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Title: What I Want 5: In the Blood Author's Note: This is the fifth in a series wherein Scully actually has a life and a meaningful, loving relationship with a man that is not Mulder. I know--SACRILEGE! This story is a continuation of my "What I Want Universe" though most of the stories in this series can stand on their own. There are continuing threads of course, the most obvious being Scully and Michael's relationship re: they are married now, which was revealed in the fourth story, "WIW 4: Our Weakness." The stories so far: For "In the Blood," it's important to know Michael's family history which was covered a bit more extensively in the first story, "What I Want." In a nutshell, Michael and his childhood friend Chris dealt drugs between the ages of 16-18. Michael was shot, and Chris shot and killed by Michael's older brother, Sal, when Michael was 18. At that time, Sal was already involved in organized crime following in the footsteps of their father, J. Salvatore Anzotti. Obviously, a deep hatred developed between Michael and Sal further complicated years and years later by Sal's near ruining of Michael and Scully's relationship ("What I Want"). The relationship between Michael and his father hadn't turned out much better when Michael resisted his father's overtures to make the mob his life. Becoming an FBI agent further crippled the relationship between father and son and Michael was labeled a traitor. Fifteen or so years later, there has been scant contact between the two until Michael started receiving letters of apology from his father months ago ("WIW 4: Our Weakness")which continue into this story...Also, Mike is an orphaned boy that Scully and Michael helped and are trying to adopt ("WIW 4"). Joseph is Michael's son from a prior relationship, detailed in "WIW 2: Coming Together." And by the by to help with any confusion, Scully calls her husband Michael while most everybody else calls him Mike. Once in a while, I wonder why I keep this going. Then when I'm looking for similar stories (Scully/other) I realize there's not much out there like this, at least a continuing series with a significant Scully/Other relationship. So it's different. And it's meaningful, I hope. At least, I've tried to make the relationship between Scully and Michael meaningful. And I've tried to make Michael as real a character to us as Scully has always been to this Scullyist. Summary: When Michael is called to the carpet by the FBI after his family's origin is discovered, everyone but Scully seems to be against him. That includes Mulder who finally confronts Scully on the choice she made. Saturday Saturday morning I awaken from sleep feeling oddly alone. And I am alone, the other side of the bed cold and empty when I reach blindly across for my husband. The only thing my hand does find is a note left on his pillow that I read through half-closed lids: Mrs. A-- Couldn't bear to wake you when you were sleeping so peacefully. Went for our usual run. Be back ASAP with a batch of hot, fresh croissants. Yours, Michael I smile warmly in response and laze in bed a little longer, my mouth watering in anticipation of the flaky French delicacies with globs of melted butter that I'll soon be feasting on. My mouth waters for them and for the man bringing them. With any luck, I'll be feasting on him soon, too. Our Saturday morning routine usually consists of about a one mile run together out and 3/4 of a mile back followed by a quick stretch and a brisk walk home with a stop for a bite of breakfast at an outdoor café along the way. This Saturday was different though; based on his note, he didn't have it in him to wake me after I'd gotten home very late the night before from another lameass town on a wild goose chase of Mulder's. The extra sleep was welcome but the truth is I wouldn't have minded getting up to go with him. I enjoy our runs, not to mention nearly every minute we spend together. I finally rise and after showering and dressing quickly, I put on a fresh pot of coffee. While the coffee brews, I slide into a chair at the kitchen table and flip through the newspaper lying there. There's nothing of much interest until I reach page four, my throat suddenly going dry because of an article. An article on a mobster. That mobster being one J. Salvatore Anzotti. Michael's father. Not too long after digesting the article, I'm aware of Michael's return though I'm not really in tune to him. I haven't moved since I read the piece in the paper, the serious implications of it for Michael and for us hitting me hard. "Morning, gorgeous," he calls out in the space somewhere behind me. "Morning," I return without much enthusiasm, still very much preoccupied with the article still spread out before me. "Miss me?" "mmm." He nears, holding the bag under my nose so I get a whiff of the croissants. "Smell that. Smells good, doesn't it?" "mmm." "Dana, you're not listening to a word I'm saying." "mmm." "Okay, now that we've got that cleared up I'm leaving you and going back to Chicago." "mmm." There's a pause before I hear his voice again though I'm still not catching what he's saying until he begins kissing my neck. That wonderful sensation, which is a particular weakness of mine, brings me quickly back to the moment at hand. "Earth to Dana," he murmurs. "What? I'm sorry. What were you saying?" I ask, looking up at him, my eyes now wide and attentive. He plops the bag of croissants on the table and slides into the chair beside me. "I'm saying that you were totally somewhere else. What's going through that brilliant mind of yours?" "Something...something regarding you actually." "Uh-oh. What, are you mad that I went running without you?" "No, nothing like that...Did you happen to see the paper this