet of paper containing Gilmore's home address written in McCarron's sloppy scrawl. A sly smile curls at the corners of my mouth. Lawrence Gilmore's house sits amid the more exclusive section of MD. Obviously, the captain's done well for himself. Crooked cops usually do, and apparently, he's no exception. While waiting for someone to answer the door, I straighten my tie, trying to look somewhat presentable after six hours on a plane. As the door is being unlocked, I reach into the breast pocket of my suit for my badge. A middle-aged Mrs. Gilmore, one can only assume, grants me a questioning look as I hold up my badge at eye level. "Hi, I'm Special Agent Anzotti with the FBI. I'd just like to talk to Captain Gilmore for a few minutes if I may." "Regarding?" "A case his department is investigating." "Well, he's eating dinner right now. Why don't--" "I don't mind," I smile sheepishly. "It's very important." A wordless frown crosses her face, but she turns from the door and heads back to retrieve her husband. He appears at the door with a cold, disapproving look that appears to be reserved only for me but I will not blink or back down. The screen door slams closed behind him as he joins me on the porch. "What do you want, Agent Anzotti? I'd like to get back to my dinner before it gets cold if you don't mind." "I won't keep you, Captain Gilmore. I was just hoping you could explain to me why the Asmikopoulos case is closed. I was a witness to that murder. . . You know, the woman shot and killed by the 15 YO boy at McDonald's . . ." "Last time I checked it was of no concern to the FBI." "No, but it is of concern to me." "And how's that, agent?" "I said I'm a witness. I'm witness to a kid blowing his head off right in front of my face--I want to know why but you're department is dragging its fucking feet all over the case." "There's not much of a case. The Wilson kid murdered Ms. Asmikopoulos. What else do you need to know?" "I guess I'm the only one who cares why. Shouldn't that be a part of your investigation? There's got to be more going on here." "Ever heard of Columbine? Kids and guns are an epidemic now and these kids are sick nowadays." "No. I heard the remorse in this kid's voice. He couldn't believe what he did; I think he was scared shitless." "You know what I think?...I think you're feeling a little guilty because you couldn't stop that kid from poppin' himself in the head. Poor Mr. high and mighty FBI. You fucked up. Plain and simple. Now, stay out of the way and let the real police take care of it." "Then take care of it. Until I'm certain that you are, I'm gonna be all over this." Roly-poly Gilmore moves into my space, grabbing at the lapels of my suit jacket. "Watch it, kid. You stick your face in our business, I'll make sure I'll have your badge. And that will be the least of your problems." It takes every ounce of my self control to avoid pounding the man into the ground. But it's what he wants, and I won't give in. "Take my badge, Captain. And I'll do whatever it takes to expose what the fuck you're trying to hide. Now get you're fucking hands off me," I threaten, and he immediately drops his offensive posture. "Get off my porch! Get off now or I'll arrest you for harassment!" "Take it easy, Gilmore, I'll go," I assure him, trying to stifle the wide grin that has spread across my face over his reaction to me and my questions. Leisurely, I make my way down the stairs and just to the edge of his walkway and then turn back to face him with a bit of advice. "Just be careful, Gilmore. Don't go choking on the rest of your dinner with all those lies spewing up out of your mouth." God damn FBI with their pretty boy sticking his nose in my business. No matter. For whatever I've done, it's not going to change the outcome. The fibbie saw it with his own eyes. What more does he want? As I dial the portable phone, I poke though the curtains of the porch window, relieved when Anzotti pulls away from my property in his truck. When Jack Cristofaro finally answers his damn phone, my voice is uncontrollably urgent. "Jack?! Where have you been?! I've been trying to reach you for two days." "I'm sorry. Is something wrong?" "Nothing that I can't handle, but I wanted to talk to you." "What's going on?" "I wanted to tell you to keep a low profile but apparently, you've been doing just that." "I have." "Well, keep it up until this all blows over." "Listen, Larry. I wanted to hank you for everything that you've done. With the history between Melina and I, someone surely would have tried to pin her death on me." "No thanks necessary. That boy killed Melina. There's no question about it." "But we're not taking any changes, right?" "No, I've disposed of the papers on the case, the custody ruling, and the restraining orders. I don't care what happened between you and Melina in the past. Now that she's dead, none of it matters. You didn't do anything wrong here, and you deserve to be with your son. I won't let anyone come between the two of you again." "Where is my son? How is he?" "All you need to know is that Mike's safe. Just be patient a little longer and you'll have him back." "Again, Larry, I don't know how to thank you. Thanks for being such a good friend." "Jack," I sigh. "I can hardly recall a time when we weren't friends . . ." On my way home from Gilmore's, I drop by the local florist to pick up a dozen peach roses for my wife. There's no special occasion other than I want to do this for her. That and the fact that Dana will have my head if she finds out what I just did. And I know she probably will; she's an excellent investigator and she knows me inside and out. The best course of action is to own up to it immediately and accept her huffing and puffing. It's far better to face it now than at a later date. I quietly drop my luggage, briefcase and suit jacket in the living room, hoping to surprise Dana even though my unplanned excursion to Captain Gilmore's has made me later than expected. For once, I find her actually pampering herself, standing at the kitchen counter reading a book as she waits for a kettle of hot water to boil for tea. Her back faces me, enabling me to sneak up behind her and wrap my arm about her middle. I kiss and nibble at her neck and her ear, enjoying the taste and smell of her milky white skin while she mewls in response to my kisses. While I continue my assault, I produce the bouquet from out behind my back, laying it on the countertop before her. "For you, beautiful . . ." She looks at the flowers plainly, no reaction flitting across her features that I can tell. Her words say it all, however. "So who'd you piss off this time?" I can't help but laugh into her neck. "Well, that's a fine how do you do. I don't even get a thanks for the flowers, Michael. Or I missed you like crazy--" "That's exactly what I was going to say after you tell me what happened at the police station." "Nothing. Nothing to report," I shrug and pull her to my body, holding her close. Though I know I have to tell Dana, I'm not really in the mood; I'd rather concentrate on her instead. She turns in my embrace and holds onto me tightly, her face buried in my chest, her words slightly muffled when she speaks. "Thanks for the flowers, Michael. I missed you like crazy, I really did," she admits with a bright smile and beautiful shining blue eyes when she looks up at me. No one in their right mind could resist that radiant smile and I've never been in my right mind where Dana Katherine Scully is concerned. But she knows I've been up to something, and when she calls me on it, it kind of ruins my mood. I retreat, headed for the small bundle of mail that has built up in my absence. "Hey, Anzotti...Am I gonna have to go down to the police station again and bail you out?" "Only if Captain Gilmore has his way," I remark offhand. "Oh, Michael, tell me you didn't. Tell me you didn't piss off the captain of the DCPD after I specifically asked you not to." "Dana, he's hiding something. This whole case stinks to high heaven, and he's worried about his dinner getting cold." "He must have loved you interrupting his meal." "Yeah, his wife loved it, too." "You went to his home no less?" she asks in disbelief. "Yeah. With McCarron's blessing. So to speak. He says hi by the way," I say offhand again, settling on the couch and flipping through the mail. "Great. When I come see you for our conjugal visits, I'll be sure to stop by and say hello to him." "Funny, honey." Dana joins me on the couch, sitting distractingly close. "Michael, I just don't understand why you've got to stick yourself smack dab in the middle of this." "You know me," I murmur, still perusing the mail, distracted by my father's latest letter of atonement. "Yes, I do. . . All too well. You're bad," she remarks, snatching the mail away and tossing it onto the coffee table. "And you love it," I tease. "I love you and I'd like to keep you in one piece. Could we please manage that? Huh? For just a little while?" she suggests in a joking manner, placing her lips lovingly and unrelentingly all over my face. When her lips find mine, we both know all joking has come to an end, lost as we are in a passionate display of hungry lips and tongues. She kisses me with such love, such passion I think I could die from the sheer perfection of it all. I never would have imagined it could still be like this, still so new and wonderful and exciting. Though I'd just been concentrating on other things, I'm quickly losing track of all conscious thought, of anything that is not her. "I'm afraid that's impossible," I pronounce nearly breathless from our kisses, pulling back to look in her eyes. "What's impossible?" she asks as breathless, her voice tinged with frustration at what I've managed to interrupt by speaking. I swallow hard at the sight of her before me, all beauty, radiance, and arousal. When I hesitate to answer her question, she begins to unbutton her shirt just enough. Just enough to guide my hand inside the soft fabric to her breast, encouraging me to feel her, to love her, to take her. And I want nothing more. When I finally answer, my voice rasps with emotion. "To keep me in one piece." "Why?" she asks, her eyes wide with love and desire. My voice is strangled and affected when I reply. "Because I go to pieces whenever you touch me or look at me like that." At my admission, her eyes well up and she swallows down her own emotion. "Well, Anzotti, come with me to the bedroom and let me have the immense pleasure of putting you back together." She pulls me to my feet, leading me where she will. I obey without question, without a moment's hesitation, a slave to her and her undying love. Damn that petite red-head and her companion. Who do they think they are?! Do they think I went to all that trouble to get rid of Melina just so they could waltz in and take him? Who the fuck do they think they are?! Again, they were there at the orphanage. Sucking up to my son. My son. My boy. Plying him. Bribing him. Enticing him. With a tiny gold cross. Toys. Games. And when it wasn't that, it was picnics and ice cream. Or love and affection. The three of them appeared to be one big, happy family. But I'll just have to see what I can do about that. There's not enough time in the world I lament as I pull into a parking space haphazardly. Though I had tried my damndest to be through with an autopsy, I'm late to our 7 pm meeting with Elizabeth Quercin, the owner/landlady of Melina Asmikopoulos' apartment building. She had been nice enough to agree to meet with Michael and I at this hour, and I'm just glad one of us made it on time as I note his truck already parked a few spaces away. I jump out of my vehicle and scamper toward the building as quickly as possible. I find Michael waiting impatiently in the hallway for Mrs. Quercin and greet him with a quick apology sealed with a kiss as we then wait together for Quercin to join us and unlock the entrance. When she finally does after she inspects our badges, we follow her into the building and into her office where the older woman offers some stale coffee and donuts. I swiftly decline for the both of us and get down to business."Mrs. Quercin, I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Anzotti. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us. We really appreciate it." "Anything I can do to help." "Now, you had a tenant named Melina Asmikopoulos who, tragically, was killed about two weeks ago. What can you tell us about her?" "Not much. She was a good tenant, paid the rent on time. Always in cash or by money order. She was quiet, kept to herself mostly...What a shame for her son--he's seems like such a sweet, well-mannered little boy." "What about a husband?" "Husband? She didn't have one that I know of." "A boyfriend, any male friends?" "I don't know of any. As I said, she kept to herself. Didn't go out of her way to talk to people or make friends but I didn't notice any men coming in and out of the building." I find it a little ironic that Quercin didn't know anything about Melina's visitors since my own landlord had been making assumptions about Mulder and I for years and inquired about Michael's comings and goings without shame. He seemed to know everything I was doing and everyone I was doing it with. "Do you know of any other family she may have had?" "No." "No one's been by to claim her belongings?" I ask perplexed though it makes sense. Mike has become custody of the state since no known relatives have been located as yet. "No, the apartment is exactly the way she left it." Michael then interjects. "Would you mind if we looked around her apartment?" "I'm afraid I'd have to insist on a search warrant," Mrs. Quercin replies smartly, smiling for the first time and smiling squarely at Michael. He has that affect on women, no matter what their age without even meaning to. "What about her job--do you know what she did for a living, where she worked?" "That I could tell you. All tenants have to fill out a form indicating where they work as a reference. So we can check their place of business, make sure they can pay the rent." Quercin flips through her filing cabinet, rattling off Asmikopoulos' place of employment. After jotting down the last of my notes, I close my notepad, indicating the end of my questions. Michael, on the other hand, is not quite finished yet. "One last question, Mrs. Quercin. Have any cops from the DC police department been here to ask you any similar questions regarding Mrs. Asmikopoulos?" Immediately after he asks the question, he looks at me and keeps his eyes anchored on mine. There's no need for him to look at her as she responds because he already knows the answer; we both do. "No. No one's been here," Quercin confirms. Though she has revealed nothing of much significance, I have learned one thing nonetheless. As I previously thought, Michael's suspicions certainly warrant further investigation. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Quercin." An energized Michael can barely reserve comment until we're out of the apartment building. Always the gentleman, he walks me to my car, opening the driver's side door for me. I fall into the seat feeling quietly dejected but before he's even slid into the seat beside me, his mouth is going. "See. What did I tell you?" "I know. I can't believe it. I can't believe the police aren't asking any questions." "You and me both." For a moment, we sit in silence contemplating what's next. Finally, I shake my head and when I look over at him, he's looking right back at me with the conclusion he's come to upon his lips. "D, I hate to say it but I think it's time I really started to stick my nose in people's faces," he jokes. I hate to say it, too, but he's right I think to myself and then speak aloud, continuing the train of thought. "You know what else you're not going to believe, Michael?" "What?" "I agree." "You do?" he asks skeptically. "Yeah," I confirm. "But not without me. I want to cover your back." Being that the police have seemingly failed to question anyone connected to Melina, it's safe to assume that they haven't questioned anyone connected to Patrick either. Both Michael and I beat it out of work a little early the following day, intent on talking to Patrick's family now, hoping there's some nugget of information they can provide that'll make some sense. Since we haven't called in advance for fear of the family refusing to see us, it remains to be seen how we'll be greeted. One can only hope it all goes well, and we don't get the door slammed in our well- meaning faces. As I did with Quercin, I'm prepared to take the lead, Michael more than willing to place his trust in me to handle this right. And with the trouble he's having concentrating and remembering little details, I'm more than happy to spare him the tedious task of note taking. Mindful of the unfortunate circumstances for the Wilson family, we eye each other somberly as we wait for someone to come to the door. When a woman does, my voice is calm and gentle. "Mrs. Wilson?" "Yes, may I help you?" "My husband and I are special agents with the FBI, and we just wanted to ask you some questions about your son, Patrick, if we may." "FBI? I thought the local police were supposed to be handling the case?" "They are. Um, I'm Dana by the way and this is Michael...We were in the McDonald's the night Ms. Asmikopoulos was shot. We just wanted to talk with you if possible. Get some answers to some of the questions that the local police seem to be ignoring." "You noticed that, too. . . Why don't you come in." Michael and I proceed to the spacious living room and sit together in the loveseat. When Mrs. Wilson elects to take a seat as well, I begin. "First of all, Mrs. Wilson, my husband and I want to express our condolences on the loss of your son. It must be devastating." "It has been...If we could just get some answers, it might help my husband and I to start grieving but no one seems to be doing anything...My son is no killer at least not the way they want us to believe." "We have reason to agree with you and want to help if you'll allow us on an unofficial basis." "So the FBI has not been called in then?" "No. As I said, we were there that night, witnesses at the scene. The police took our statements but seem to be ignoring much of what we saw. And the case, I'm sorry to say, seems to have been swept by the wayside...More importantly, Mrs. Wilson, we don't believe that your son was entirely responsible for his actions." She breathes a sigh of relief. "Finally, someone is saying something I want to hear. What do you want me tell you?" "First," I reply "we want to know if Patrick or any of you knew the victim." Michael hands me a picture of Melina that I pass to Mrs. Wilson. "No, I've never seen her before; and to the best of my knowledge, neither had Patrick." "What about Patrick, what kind of student was he?" "Actually, he was a very good student. Got A's and B's every grade period since elementary school." "Were the two of you close?" "No more so than what any typical 15-year-old boy would be with his mother." "What about Patrick and your husband?" "No, not really...Patrick was a loner, kept to himself." "So neither you nor your husband would've been aware if something was troubling him?" "I don't know if I'd say that...He wasn't acting differently or strangely the days preceding the shooting if that's what you mean. I'm sure of it." "What about his friends? Do you think we could talk to them?" "Patrick didn't have many friends that I know of, didn't hang around with very many people. As I said, he was a loner. Mostly did his homework, played video games, surfed the internet in his free time." "Any girlfriends?" "No, he didn't seem to be interested in girls yet." Michael and I glance at each other briefly, finding this response a little puzzling. Hell, Michael had already lost his virginity by that age. "And he didn't participate in any after school activities or sports?" "No. . . the only thing I can think of is he had been staying after school for tutoring. Even with summer recess, he still had been going for extra help." "What was he being tutored in?" "Um, I assume it was English. I know his verbal skills aren't as strong as his math and science though I don't really know the subject for sure." "Do you know the name of the teacher?" "No, I'm sorry." "Why would he still be going for help during summer vacation?" "I can't say for certain." "Can you think of anything else that may be of help?" "No, no. I really can't...You know your welcome to look in his room. Maybe you can find something there that may help. It's right up the stairs to the left." She points out the location of the stairs, our eyes following the motion of her hand. "Do you want to accompany us?" I ask. "No, I haven't been in there since...I just can't bring myself to go in there...Take your time though." We thank Mrs. Wilson and proceed to Peter's room finding it to be impeccably neat and clean; everything was organized and in its place. Definitely an odd occurrence for a 15-year-old boy. And from what Mrs. Wilson had said, she hadn't been in here cleaning up. Together, we stand in the archway of the door taking in the sight before us. "Wow. Every parent's dream. Good grades and a clean room. Sounds very much like someone I know and love. . ." Michael remarks and winks at me. "I take it you didn't get good grades while you were growing up. Why, too busy carousing for girls?" I ask with a smirk. "No, too busy dealing drugs," he replies somberly. "Give yourself a break," I remind him. "I have, I have. I did it for good reasons mainly. At least that's what I try to tell myself...Anyway, let's cut this kid and his family some slack. Find something to restore their good name." Both of us head for Patrick's desk, carefully poking through the drawers, looking for something, anything, we can work with. The only things we end up coming away with are an old report card, two recent term papers, and Patrick's current class schedule. That, and the laptop computer that sits atop his desk. With Mrs. Wilson's permission, we commandeer the computer after a failed attempt to bypass or guess correctly at the password. Michael is as frustrated as ever over this latest setback but I remind him I know precisely who to go to for aid. That fact perks up his spirits considerably. Yes, if anyone can crack the password to Patrick's computer, it's my favorite technogeeks even if I don't give them their props. But the Gunmen's "talents" are admirable, and they never fail to help Mulder and I when we request their assistance. Hopefully, this little job I have for them will be no exception. With impatience, I wait for the boys to allow my entrance into their lair, Frohicke's voice leering out to me even through the heavy metal door separating us. "If it isn't the delectable Agent Scully," his lips smack. "Open up, Frohicke," I demand, he doing as asked after unlocking the five or six deadbolts. As I step inside, Byers speaks up. "Frohicke, you might want to refrain from talking like that. Your fair maiden is a married woman now." "It's all right, Byers," I interrupt. "I realize Frohicke's 'talk' is all a part of his charm. Such as it is," I say, smirking. The three of them, especially Frohicke and Langley, then eye me up and down. "She doesn't look any different," Langley mutters. Should I? Did getting married mean you suddenly sprouted a second head? "No, but it still takes some getting used to," Frohicke replies. "Why, because I finally took the plunge or because something I did somehow didn't involve Mulder?" "Well, you have to admit that you and Mulder go together. I mean Mulder & Scully has a certain ring to it. . . What's your husband's name?" "Manicotti," Frohicke offers. "Anzaloni," Langley counters. "Anzotti," Byers corrects. Then it's Langley again. "No, Anzotti & Scully--it just doesn't have that Mulder-Scully ring to it. It doesn't go together like, say, ham and swiss. . ." "Boys . . ." I'm beginning to wonder if I'm even in the same room with the Gunmen as they carry on their own conversation. "or peanut butter and jelly. . ." "Boys, please--" I interject. "or peanut butter and chocolate--two great tastes that taste great together--" " Boys, enough . . My husband rings my bell just fine, thank you very much. Now, can we get down to business?" "Sure, Agent Scully. What have you got there for us?" Byers asks and then points a serious face at his cohorts. I gently lay Patrick's laptop on their worktable. "This laptop is password protected, and I need the password ASAP." "No problem. We'll have it for you first thing in the morning," Langley bellows. "Not good enough. I want to pick it up on my way home from work. That gives you . . ." I say, checking my watch, "less than three hours." "Boy, you sure like to crack the whip. Does your husband know this about you?" Frohicke jokes. "Oh, yeah. He loves it when I don my leather outfit and do just that," I quip with a playful seductiveness causing Byers and Langley's mouths to drop open as well as Frohicke's audible gulp. "Boys, this is a piece of cake. Work with me here." "For you Agent Scully, we'll have it done in an hour and a half," Byers offers in