morning?" "Didn't get a chance. What's in it that's got you all bent out of shape?" I hesitate, not really sure how to tell him. "Something that...I'm not sure how you'll react to." It's true. Though Michael's talked openly to me about the complex Anzotti family ties, I'm not sure he's been completely honest with himself in regard to his feelings about his father. Sure, he's still so angry with the man that he can't see straight but he's still his father. That has to count for something. I've listened attentively to Michael when we've talked about it without my trying to sway him or pressure him one way or the other. He didn't need that; he just needed someone to listen. And knowing as I did all that had gone on between Michael, his dad and his brother, Sal, in the past, I could certainly understand where my husband was coming from. I just hoped I'd been able to help in some small way. "Like what? C'mon, D, quit beating around the bush." "There's an article in there...on your father," I announce as gently as possible. "Oh, yeah? What did he do now?" he grunts, his mood immediately changing at the mere mention of the word. He grabs the bag of croissants, rises to retreat to the counter, and then begins slicing open croissants with fervor. No doubt to keep busy and not think too much. I continue on, not letting his mood dissuade me; he has to know about this. "Um...he's suspected of racketeering and...murder. The NYPD expects to arrest and charge him soon." "Finally. I'm surprised it's taken this long for his crimes to catch up to him." I turn in my chair to look at him, a little surprised. "Is that really how you feel?" "Yeah. Why would you expect anything different?" "Michael, no matter what's happened between you, he's still your father. I thought you might have some...regrets...some--I don't know--feeling toward him." "How could I feel differently, Dana? You know that everything in that article is true. He is a murderer...Honestly, the only thing I feel is regret that I'm related to the monster." "Michael--" I start to say but am interrupted by the phone, which both of us ignore, our eyes trained on one another. Then he gives an ironic little laugh. "She has perfect timing, doesn't she?" The woman he refers to is his sister Gina who's been after him for about three months to try to make amends with their father. Things have been looking dire for the elder Anzotti for a while, and he himself has also been after Michael for a reconciliation via nearly a dozen letters he's sent over the past six months. I make my way to the portable phone, ready to pick it up. "You want me to make up an excuse?" "No, no. I better talk with her and get this over with." "Michael, just be honest with her like you've been all along. She loves you very much, she'll respect your feelings." Of this, I'm certain. He gives me a kind of frown/smile followed by a sweet, lingering kiss on the lips and I hand him the phone. I'm ready to let them hash this out in private but Michael takes my hand and pulls me along with him back to the kitchen where he takes a seat at the table. I stand nearby and lean against the counter opposite him, listening to his side of the conversation attentively as he greets Gina immediately by nickname. "Hey, G." "Hi, little brother...Did you hear the news?" "About Joe? Yeah, Dana just told me. There's an article here in today's paper." ". . . Well?" "What do you want me to say? I won't be losing any sleep over it." "Mike, he's still your father." "Yeah, the father that wrote me off when I was 20." "That's not entirely true and you know it." "Am I just supposed to forgive and forget because he's making some half-assed attempt at a reconciliation?" "...Why can't you even give it a try?" "No. If he thinks I'm going to forgive him any time soon, then he doesn't know me at all . . . Oh, but that's right, he really doesn't know me, does he?" "He wants to if only you'd let him. He knows you're married now, and he wants to meet Dana. Why can't you just try?...There may not be much time left." "Gina, I already asked you to please stop feeding him details about me. I don't want to feel that every time we talk, you go back to him and report on what I've said and that's how it's starting to appear. I just want him to leave me alone and stay the hell away from my family. Can't you understand that?" "No, Mike, I honestly can't. I never asked you to meet with him face to face, but I don't understand why you couldn't just answer one of his letters. Was that really too much to ask? He's been trying for some time. He hasn't stopped talking about you and what you've accomplished so much so that we're all getting a little jealous. And Sal...this is making him crazy." "Gina, I'm sorry but I can't do what you ask. Dad is dead to me. I know this is hard on you and Tony and I sympathize but from where I stand, Dad belongs in jail. He and Sal can rot there and I could care less. They're both going to get what's coming to them." "I'm sorry you still feel that way." "And I'm sorry that all of our conversations lately revolve around the same thing. Gina, I love you, but don't call me if he's the only thing you want to discuss...Listen, I have to go." "Michael, wait--I'm sorry. I just...I just wish things could be different." "I know you do." "Let me call you in a couple days--we'll talk about the kids-- anything but Dad. I promise." "Sure, sounds good." "Give my love to Dana." "I will. Ciao, Gina Nicole." He clicks off the phone, looking very frustrated and worried. I smile lightly at him and try to provide something positive in all this. "I'd say that went pretty well." And it had. He'd conveyed his feelings calmly and clearly without raising his voice which wasn't always the case. "As well as could be expected I guess." "Then why do you look so