his typically serious but sweet way. "Bless you," I offer back, turning to leave. "Toodles," Langley calls out from his perch. Just as I'm grabbing for the door handle, a serious looking Frohicke pulls me aside. "Agent Scully, I'm sorry if our joking around before put you off." "No, it didn't. I know you were just looking out for Mulder, and I appreciate that. . . Not that I need to explain anything, but I just want you all to know that my caring and concern for Mulder doesn't end because I'm married. I just happened to let someone else in my life and in my heart whom I love and who gives me the things I've longed for. And I would hope that you would all be happy for me because I'm happy for me." "Roger that," my favorite Gunmen smiles irresistibly. An uncontrollable smile breaks out on my own face, my hand automatically reaching for his and lightly squeezing my thanks. Leave it to the phone to disturb what little peace Michael and I were able to find this evening. A peace I found and relished on my husband's face as he slept soundly, his head safely pillowed in my lap. A peace I surely didn't want disturbed even though I had come close to doing it myself numerous times. Just because. Just because I couldn't stop touching him. An errant strand of his thick, dark hair here. A brush of my lips against his there. But it couldn't be helped. No, not since I had come close to losing him. I would often find myself watching him when he wasn't aware. Watching him. Touching him. Listening to him. Wanting him. And tonight was no different when he came home late, tired and frustrated from a tough day. Even the prospect of taking the first crack at Patrick's computer couldn't prevent him from succumbing to sleep after we talked quietly for some time. Then a call from his sister came to discuss "an urgent family matter" and all peace was lost. While Michael and Gina talked, I disappeared into the other room and began the laborious task of wading through Patrick's laptop in the hope he left something in there for us to find. An indeterminate amount of time later, I still had nothing. Bored, I seriously contemplated joining Michael in the shower as I could hear the water starting up. Instead, I decided to banish the thoughts of him from my head--tough it out and continue my task. About fifteen minutes later, I feel him near, feel him at my back though he hasn't made a sound to announce his presence. "Everything okay?" I ask without looking up, referring to the call with his sister. "How?" he returns perplexed, wondering how I knew he was near. I have no real explanation and shrug though I know he has the same ability in regard to me. "I just knew, Michael...I always do...So, what did Gina have to say?" "Oh, just some more of her ramblings about my father." He touches his hands to my shoulders, the feel of him welcome. "Great. Just what you wanted to hear. You all right?" "Yeah. I let it go in one ear and out the other...You coming to bed?" "mmm. Soon. I'm just trying to see if the Gunmen's efforts paid off." "The way our luck's been going I'm not placing any bets." "Have a little faith," I admonish him lightly, he then starting to gently knead his fingers into my tight shoulders. Though he's doing nothing remotely sexual, I find the mere presence of him distracting. Which is nothing new. Unlike anyone else I've ever known, he possesses what we call animal magnetism. And it's not helping any that he's standing here shirtless and wet, the clean, fresh smell of him intoxicating. "I see that shower did you good," I remark, noting how he's now wide awake and how I am, too. Certain parts of me more than others. "Would have done me a lot better if you would've joined me." "Next time. Cross my heart." "I'll hold you to that," he replies, kissing the top of my head lovingly. I continue to wade through the C drive searching for something that stands out. A file named "Pain" catches my eye and I double click into it, surprised at what I find. "Michael...take a look at this." He moves into my space to get a better look at the screen, his breath warm and tantalizing on the skin of my neck. "What are those, journal entries?" "Yeah. For the last nine months or so...It looks like Peter wasn't every parent's dream after all," I frown. "What do you mean--I can't really read the screen from this angle." "Well, from what he's written here. . . Patrick was gay and having a hard time coming to terms with it. Here, he talks about feeling like an outcast in school, with his classmates, and even with his family." "Do any of them know?" "Um, not that I can tell." I start to click into more than a dozen documents. "In this other document...he talks about his awkwardness with girls. . . And here and in numerous ones afterward...he mentions someone named Jack...Apparently, this Jack person was trying to help him deal with it, deal with the shame he felt. . . Umm...Later on, Jack was trying to introduce him to other gay boys, trying to help him feel more comfortable in his own skin . . ." "Does it say anywhere who Jack is?" "Unfortunately, no. And I've looked at Patrick's class schedule enough to know that that's not the name of his English teacher if he was indeed being tutored in English." "Damn. We need to talk to this guy." "Yeah, he seems to be Patrick's confidant. All the entries from the last six months mention him, mention his influence. We need to find out who this Jack is though he could still be the tutor Mrs. Wilson mentioned," I suggest. "Maybe...Can I sit a minute?" "Sure." We change places, and when Michael clicks the document we've just been examining closed, I register my surprise. "I thought you wanted to look at that?!" Rather than reply, Michael begins closing all the open documents I had minimized. And I'm getting mildly annoyed. "What are you doing?!" I quip, eyebrow raised and hand on hip. "Nothin'," he replies innocently, continuing his efforts to shut down the computer. "Michael, I'm not through here," I argue. "Yeah, you are," he says definitively, pushing the laptop screen down till it clicks closed. "I am?" I question, unconvinced. "Have you heard a word I've said?" "Yeah, I have but it's time for bed." "I'm not tired or sleepy." I'm still trying to be annoyed with him but finding it impossible because of that endearing face of his gaping at me. "Get up, you big bully," I tell him, nearly smirking and slide back into the chair with every intention of rebooting the computer. Then all good intentions fly out the window when he seduces my neck with his wonderful, sensuous lips, hot and wet against my tender skin. "So, D, who said anything about sleep?" A grin splits my face since I know exactly what he has in mind. "Oh--well, now you're making some sense to me," I murmur, reaching my arm around to the back of his head and pushing his delectable mouth to mine. Yeah, when my hungry lips begin to devour him, it all makes complete and perfect sense. At the crack of dawn the next morning, I pick up where Dana left off on Patrick's computer. Thankfully, my day off for a doctor's appointment affords me a little extra time to work on the case; this side investigation Dana and I are conducting outside our regular work and our personal lives is tiring and frustrating. Even at that, we've learned nothing. Our interview with Melina's co-workers at her accounting firm was similar to the one with Mrs. Quercin--a good employee equaled a good tenant, but no one knew a damn thing about her personal life. The deal was the same with the people at Mike's daycare. It's almost as if Melina existed but didn't actually 'live' which seemed to be exactly the way she wanted it. McCarron's background check on her also yielded nothing, not even a freaking parking ticket. And let us not forget my useless call to Peter's school since only a skeleton crew presided over the building during the long, fruitless summer months. So, really, what have we got? A troubled, gay teen; a victim no one seemed to know at all; and a dirty cop covering something up. The truth is, there didn't seem to be any connection between anything, and we hardly knew anything more than we did two weeks ago when this whole thing started. That is until I finally come across something else in Patrick's computer that may break this wide open . . . With today being Michael's monthly appointment with Dr. Carr, I had made up a few hours here and there at work so that I could leave for the day by 2 pm and meet Michael for a late lunch at the house. As usual, I've been a bit concerned about him but he's done better than anyone could've expected. In reality, he should've died with the amount of drugs Brian had been slipping him but has suffered only mild complications instead. I don't know if God was with us, if it was a brilliant stroke of luck, or a testament to the amazing man that Michael is but he's beat the odds. Finally home after an abbreviated but slow day, I drop my keys and briefcase near the front door, inhaling the wonderful aroma of the food Michael so graciously insisted preparing for me. The smell fills the entire house and actually restores my appetite despite breakfast and the three cups of coffee I had this morning. I find him in the other room buried in the midst of the Asmikopoulos case yet again, Peter's computer perched in front of him atop my desk. I make my way to him wrapping my arms lightly around his neck from behind, my cheek against his. "You at it again?" I ask with mild concern. "Yeah, I can't seem to help myself." "I've noticed. I'm beginning to feel neglected," I sigh but then begin a reign of kisses along his neck and jaw line, my lips feeding on his delicious skin, he purposefully rubbing his cheek into mine, his stubble chafing me. "Liar. I didn't neglect you last night." "No, you most certainly didn't," I purr into his ear, vividly recalling a night of wild, passion filled sex. The attention on lavish on his ear is starting to get to him as he squirms in his seat. "Dana, don't do this to me now," he sighs, distracted, clicking through a document on the laptop. "What am I doing?" "Making me all hot and bothered." "It doesn't take much," I counter, my hands now trailing along the the exquisite muscles of his chest and arms under his loose T-shirt. "Not where you're concerned...D, please . . ." "Fine," I sigh with disappointment, stopping my ministrations. "What's for lunch? It smells delicious." "Lasagna ala Michael," he says, bringing my hand to his mouth for a kiss and finally closing down the computer. "How did you have time?" "The gravy was already done. All I had to do was boil the noodles and layer it." "You spoil me." "You're worth it. C'mon, let's eat," he says, taking my hand in his and leading me to the kitchen. We eat in relative silence, Michael unusually quiet, I not wanting to taint the conversation with something other than what I want him to tell me. That being his doctor's appointment even though he always seems reluctant to talk about it. I think he's embarrassed about that whole ugly incident with Brian, how he acted toward me, how his body seemed to betray him and still does to an extent, and the somewhat difficult recovery period afterward. When I place my fork down, stuffed to the gills after feasting on my lunch, he seems to take that as some signal to finally speak. "So . . ." he says, the word hanging in the air. "So . . ." "You want to hear what I found on Patrick's computer?" "After you tell me how it went with Dr. Carr," I reply and he frowns in response. "Same old stuff; he likes the progress I've made off the barbiturates." "Good. What else?" "Just that my short term memory will probably remain the way it is. Certain exercises may help my concentration but not have any dramatic effects. The trembling in my hand may or may not continue...The bottom line is, I'll have to live like this," he laments. "That's more or less what we expected." "Yeah . . ." he replies uncertainly. "Yeah, but?" "It's just going to make work that much more difficult." "But you're already back on the job, doing what you need to do. And I can't think of anyone who could better handle such a setback." He shakes his head. "You know, your confidence in me is unbelievable and overwhelming sometimes...How do you think it makes me feel when I still can't remember everything that happened the night of Melina's shooting?" "You remembered most of it when you stopped pressuring yourself." "Because you helped fill in the gaps." "No, you did most of it on your own." He gapes at me in disagreement. "What about when it's something regarding us? How am I going to feel if I can't remember a special personal moment between us, a once in a lifetime moment, a moment we can never get back? How are you going to feel? It hasn't happened yet, but what if it does?" "It'll be okay. I'll understand and I'll relish the chance to make new and more wonderful memories with you," I say, trying to reassure him. He barely offers any response and slowly rises from the table, headed back to the other room and back to his relentless pursuit of the truth. A pursuit, like everything else since we found each other, I will not allow him to go alone. I follow after him and join him on the love seat, sitting close and purposely invading his space. My fingers twine in the dark hair at the back of his head which has started to curl at the ends slightly. "Hey, talk to me. Tell me what you found," I encourage. Michael eyes me and being the level-headed man that he is most of the time, his outward frustration soon gives way to my encouragement. Other than for the family members who've betrayed him, he's not one to hold a grudge or be stubborn. "Apparently," he says "Jack had his own problems to contend with." "Do tell," I insist, genuinely intrigued. "Patrick described how an enraged Jack would often rail to him about his own unhappy life including his and I quote 'whore of a wife who did everything in her power to keep him from his son.'" I look at him blankly, not understanding where he's going with this. ". . . Um, I'm afraid I'm not getting the connection." "Maybe the whore of a wife he's referring to is Melina." Based on what I'm about to say, it's almost as if I'm having one of my debates with Mulder. "So you're saying that Jack was able to convince Patrick to kill Melina? Michael, that's an awfully big leap to make." "Why? Why is that so unbelievable? We know that Jack had attained Patrick's trust, he knew about Patrick's 'dirty' secret, tried to convince him to accept it. Maybe Jack was able to convince Patrick to take out his wife." "There's nothing to suggest that Melina was even married. We've got no paper trail. No one recalled seeing her with a husband or any man for that matter. No one claimed her possessions. And more tellingly, if Melina was keeping Jack from their son, wouldn't he have come for Mike by now?" "Granted, but it makes more sense than anything else we've come up with...Okay then, assuming Jack isn't Mike's father than who is? Where is he?" "I have no idea...Maybe he's dead. Maybe Melina sought a donor sperm. If she was married, maybe they divorced and the father wants nothing to do with Mike." "What did Mike tell you about his father again?" Michael asks with frustration, searching through our notes on the case, unable to remember on his own. I still his hand and hold it within mine, more than willing to save him the trouble of digging through the papers. "He said his mother told him he didn't have a father. Now, I ask you--what mother would tell her son that? It sounds like she didn't want to have anything to do with the father or for Mike to have anything to do with him either." Again, his frustration is apparent as his head lolls back onto the love seat, eyes closed, a silence stretching between us. His voice is contemplative when he speaks next. "Asmikopoulos. . . That's a Greek name, right?" "I suppose. Why?" "Well, I'm no authority on Greek heritage, but I would guess someone who was Greek Orthodox would not be encouraged, if you will, to have a child without benefit of marriage. Divorce is possible but unlikely. In-vitro, very unlikely." I nod, not really knowing what to suggest next. "All I know is, we really need to talk to Jack. Assuming he's a teacher, I don't know how we're going to find out anything about him with the school being closed...Michael, if we also assume Melina was married at one time or another, by rights Mike should share his father's surname." "Right, but how do we go about finding out what it is? Since he's not of school age, there's no documentation there. And McCarron had no luck in obtaining a copy of Mike's birth certificate." "What about...What about your friend, Bill...what's his name?" "Kramer? The guy in Social Security?" "Yeah. Maybe he can run some names through the computer and we can figure something out. Maybe Melina registered Mike through Social Security." "Anything's worth a shot at this point," he comments and then grabs for his address book and the phone. After renewing his acquaintance with Bill and some idle chitchat among them, Michael gets down to business, rattling off some names. But we seem to be coming up empty yet again. There's nothing on a Mike or Michael Asmikopoulos, a Jack Asmikopoulos, or believe it or not, a Melina Asmikopoulos. With impatience, we wait awhile as Bill does some finagling on his end and then, to our surprise, shoots out a list of the names and addresses of nine Melinas living across the US. I peer over Michael's shoulder as he scribbles down the information and one name immediately strikes me. "Michael, wait a minute. That last one--Melina Cristofaro...Doesn't the name Cristofaro sound familiar?" "Bill, hold on a minute. . . No, Dana, should it?" "Yeah," I murmur, plowing through our file on the case, searching for Patrick's class schedule. "Yeah, here it is. J. Cristofaro was Patrick's psych teacher," I inform him and hand him the paper. For a moment, Michael stares at me in both disbelief and wonder and then returns his attention to the phone. "Yeah, Bill, give me the addresses for Melina Cristofaro and a Jack Cristofaro." An inordinately long amount of time seems to pass as we wait in nervous anticipation, our eyes glued on one another. When Michael murmurs into the phone, "C'mon, Bill, tell me something I want to hear," I'm thinking the exact same thing. Then shortly after, a wide grin appears on Michael's face. "Bill, my friend, I owe you big time," he thanks and disconnects. And I can hardly wait for him to tell me. "That's got to be good news." "It's great news. Exact same address for both of them although he's listed as John Cristofaro. But Jack, John, it's all the same. He also found Mike's name at that address. Our Mike Asmikopoulos is Mike Cristofaro--Jack's son...Baby, we finally got something to go on thanks to you," Michael smiles in elation, pulling me close for a hug. With the new information we had obtained, I called upon McCarron to help us even if it was indirectly. Luckily, he obliged by sending two of his rookies out on surveillance of Cristofaro's apartment located at 927 Piper Lane in Chevy Chase. Unfortunately however, they came up empty for five entire days; and fed up with their boring ass assignment, the boys in blue declared it a waste of time. McCarron then had no choice but to pull them, and now we had no choice but to sit out there ourselves in the hot, sticky night if we wanted it done. After a food run and parking the truck a few blocks down out of sight, I stride over to my car parked on Piper Lane and rap lightly on the top of the vehicle trying not to startle Michael. Startling him is a definite possibility since he had offered to stake out Cristofaro's place solo to spare me the long, tedious task. Though I had agreed (mainly to appease him), I never had any real intention of letting him go it alone. On this or anything else. "Hey, big, strapping husband of mine--give me a hand here?" I ask, trying to precariously balance two bags full of food and another two bags of drinks. Engrossed in a file, Michael looks up at me in mild surprise and then scrambles around to put his stuff together and aside in order to assist me. "D, what are you doing? I told you you didn't need to be here." His voice is lightly chastising but tinged with pleasure as I knew it would be. "And I told you I got your back and I meant it. I'm not going to let you sit out here alone all night." "Better me than you." "That's debatable." I finally settle into the passenger seat curious at what I've missed. "Anything yet?" "Not a Goddamn thing. No movement whatsoever. Where the hell is he?" he complains, staring out at the building like he can will Cristofaro to appear. "Well, it's summer. He's probably on a nice, long vacation. Something we wouldn't know about." "Ain't that the truth." I pull open one of the bags trying to draw his attention back my way momentarily. "You hungry?" "Yeah, what'cha got?" "Just a boring turkey sandwich and salad for you. It was the only things they had that weren't dripping in fat." "That's fine. You wouldn't have a cold beer in there by any chance?" he questions hopefully. "'Fraid not. I left my trusty cooler at home. Got an iced tea with your name on it though. No sugar." That's just the way he likes it. No sugar, minimal fat to keep that perfect body of his in tiptop shape. His body is a temple, and I'm not ashamed to admit I worship at the Temple of Michael Anzotti. He accepts the iced tea gratefully, dumps a packet of Sweet 'n Low into it, and takes a few generous chugs. "That hits the spot--thank you," he says softly and leans over to kiss my cheek. I can't help but smile at his gesture, still amazed at how sweet he always is even after all the time we've been together. With my thoughts wandering onto Michael and me, I have to force myself to remember what this is about, why we're here. "So...how did it go at the DMV?" "Well, the girl wouldn't give me the time of day over the phone which is just as well I guess--a faxed picture of Cristofaro wouldn't do us much good. When I went down there in person, she was more than accommodating," he states distastefully, handing me a printout of the Cristofaro's driver's license. "She hit on you," I surmise with distaste as well. He just nods his head lightly in affirmation. "Even with a ring on your finger?" "You know, I pointed it out to her and oddly enough, it only seemed to encourage her." "Figures," I murmur, wondering what it is about some women who especially love to sink their claws into another woman's man. I tamp down my niggling jealousy and inspect the photo. "So...this is the infamous Jack." "Yeah, our 'little man' looks just like him," Michael scowls with apparent disgust in his voice. I know what he means. Thinking of Mike 'blessed' with Jack Cristofaro for a father is particularly disheartening. "That he does. . . That he does," I agree, my own disgust and regret emanating from my voice. I carelessly toss the picture onto the dashboard. "How--" "I don't know," Michael replies, reading my thoughts and grasping my hand. If Jack is guilty, how could he do this to his son? How could he do such a thing to the mother of his child and to another innocent child like Patrick Wilson? I look at our joined hands and am reminded of all that is good and right. Of all that we've been fighting for on this. "You know what Mike said to me when you were playing ball with him the other day?" "What's that?" "He wondered if you would want to be his dad," I say with pride. "That's funny because I keep thinking of you in terms of his mother," he reveals with equal pride and a little wink. My silence on the subject seems to surprise him. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it, Dana. I've been reluctant to mention it, but I know." "Yeah, I've...mulled over the possibility." "You've mulled over the possibility? Dana, we spend practically every spare minute with that child. It's not like we haven't talked about adopting." "I realize that but it's always been this thought in the back of my mind. Now, suddenly it could be a very real possibility and I don't know if we're ready. If I'm ready. I mean, how would we manage with both of us working such crazy jobs and crazy hours?" "Like all parents, we'd compromise. We'd find a way to do what it takes to make it work." I'm not convinced. "Well, what if we get our hopes up and it turns out there's some other family of Melina or Cristofaro's that we don't know about? If that's the case, they're not going to give us custody. And I don't know if I could take that type of rejection again." "Dana, things are completely different now compared to the time you were trying to adopt Emily." He's absolutely right but I shake my head, not sure of what to think or how to feel about the situation. "Look, the only thing I know is I'm trying desperately not to get too attached." "Trying desperately and failing miserably." "And you should know a little something about that, love," I knowingly tease him, squeezing his hand. Indeed. It's evident to anyone with eyes how he feels about Mike, how much he loves him as if he was his own son. "I admit it...but just...just promise me you'll think about it and not rule it out all together. Don't deny this because you're scared; I am, too, but we're always there for one another. Always ," he promises and gently cups my face in his hand. Then, that soft, disarming smile of his appears on his face and melts my insides. "Dana, don't ever forget that. Together, we could do this. I honestly believe we could give that little boy a stable, loving home." God. Michael has this way of speaking to me and looking directly into My soul. There's such conviction in his words that he successfully eases my fears and doubts and encourages me to truly believe. And I tell him so. "I believe...I believe that you are the most caring, generous, loving person I've ever known." I gaze upon him with loving eyes and swallow hard around the lump in my throat. Then we concentrate once again on the task at hand. The sun feels good on my face. The sun of a beautiful Saturday morning at the height of summer. A day too beautiful to waste working, I muse, adjusting my sunglasses in the warmth of the car enroute to the Frederick Orphanage to pick Mike up. The idea of wasting a weekend day with work was not a foreign concept to me for much of my life had been geared toward school and work. But Michael had gotten me to appreciate and concentrate on what's really important in life. And hopefully, it wouldn't take too much convincing on Michael's part to get McCarron to agree that we confront Gilmore on all the information pertaining to the Asmikopoulos case. Then we'd get on with our Saturday and our planned excursion to the amusement park. Maybe it's my current state of married bliss or my undeniable affection for an adorable little boy, but I'm as happy and alive as I have ever been. Yeah, having two Michaels in a woman's life can do that. To the reception desk I go, a little extra swing in my swagger. I'm almost giddy when I open up my mouth to speak to the older woman tending the desk. "Hi, I'm Dana Scully. I'm here to pick up Mike Asmikopoulos." "Little Mike?" the woman questions. "I wasn't here at the time but I heard someone came for him earlier." My stomach churns in response. "No, there must be some mistake. I'm scheduled to take him out for the day." "I understand that, but I'm sure someone picked him up earlier." "No, my husband and I were the only ones permitted to take him off the premises." "Well, I think this was a police officer with the DCPD." The police? What in the hell were the police doing here? "Was it Officers McCarron or Gilmore?" "As I told you, I wasn't here. Let me check the log." "Please...hurry. This is very important," I cry. "I'm trying...Here it is. An Officer Cristofaro picked him up about 20 minutes ago." Cristofaro?! How in the world?! No--this cannot be. My world is falling apart around my feet. It takes a moment before I can finally respond, before the immediate shock and despair dissipate enough for me to find my tongue. "Can you tell me where they were headed?" I ask desperately in a rush of words, my tongue snaking out to lick my lips in nervousness. "No, Miss Scully. I said I wasn't here and he was a cop for crying out loud. Mike should be perfectly safe," the know-it-all replies, obviously annoyed with me. At this very moment, she's far from the only one annoyed. I produce my badge for her inspection and mutter low, trying to contain my intense anger and fear. "It's Agent Scully. And Cristofaro was no cop." Before hitting the road, I also produce my card requesting that she contact me should she see or hear anything, anything at all no matter how small it may seem. Pedal to the metal, I'll try to make the 50 minute drive from Frederick to Chevy Chase in 30 minutes. No, I amend to myself, fear and adrenaline propelling me. I will make the drive as fast as possible no matter how many fucking traffic laws I have to break. Nothing and no one is going to stop me. And when I close in on Cristofaro's residence only about 15 minutes ahead of me now, I fish out my trusty cell . . . Convincing McCarron of what had to be done was one thing but getting Gilmore to go along with any of it would be another one entirely. I knew this but forged ahead anyway. I had to. For Dana and myself. And for Mike. Being the stand up man that he is, McCarron quickly put aside his reservations and fears for his own future in regard to confronting Gilmore after I'd filled him in on all the new information Dana and I had come up with. See, he had staked those rookies outside Jack's apartment on Dana's request alone, not knowing anything more than that I had paid Gilmore a visit and that we had been looking into Melina and Mike's backgrounds along his help. Dana and I had purposefully kept him out of the loop, not wanting him to risk anything more until now. Until we had become desperate. Jack Cristofaro was nowhere to be found, and we didn't have a leg to stand on where Gilmore was concerned. We needed McCarron's clout and whatever intimate knowledge he possessed about Gilmore that could be used against him if at all necessary; McCarron was the only one to get him to listen to reason. And he would not let us down. Of this I was certain. At this very moment, he's in Gilmore's office doing what I asked while I stand by out of sight, listening and trying to remain calm. When McCarron speaks, his voice is respectful but forceful just the same. "We need to talk, Larry. Some new information about the Asmikopoulos case has come to light." "Not this again, Pete," Gilmore complains. "We've already been through this. The case is closed." "If it is, then we have a problem. Something is going on, and I just can't ignore it anymore." "What information are you talking about? Where did you get said information?" " I gave it to him," I announce, strolling nonchalantly into Gilmore's office, planting myself in one of the chairs, and propping my feet up on his desk. No one but myself is pleased with my little stunt. Per McCarron, I was supposed to steer clear of Gilmore but there was no way--no way I could stay out of this especially now. Besides, I want to see Gilmore squirm. And squirm he does, much to my delight. "What the fuck are you doing here, Anzotti? Is that really where you got this information, Pete?" "Agent Anzotti made me aware of it, yes." "I should have fucking known. If you think I'm going to listen to anything this fucking Fed has to say, you're sadly mistaken." "Larry, there are legitimate questions here that require answers. We needed answers all along but for some unknown reason, you killed the investigation before it even got started." "Pete, don't you see what he's trying to do? He's looking for someone to hang this on because he can't deal with the fact he couldn't stop Patrick Wilson from blowing his brains out. That's what this is about." "I don't think so, Larry. Look at this. Look at what's contained in these printouts from Wilson's computer. It's his journal." "You don't get it, Pete. I don't give a shit what Wilson's journal says. The case is closed, and it's going to stay closed! NOW, GET OUT OF MY OFFICE, AND TAKE THIS FUCK WITH YOU!" Gilmore explodes and then chucks the pages of Patrick's journal across the room in a fit of anger. Gilmore's actions enrage me. After hastily collecting each and every page, I slam them on the desk in front of him and angrily push his head down to them. "JUST TAKE A LOOK AT THIS FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" Again, I've managed to invoke fear into him, and he begins to skim the pages. "What am I looking at? What am I supposed to be seeing?" A much calmer McCarron tells him. "Patrick Wilson was a troubled young boy. His psychology teacher, who we've identified as John Cristofaro, befriended him and was helping him deal with his problems." "And how is this significant?" "In Patrick's writing there, Cristofaro mentions his wife, whom he calls a whore and accuses of deliberately keeping him from his son." "Get to the point, Pete!" Gilmore spits with impatience. "We've identified Cristofaro's wife or ex-wife, whatever the case may be, as Melina Asmikopoulos." "So what the fuck does that prove?" I don't get it. How can he keep this charade up with a straight face? He doesn't understand because he doesn't want to understand. "Christ, Gilmore! What's it gonna take? What's it gonna take to get you to admit what's going on here?!" "And what's that, Anzotti? The ridiculous notion that Jack Cristofaro had Patrick Wilson kill his wife? There's nothing to prove--" "How did you know Cristofaro was called Jack?" I accuse Gilmore. "His name is John, and McCarron specifically referred to him as John. Isn't that right, McCarron?" "That's correct, Agent Anzotti. So, how is that possible, Larry?" Gilmore looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle and attempts to correct his faux pas, nearly stuttering. ". . . I...I saw it in Patrick's journal." "No, you didn't. You could hardly be bothered to look at it." "What are you getting at, you fucking druggie?! I know about you. I had you checked out. Pete, you can't believe a word this guy says; he's a fucking speed junkie for crying out loud!" I loom over Gilmore at the desk, my face in his, taunting him, my voice low and dangerous. "Gilmore, you have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. Don't even attempt to go there." I will not defend myself to this piece of garbage, and I take a seat on his desk, taunting him some more. "So, what do you know about good 'ol John, Jack or whatever the fuck his name is?" A helpless Gilmore pleads with his lieutenant. "Pete, you're not going to listen to this are you? This is insane." McCarron, much to his credit, stays tough. "Larry, either tell us what you know or I'll go over your head with this." "Fine," a beaten down Gilmore then mutters tiredly. "What do you want to know?" Before McCarron can even form a question on his lips, I take over. "How do you know Jack?" "He's an old friend of mine from high school." "What about Jack and Melina's relationship? I take it they weren't on good terms." "No, there were a lot of problems between them." "What kind of problems?" "Claims of domestic abuse. Physical and emotional. Melina had restraining orders against him. . . They were divorced and she was trying to start a new life for herself and for Mike." I shake my head in disbelief. "With allegations of physical abuse, you knowingly and without conscience squash the investigation. How could you do that with that kind of history between Melina and Jack?!" "I don't see how it changes anything. Patrick Wilson shot Melina. You were right there. You saw the whole thing with your own eyes, Anzotti." "What I saw, Gilmore, was a kid scared out of his mind. So distraught at what he realized he'd done that he took his own life. There was no reason for him to want to harm Melina unless your buddy Jack influenced him in some way." "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Pete, do you believe any of this bullshit?" "I believe there's something to what he's saying, Larry. You stopped the investigation before it even got started. Why is that?" "Because I knew this was going to happen. I knew if anyone found out about Melina and Jack's relationship, they would somehow try to pin her death on him." I shake my head again, appalled at the actions and the attitude of the Captain of the DCPD. "You're a piece of fucking work, you know that?" I mutter to him with hatred. At this moment, my ringing cell phone is the only thing preventing me from wrapping my hands around his neck and throttling him. "Anzotti," I bellow into the phone. "Michael . . ." My wife says my name with a fear I cannot often detect in her, a fear that fills me with intense worry. "Dana--baby, what is it?" "Cristofaro took him." "What?" I ask stunned, unable or unwilling to believe my own ears. "When I went to get Mike, he was gone. . . Cristofaro posed as a cop and walked right out with him." Panic and dread war within me. "Dana, listen to me. We're gonna get him back, I promise you. Where are you now?" "Heading to Cristofaro's. That's the only place I can think where he might've gone. Get McCarron to issue an APB." "I will. In the meantime, McCarron and I will meet you. If you get to Cristofaro's before we do, wait. Don't go in until we get there...D, you listening? Don't move in before . . ." Suddenly, the line clicks dead in my ear. "Dana--...Dana?...Damn it," I mutter, running a frustrated hand through my hair. "What happened?" a puzzled McCarron asks. I hold up a finger indicating that he wait a minute because I cannot think of anything else but getting Dana to listen. I start to pace nervously as I stab at Memory 1 on my cell phone, demanding that she answer my call. "C'mon, Dana...pick up...pick up . . ." When she doesn't, I angrily disconnect, about to lose my cool. "What's going on?" McCarron asks again. "We have to get to Cristofaro's. He took Mike, and my wife is hell bent on getting to them. We have to get to his place in Chevy Chase and we have to get there now ," I relate with urgency. "What makes you think Jack and Mike are even going to be there?" Gilmore cuts in. "Nothing, Gilmore. But we've got nothing else to go on and Dana is not going to wait around for us...I swear, Gilmore...if anything happens to my wife because of what you've done, I swear I'll--" I start to threaten and then force myself to back off, afraid of what I might do. I fix him with a cold, hard glare. "Understand that if anything happens to Dana or Mike, I'm holding you personally responsible." "You're not the only one, agent," McCarron chimes in after denying the wordless plea for support on Gilmore's face. He glares at Gilmore as well, reiterating his stance. "You're not the only one." This cannot be happening. That's all I can think as I stand in the hallway of Cristofaro's apartment building pleading with the owner. Pleading with an obvious desperation in my voice and in my manner for him to buzz me in. But he doesn't get it. He so doesn't get it. Even with my badge in one hand and my weapon in the other doing much of the talking. Christ. I'm taking a desperate stab in the dark here, and I've wasted a precious ten minutes trying to reason with this asshole. That's precious time I cannot spare, precious time that could mean the difference in a little boy's life. Nevertheless, the owner finally does let me in to discuss--as he puts it--my nonsensical ramblings. After yessing his questions to death and assuring him nothing untoward will occur, he reluctantly agrees to lead me to Cristofaro's apartment. When he knocks on the door with no response, I motion him to unlock the door, which he does begrudgingly. I then order him to move away and watch as he meanders back down the long hallway though I'm not satisfied until he turns the corner. That's right I think. Go back to your office. Go back to doing whatever it is you do besides harassing FBI agents. I recheck the clip of my gun and give Cristofaro one last warning before I move in. "Open up, Cristofaro, FBI!...If you're in there, open up now or I'm coming in after you." With still no response, I slowly swing the door open and enter cautiously. And there he is. Standing nearby. With the barrel of a gun pointed squarely at me. As mine is at him. "Hold it, Cristofaro. Hold it right there." "Well, well well. Look who it is. What are you going to do if I don't? I have somewhere to be, and you're certainly not going to stop me." "We'll see about that. Where's Mike?" I demand. "And why should I tell you?" "Because if you don't, I'll put you down." "You won't shoot me. Not if you want to know where he is." "Tell me," I plead. "Tell me where Mike is." "It's of no concern to you. He's my son. Mine." "That's where you're wrong. He's custody of the state, and I've come to collect. Now, tell me where he is." "You know, lady, you're fucking crazy if you think I'm going to let another fucking whore take my son from me. Step aside, or I'll do you just like I did her." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, I'd have to pull the trigger on you and though I didn't on Melina, I might as well have." "Then you brainwashed Patrick Wilson, didn't you?...Didn't you?!" I seethe. "You could say that...Patrick was such a pliable, uncertain boy. Such an easy mind to manipulate. So thankful for my help and my understanding of his problem. A little shot of along with my psychological 'counseling' and he was putty in my hands. He was my fucking puppet." "Your puppet? You do realize we're talking about a young boy? A child!...You took away his innocence. His hopes and his dreams....You took his life. Doesn't that mean anything to you?!" "I didn't take anything from him. I regret that he killed himself but the only thing I can concern myself with is Mike. He's the only one I care about." "That, we have in common. . . Where is he?" I demand again. "I'll never tell you," he says with a smirk and cocks his gun a bit higher at me. "Jack, put the gun down. Let's end this insanity. Put the gun down, tell me where your son is, and I'll see to it that they go easy on you." He laughs maniacally at me. "First of all, only my friends call me Jack so you can call me John. And you know what's insane, lady? You thinking I'm just going to let you waltz right in here and take my son from me. I would die before I would let that happen. And seeing you die wouldn't bother me in the least. Now, step aside or I'll put a bullet in that lovely little body of yours," he threatens. "Jack, I'm a federal agent; you don't want to shoot me. I'm warning you to put that gun down," I order coolly. "I don't want to shoot you? The hell I don't," he snarls, his index finger lovingly caressing the trigger... . . . I don't even know I'm hit until my left shoulder begins to throb and blood starts to trickle from the wound staining my pink cotton sweater with a bright crimson red. The blood I taste in my mouth is a result of the intense pain causing me to bite down on my lip hard enough to split it open. I press at my throbbing shoulder with the palm of my gun hand, at the same time trying desperately to keep my Sig aimed on Cristofaro. Awkwardly, I fall to my knees and then onto my ass, furious that I've fucked this whole thing up, furious about what Cristofaro's done to me. Where are you, Michael? You're the only one that can help. All I could think about was getting to Mike and for that reason, I wasn't thinking clearly--I didn't think Cristofaro would actually shoot me. And to assume that after what we suspected Cristofaro to be capable of was sheer stupidity on my part. "DON'T MOVE!" I shout desperately at the sick bastard. Critofaro just stares at me with a sick kind of glee on his face, he obviously enjoying my predicament. He gathers his bags and begins to flee. I cannot just allow him to walk out of here and again shout in desperation. "JACK, DON'T MOVE!...TELL ME WHERE HE IS! JACK...DON'T DO THIS. I'M WARNING YOU. . ." And then... And then I fire, my 9 mm taking out a nice chunk of his thigh. If I'm really lucky, I will have hit major muscle or bone but just being able to hit him at all with the way I'm feeling is an accomplishment. He shrieks in agony and curses me out though he still has every intention of escaping. And I need to move. I need to get up. I need to go after him but my shoulder's screaming to the point where I can't get my other muscles to coordinate or cooperate. My head is well out of the game, too, and has been nearly the entire time. I haven't acted like an FBI agent, only like someone with a very personal stake in all this. Tears of pain in my eyes, I glance at my burning shoulder and then at a snickering Cristofaro slowly limping away. Again, I plead with him but it's of no use. "Jack, please!" I close my eyes, steeling myself against the inevitable and my own failure. When I curse him, the words are a tortured whisper upon my lips. "You bastard mother-fucker." GOD, NO. The ear piercing gunshots that reverberated through my ears and throughout the apartment complex just moments ago have nearly stopped my heart. When we heard one shot and then the other, I was nearly ready to shoot the fuck of a landlord in a panic as our demands to be let into the building had fallen on deaf ears for a good five minutes prior. Once the shots rang out, the petrified man had no choice but to let us in, and I pushed past him hard with McCarron's gun in hand, racing toward my destination and leaving he and Gilmore far behind in my wake. As I round the corner in the hallway of Cristofaro's apartment, my heart pounding out of my chest, a badly limping Cristofaro is trying to make his getaway at the opposite end of the hallway. My heavy, running steps echoing on the tiled floor give me away; and as he hurries his movements in response, he actually stumbles and falls to the ground. I reach him easily and pull him roughly to his feet, dragging him back with me toward his apartment. He again stumbles to the ground and I pin him down with all 210 pounds of my body weight, expressly exerting pressure on that injured leg. His attempt to get at the handgun hidden in the waistband of his pants is useless as I quickly take it from him. "It's over, Cristofaro," I taunt and immediately search out his wound, trying to gauge how many times he's been hit. I pray with everything that is in me that he was the only one shot for any other alternative is unacceptable. Though he struggles aimlessly under my weight (while screaming a string of obscenities), I realize I still need to subdue him. Instinctively, I reach for handcuffs at my back that I don't have on me. And, of course, I don't have them on me. Goddamn it, it's Saturday afternoon; I was heading to the freaking amusement park with my family. Without handcuffs, I'm going to have to wait for McCarron or Gilmore. And all I can think about is Dana. With urgency in every nerve ending of my body, I strain a look into Cristofaro's apartment but see nothing. Absolutely nothing. And it's so quiet in there, so eerily fucking quiet that I'm starting to lose control if I haven't already done so. Where the hell is she? "MCCARRON!" I cry out around a huge lump in my throat, all sense of professionalism lost. Where is my wife? Why hasn't she come out of that apartment? The possibilities fill me with dread. "MCCARRON...I NEED YOU OVER HERE NOW!" I cry out again desperately and finally catch sight of him rounding the corner. Finally, I can get to her. And when I do, when I see her awkwardly positioned on the floor clutching at her bleeding shoulder from a gunshot, my heart and my stomach sink to a place somewhere below my knees. Why Goddamn it? Why? I knew something like this was going to happen. Why couldn't she wait for me like I asked? I look upon her with worried eyes and hurriedly scramble around for a towel or rag to sop up some of the blood. I grab a hand towel from the bathroom and fall to my knees at her side, pressing the towel to her shoulder. The sharp intake of her breath at the pressure indicates her obvious pain. With the fingers of my other hand, I take a gentle swipe at her lip to remove the blood there and stare at the red wetness upon my fingers for a fleeting moment, aware for the first time of what I'm truly dealing with, aware of the blood. Dana's blood. Once again, fear and anger surge through me at the sight though I try to tamp it down for Dana's sake; she needs me to take care of her, not get rattled. My eyes float back and forth between her pale face and what I'm doing and when I get a look at her wound, I'm not at all pleased at what I see. Or how she's handled any of this for that matter. "Hey, you made it," she finally says, actually managing a smile. Even in this predicament, her face seems to brighten with my presence. "Yeah, I made it. Way too late," I complain. She ignores my grumbling, instead concentrating on telling me I was right all along. What she doesn't realize is that I could care less about that in light of what's happened to her. "Michael, it was just like you thought...Cristofaro convinced Patrick to kill Melina...Patrick was an innocent in all this." "Shh, it doesn't matter. You're the only thing that does right now...D, what happened?" I murmur with deep concern. "I got shot," she states matter-of-factly. Like it's nothing. Like it's everyday that I have my wife's blood on my hands. "I see that. I heard the shots, and I can't tell you how fucking scared I was," I say, my voice catching, my eyes pinning her with a serious gaze. Again, she manages a grin. "Don't worry...I'm not going anywhere; you can't get rid of me that easily," she pronounces, but I'm not taking any chances. I pull out my cell phone and start to dial while keeping the pressure applied to her shoulder with my other hand. She's not going to like what I'm about to do but it's too bad. "Who are you calling?" "An ambulance. Just relax." "No, Michael, I don't need an ambulance," she pleads and reaches out her hand, gesturing for the phone. "It was a clean shot. I'm going to be fine...Michael, please. No ambulance." Her pleading is interrupted by McCarron's presence and I click off the phone. His eyes show a concern of his own. "How are you doing, Agent Scully?" "Hanging in there, Lieutenant." "Listen, I have some good news. Gilmore squeezed Cristofaro--we know where Mike is." "Where?!" Dana immediately demands without missing a beat. "At Cristofaro's sister's house in Crestwood. I'm heading over there now to get him." "How do we know he's not lying?" "I don't think he is. He knows we're on to him--he's got no reason to lie," I tell her, trying to keep her thinking positive; she needs to concentrate on herself right now. Then she says what I knew she would, what I've been dreading and my stomach sinks again. "Lt. McCarron, I want to go with you." "Agent Scully...I'll call you the moment I find him. You've got to get that shoulder taken care of," McCarron suggests carefully, trying to not rankle this strong, independent woman. He's expressed my exact thoughts on the matter and for that, God bless him; someone besides me is thinking rationally here. "No, I need to know that Mike's all right. . . I need to see him," she heartbreakingly implores and then tries to lean on her good arm in an attempt to brace herself and start getting to her feet. "Dana, easy. Take it easy. And don't move." "No, I will not take it easy, Michael. Not until you tell me you'll take me to him." Her blue eyes burn into mine like laser beams, intense and furious. And, oh so beautiful. I hedge, knowing what's best for my wife but powerless to get her to agree. "Dana--" "It's only...10 minutes from here." More like 15 but no matter what, she's not going to let this go. The best thing I can do is appease her so she doesn't become upset further. "Fine, I'll take you. I'll take you to Mike," I mutter without looking at her. Unable to look at her. Unable to look at her because I lie. A big, awkward silence follows, McCarron staring at me in disbelief. "Agent Anzotti, may I speak to you a minute?" McCarron asks, pulling me to the side and out of earshot. "She needs to go to a hospital. You didn't call an ambulance?" "No. No, I didn't," I murmur in disgust. "She won't go in an ambulance. I'm taking her to Washington University myself." "That's good. I'll take care of everything on my end. Not to worry." "What about Cristofaro?" "I'm leaving him in Gilmore's hands. I'd rather go get Mike myself." "Agreed. Call me the minute you know anything." He casts his gaze toward Dana again, my eyes already beating him to the punch, unable to stop looking at her. "What about Agent Scully? You sure she's gonna agree to go to the hospital?" "Oh, she's not going to agree but she's gonna go all right. She's gonna go whether she likes it or not." Michael settled me into the passenger seat of my car with care and then began the drive to Crestwood. I squirmed around in my seat from a mixture of pain and anticipation and wished we were there already. Much to my dismay, it was taking too long to get there, Saturday traffic being a bitch and all; it was taking much too long even with Michael doing his best NASCAR impersonation. I was pretty confident I could hold out a little longer, but we needed to get to Mike now; I could feel the blackness slowly creeping up on me and it was only a matter of time before it took hold. Michael could sense it too, I knew, his worried eyes only leaving me to guide us upon the road ahead. It soon dawned on me, however, that we seemed to be headed in the opposite direction of Crestwood though I wasn't sure if I was in my right mind or just confused because of my current state. I decided to call him on it, my voice starting to become shaky by this point. "Michael...you lied to me...Tell me why." "What are you talking about?" he replies defensively, keeping his eyes pinned solely on the road for the first time. "This isn't the way to Crestwood." When he doesn't respond, I know for sure that he's guilty but press him anyway. "This isn't the way to Crestwood, is it?...Answer me, Michael." "No, it's not," is all he finally says, confirming my suspicions. "Pull over," I demand with as much strength as I can muster. "What for?" "Just do it," I command and he knows I mean business, pulling the car to the side of the road at the very first opportunity. He shakes his head in disgust, glaring at me. "What the hell are you trying to prove?" "What do you mean?" "Why are you trying to be so Goddamn fearless and strong? Remember, it's me, Dana. Me. I know you. You don't have to put on this front." "I said I'm fine...I should know...I'm a doctor for God's sake." "Then start acting like one!" "I'll act like one when you start acting like my husband. . . and stop lying to me 'for my own good.'" Michael chews his lip, not acknowledging the truth in my words. "Dana, tell me what the fuck I'm doing?! Explain to me why I'm pulling over when you're bleeding from a fucking gunshot!" "Because if you take me to the hospital, I'm not getting out. . . I told you I have to know that Mike's all right . . ." "Dana, you'll get out even if I have to carry you or drag you kicking and screaming." "Well then, I guess you're going to have...quite a scene on your hands because I'll do just that." After my promise, Michael again glares at me. "Why do you have to make everything so difficult?! I love you! I'm just doing what I think is best! You need to go to the hospital!" And I just ignore him. "You know, we're just sitting around...wasting precious time...when we could be using that time to get to Mike." "Fine," he grunts with extreme reluctance. "We'll do it your way. For now. You're just lucky the medical center is nearby." Tires squealing, Michael pulls back onto the road immediately grabbing for his cell. "Who're you calling?" I curiously inquire. "911 then McCarron. I'm having an ambulance meet us. Whether Mike's there or not, you're going straight to the hospital." Though he's adamant, I continue to resist. "No...I'm not going to the hospital via an ambulance." "The hell you're not!" he yells. "It's either that or we turn around right now and go back toward the hospital...I mean it, Dana." And he does; his voice is so fierce there's no doubt. Knowing I've pushed him as far as possible, I stay silent, trying to concentrate on Mike instead of Michael's calls or the severe pain I'm experiencing. I pray that Mike's safe and right where Cristofaro revealed. He has to be there. If he isn't, Cristofaro better wish he'd never crossed paths with the woman who cherishes his son as her own. Never mind that the bastard shot me; I'll do far worse to him if he's lied or, God forbid, hurt that child. I feel like we're flying, flying down the roads, though it's probably just the state of my mind and my body in spite of the fact that Michael has far exceeded all posted speed limits. I'm fighting this, fighting this need to close my eyes until I see Mike. Minutes later, I believe we've arrived at our destination as the red lights from the idling ambulance swirl before my weary eyes. "We're here. You still with me, D?" Michael asks gently, stroking my face with a loving touch. "Yeah...still with you...Thank you for doing this." As expected, Michael turns away from me and cannot possibly reply after the terrible position I've placed him in. After explaining the situation to the EMTs, I quickly rummaged through Dana's extra bag of luggage in the trunk and pulled out a jacket, carefully placing it around her shoulders to conceal the wound from Mike. As I did this, our eyes locked, the windows to our soul expressing all our love for one another, me murmuring the same at her temple before I left her side. This had tempered my earlier outbursts and even the latest one as I had had to practically order Dana not to move upon our arrival, so intent was she on getting out of the car to get to Mike. He presently sits on the front steps with McCarron and when he sees me approach, he grows excited. McCarron quickly informs me that Mike is fine, and I say a little prayer of thanks. I hoist him up into my arms very happy to see him, too, and talk to him softly as I carry him to my wife. "Hey, little man. I'm so glad to see you. You all right?" "Yeah," he says simply and hugs me. "Listen, I'm gonna bring you over to say hello to Dana. Then you're going to let Lt. McCarron take you back home, okay?" "But why can't I stay with you and Dana?" "Because Dana's not feeling well right now. As soon as she is, you can. I promise. Can you wait until then? Can you do that for me?" He nods and I then set him down on his feet, watching and reveling in the loving reunion he and Dana share. Tears in her eyes, she fusses over him as much as she's able and assures herself that he's okay until the time quickly comes for me to break it up--she must go to the hospital now; as far as I'm concerned, there's no more time to waste. When I finally glance over at McCarron, still a couple hundred feet away granting us privacy, he joins us, knowing what comes next. I pick Mike up again, kiss him goodbye, and place him in McCarron's waiting arms. He'll shield Mike from this, keep him from having to see Dana taken away by ambulance though not before I let him know how much I appreciate his help. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you for everything you've done. We couldn't have done this without you." "Don't thank me. Just take care of Agent Scully and I'll take care of this little guy." "Will do. You don't have to worry about that," I say, focusing all my attention on Dana. When McCarron and Mike are well out of sight, the EMTs race over, ease her out of the car, and load her onto the stretcher and into the waiting ambulance, all of it accomplished as I stand by helplessly. Though she doesn't say a word and despite her growing weakness, I can still sense her resistance. But I don't give a damn. And how can I? How can I, when enroute to the hospital she loses the fight for consciousness as I sit by her side helplessly. Yet again. Sitting among all the sick faces awaiting attention in the ER, I have nothing to do but think. Think of what Dana's going through. Think of the mistakes I've just made with her, how she thanked me of all things. Thanked me. How dare she thank me. And why? Because I behaved like an ass and risked her life, a life so precious, because she asked me to? This is one of the stupidest things I've ever done and that's coming from someone who's done some assine things in his time. After I'd mentally exhausted myself with fear and guilt, I started in on the hospital staff. Not more than two hours later, it was clear that they'd had enough of my demanding questions though I can't seem to help myself and I can't make them understand. To me, Dana is the most important person on the face of the earth, not just my wife but my life. And I can't 'just sit back and relax' as they've instructed. To them, she is just an anonymous patient, albeit an FBI agent, but really no more important than anyone else. When I've realized I've gotten on every one of their last nerves, I head to the hospital gift shop for a newspaper and the coffee shop for some caffeine in a lame attempt to distract myself. As I'm helping myself to the self-serve coffee, a gentle hand taps my shoulder from behind. "Hey, Mr. FBI, this is a pleasant surprise. How are you doing?" Donna Leiter, one of the doctors that had treated me at Holy Cross Memorial and had been a source of comfort to Dana during that time, stands before me with an easy smile. An easy smile that I find I cannot return. "Donna, I'm surprised to see you here." "Well, I'm an attending here and at Holy Cross...Dana's been telling me how wonderfully you've been doing and the last time I saw Dr. Carr he told me the same thing. I'm glad you've continued to see him." I nod. "He's helped me a great deal." "If you're on your way over there, I'll walk with you. I'm going that way." "Actually, that's not why I'm here," I inform her, taking a sip of the hot coffee which tastes like motor oil in my bitter mouth. I wish to God that was the reason. "Oh--I'm sorry. I didn't mean to presume--" "No, it's fine," I say without offering any further explanation. "Is Dana with you? I'd love to see her." This is not surprising. Since my ordeal, Dana and Doctor Leiter have become pretty close friends; they've found they have a lot in common and love to bounce their medical knowledge off each other. "Uh, no . . ." I frown, not sure of how to answer her. Her easy gaze has turned to one of concern. "Michael, are you all right? I have to say you look a little upset." "Donna...Dana was...shot today," I explain slowly, almost unable to form the words. Donna gapes at me with a stunned, concerned face for a moment and then goes into doctor mode. "How bad?" Initially, I shrug, not really knowing for sure. "Apparently, it was a clean round to the shoulder. . ." When the lines of worry remain on her face, I then recite Dana's line, hoping to ease her mind. "She'll be fine. . ." But it feels like a lie, one that I can't purport. "At least, that's what Dana kept telling me," I bitterly add a moment later and slap the nearly full cup of coffee into the nearby wastebasket with an angry hand. "Michael, listen to me. I'm going to go see what I can find out; and as soon as I know something, you'll know...In the meantime, try not to worry." Right. What a fucking joke. Just like "sit back and relax." I pay the cashier for the cup of coffee and jam the unread newspaper into the garbage, too frustrated and angry with everyone and everything to be bothered. About another 20 minutes tick by uncomfortably until Donna thankfully provides an update and shows me to Dana's room. The crazy fears and worries that had been plaguing me are mostly alleviated when she tells me that Dana is doing well after surgery to remove the bullet and that there were no complications following the procedure. It is only then that I make any attempt to contact Mrs. Scully, not wanting to scare her anymore than necessary; she's seen her daughter like this too many times to count. Too many times her head has been filled with the horrible sights of her daughter's misfortunes to produce a lifetime of nightmares. Once I know Dana's all right, I can make that call to Mrs. Scully without feeling like I'm going to be sick. Knowing a practicing doctor certainly has its privileges I realize as I plant myself in the chair beside Dana in the large, private hospital room of hers. When I touch my fingers to her pale face, I'm relieved by the feel of her skin, soft and warm underneath my fingertips. She doesn't stir in the slightest, not even when I touch her hand to the side of my face and kiss her palm. Though the anesthesia will keep her out for a while yet, I'm content just to be near her. I'd like to fill the drab room with her favorite flowers but will not leave her for even a minute. The only time I do and must is when I notice blotches of Dana's dried blood on my hands and rush to the restroom to furiously scrub the reminders of her shooting away. After my return, an unknown amount of time passes as I watch over her until my extremely worried mother-in-law arrives to join my vigil. "Mom," I say and reluctantly release Dana's hand to rise and greet her with a kiss and a hug. "How are you doing?" "Holding up. How is she?" "She's...okay--she's going to be okay. Just adding to the scar collection." "She's still out?" "Yeah, hopefully, it'll only be another half hour or so." "Michael, how are you doing? You look exhausted. Why don't you go home for a little while and get some rest. I'll be here when she wakes up." "No, I'm not leaving her." "I figured as much but I thought I'd give it a try anyway." I pull up another chair and together we sit silently at Dana's bedside, both of us just staring at her. Finally, I speak, not able to contain my feelings and my guilt any longer. Though I talk in a normal tone, the words seem to rumble loudly in the quiet of the room. "Mom, your daughter is the most pig-headed, frustrating...frustratingly brilliant, beautiful and brave woman I've ever known." "Tell me something I don't know." "How do you do it?" "Do what?" "Sit here and watch her like this...again...wait for her to wake up from the latest near tragedy--her abduction, the cancer, another gunshot...It kills me to see her hurt." "It kills me, too; it always has. But she's doing what she wants, she's doing what she loves. This is who she is." "Sometimes I wonder if it's the work she loves or if it's just Mulder." "Michael--" "I know she loves him. I've known for some time." "Michael--" She reaches out to assure me but I don't want to be touched. "It's all right." "Look, I honestly don't know anything about it. We've never discussed it." "I think it's why she stays...why she continually puts herself in danger. She claims it's the work, the challenges it presents, the chance to answer important questions about the things that were done to her. That's definitely true but I don't think that's all of it." "I know how much she cares about the work they do." "I think Dana cares about it in the way she cares about everything she does. She'll give 100%, but I'm not sure she really enjoys it. I think she certainly did at one time but I don't know about now. I don't think she's fulfilled by it, and there's certainly a level of frustration that she expresses and that I sense." "I've seen her frustration, too, but not nearly as much, not since the two of you have been together. You've fulfilled much of what she was longing for." "But maybe not enough." "What makes you say that?" "Because she's still drawn to the X-Files because of Mulder, because she cares about him and feels a responsibility to him. She wants to be with him in any way that she can despite the danger her work presents." "Michael, I think you're making much more out of this than it is. I'm sure you care about your partner, too. Why are you torturing yourself? And how is the danger any different for you? Because you're a man?" "Facing the unknown, the supernatural is very different from what's real and tangible. The human monsters I've battled are nothing compared to what she's come up against." "I'm not sure I understand what this is really all about and what Mulder has to do with any of it." "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm thinking out loud and not making much sense. I'm just angry I guess." "Of course, you're angry. You're angry about what's happened to her. That's natural. I'm angry, too." "But...it's complicated. This incident reminds me of all the things she's been through in the past, all the danger and horror she's suffered. And I blame Mulder for putting her in those situations but...in reality, it's her job...she's put "Just as guilty?" " I asked her to help me on something. I'm to blame for her getting shot." "No one is to blame but the person who pulled the trigger. Besides, she's fiercely independent and always has been. She does what she wants because she wants to do it." "But would she really refuse if Mulder or I needed her help? Even if she thought there was danger and the risk was too great?" "No, she wouldn't. But do people usually say no to a friend or a loved one when they ask for help no matter what the possible consequences may be? My daughter is the bravest person I know in what she chooses to do for her career but she's really no different than anyone else in that regard." She's right, but I shake my head in frustration anyway. "We butt heads because I want to protect her, and she fights me every step of the way...I know she's an FBI agent but she's not to me, you know? She's my wife--I just...I just wonder if I'm doing something wrong." "No, don't ever think that. Everything you're doing is right. You're loving her the best way you know how." That sentiment actually coaxes a smile from me and this time when she reaches out to me in a reassuring touch, I don't mind. 'Loving her the best way you know how.' Yeah, I like that. I like that a lot and I'll do it for as long as Dana wants me to. After our heart-to-heart, we sit in companionable silence until she excuses herself to round up some coffee for us. While she's gone, her daughter chooses that time to reawaken from her forced sleep and I'm ecstatic, like a kid in a candy store, to have her back with me and all to myself for a few moments. I loom over her with a gigantic grin, planting soft kisses all over her face. That grin of mine stays firmly in place as I gaze down upon her loveliness. "Hey." "Hey, Anzotti," she answers slowly with her own grin, grogginess evident in her voice. "You know, by that look on your face, I'd say you were happy to see me." "Happy to see you doesn't quite cover it, Mrs. Anzotti," I smile from ear to ear, my eyes soaking in the welcome sight of her for a long, long moment. "You still upset with me?" I ask though I realize I shouldn't right now, that there are more important things, but I need to know. "No, you?" I shake my head. "Are you sure?" "Because if you are, I wouldn't blame you." "Baby, don't worry about it. Just rest and let me look at you." I should really go get her doctor as well but can't seem to tear myself away. "Michael, I want you to be honest with me when I've screwed up and how it affects you." "Look, what you did was upsetting and...risky. But it's certainly no worse than what I've put you through." "Risky, huh? Sounds like a polite word for stupid. But you can say it. I was stupid. On all counts. From confronting Cristofaro on my own to preventing you from getting me medical attention sooner." "Okay, you were a little...stupid," I say carefully. I hate calling her that because she's the most brilliant person I've known or will ever know. "But you're my...stupid. And you're in one piece. That's all that matters so forget about all that other stuff." All of a sudden, she's moves in bed with a start like she's just remembered something. "Easy," I admonish her lightly. "What is it?" If she's not careful, she's going to somehow wrench that bad shoulder despite the immobilization the sling and bandages provide. "What about Mike? He's really okay?" "Yeah, he's really okay thanks to you. Now, just relax," I murmur, kissing her hand. "Go back to sleep if you want." "I do. I'm tired...so very tired...Promise me you'll be here when I wake up." "I'll be here and your mom's here...I promise I'm not leaving," I assure her. No one could drag me away. "Now sleep, baby, sleep." I'll be here. I'll always be here. I'll be anywhere and everywhere she is loving her for the rest of my life. That will never change. And, it's so right. Thanks to Mrs. Scully I know that once again. I'll always be loving her the best way I know how. Dana was tired all right. Tired enough that she spent most of the following two days sleeping which was actually fine by me. She needed the rest and this was the best opportunity she was going to get what with our jobs being the way they are. Most of the time, Mrs. Scully and I just sat by and watched her contentedly until today. Today, I had something important to do for her and disappeared. When I returned about an hour and a half later, I could tell she was awake when I poked my head through the door. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. You up for visitors?" She turns her head in my direction, gazing upon me with a sweet smile. "I'm always up for you...Get in here and give us a kiss." Closing the door behind me, I obey, sitting carefully on the side of her bed, bringing my lips to hers; they move over hers softly in hopeless love and adoration, the feelings she and our intimacy stir within me taking my breath away. "That was my pleasure," I reveal and can't help but smile after reveling in our kiss. She gives a little smirk, pleased with herself for knowing I'm indeed hopeless; it's been that way since the moment we met. "Where did you go? I missed you." "I had an important errand to run. Thought I'd take care of it while you were sleeping. Feeling any better?" "Not really but I'll live." "You swear to me?" "I swear as long as you give me those lips again." Leaning in, I do but almost regret it because she is so damn distracting. I have to force myself to pull away from her lips and her nearness as her eyes bore into mine. I jokingly complain about the situation I find myself in. "Don't do this to me. Don't distract me, woman. That errand I had to run can't wait anymore." "Just what was so important you ran out on me?" she pouts. "Ran out on you?!" I ask incredulously, amusement creeping into my voice. "Ran out on you? That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I ask playfully wounded, wondering if she'll still think I ditched her after I scurry out the door for her surprise and re-enter with it in hand. "Isn't that a bit harsh when I've brought Mike all this way just to visit you?" The smile and look of love and happiness adorning her face upon seeing the two of us standing before her is beautiful and precious, what I would like to be able to give her every day of her life. As I prop him up on the bed and he wraps his arms carefully around her, I notice the tears building in her eyes that she's trying to hide. My heart swells in my chest watching her with him and I realize we have a mighty big decision ahead of us and why: He is our weakness when I admit how much I love him, too. END Go ontoWhat I Want 5: In the Blood
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