worried?" "D, you know why I'm worried. You don't think I should be?" he looks to me with the question and then pulls me gently into his lap. "I mean, I always thought my father was a small fish in a big enough sea. Now, his name's out there and it's probably only a matter of time until someone starts asking questions." "Not necessarily, Michael. That world is always under some type of investigation and I would think someone would have made the connection already. If not an FBI agent than some gritty NY reporter with something to prove by breaking a hot story. . . It's been over ten years." "But apparently, it's only been in the last few years that he's attained any power. Nobody gave a damn who he was before. Unfortunately, that's not the case anymore...I'm thinking maybe I should just come clean with my AD." I weigh the options in my head and realize the risk is just not worth it. "Baby, I think that's asking for trouble. Let's just leave it alone...Okay?" I murmur to him softly, nuzzling his neck. He's not convinced but I don't have any other answers for him. I wish to God I did. My head falls to his shoulder and we sit quietly together for a long time. And I pray. I pray that nothing comes of it. That the truth reality and Michael's lies won't come back to haunt us. Sunday All's just about right with the world this Sunday afternoon. I've been trying to put all the crap niggling at my brain aside to enjoy something as nice as this, as nice as watching Dana pitching softballs (of all things) out on the field while Mike sits right beside me in the stands. Watching our girl. It seems a bit odd for Dana to be participating in anything resembling team sports but she's determined and has a hell of an arm to boot. And it was all in the name of a good cause as Mike's orphanage was holding a fundraiser/recreation drive to raise money for their kids. Fortunately, the turn out from the local community and businesses had been fantastic. By late afternoon, the kids had already played three innings of softball as had all us men and now it was the women's turn out on the field. Dana is the picture of cool on the mound with my Yankees cap perched backwards on her head once again, reminiscent of our memorable Yankees game in Baltimore. Though she would never admit it to me, I think she's really more of a NY Mets fan but she wears my hat proudly while making mincemeat of the batters. "Strike two!" the ump shouts and I smile broadly. Nevermind that the batters are pretty bad; Dana's whipping the ball into the strike zone ala Pedro. When the ump yells, "Strike three!" I whoop it up like some dorky geek. I can't help it; I love to see Dana kicking ass at this as she does in most everything. Then Mike's voice comes curious and urgent which is typical for kids his age. "Michael?" he asks, looking up at me. I meet his gaze quickly, my attention split between him and my wife out on the field. "What is it, little man?" "Like what?" "Goofy," he announces with a wide, brilliant smile. "You're calling me goofy?!" I ask him, tickling his sides lightly. "Now, when do I look goofy to you?!" I say, screwing my face up into something silly. His resulting laughter is precious. Once his giggles die down, he explains. "When you're looking at Dana." "Oh--I see what you mean now." I pull him up into my lap, holding him close. "You know, Mike, one day when you're older, I think you're gonna look at a girl with a goofy grin on your face, too--just like the way I look at Dana." He shakes his head vehemently. "Un-unh." "You're not?" I ask, unconvinced. "How come?" "Because I don't like girls." If that's the case, then I have some news for him. "But you like Dana and I hate to break this to ya, but she's a girl." "No, she's not," he declares, shaking his head again. "She's not, huh?" I ask skeptically. "No. She's a woman," he states definitively. I gape at him, his answer flooring me. That she is, my boy. That she is. Monday Monday morning started off in crappy fashion which is typical as Mondays go. My AD summons me to some boring ass meeting immediately upon my arrival to the office, which is bad enough, but then he doesn't even have the courtesy to tell me in person or call me; I have to find out about it via an impersonal Post-It note stuck to my computer screen. Whatever I think as I remove the paper from the screen, crumple it up and slam dunk it into the wastebasket. Well, it just goes hand-in-hand with my crappy weekend thanks to my father's antics hitting the newspapers. Even with Dana being her wonderful self and the two of us spending quality time with Mike on Sunday, I couldn't completely banish the worries and doubts out of my head and remained withdrawn much of the weekend. While maneuvering my way toward the east end of the Hoover Building searching for Conference Room A, I wonder why me and my partner, Crawford, were meeting old AD Smitty in such a far off place. But when I swing the door to the conference room open, the room is full of people and Crawford is not one of them. Instead, seven FBI suits are gathered around the long, rectangular table. With all their eyes piercing me, it becomes abundantly clear why I'm here and that I'm totally fucked. There's no doubt in my mind. Yes, there's Asst. Directors Williams, Manzi, Skinner, Smith, Dawson and Conner, not to mention the Director himself. Seven pairs of eyes. All staring at me. Though I'm aware of what's going down, I'm reeling, my defenses automatically taking over when I speak. "What is this?!" "Sit down, Agent Anzotti." My head whirls around in the direction of the speaker. "I will when I'm told what this is all about." "Kindly sit down, agent, and then we'll tell you." With no choice but to do as I'm told, I slowly slide into one of the two remaining empty chairs. Asst. Director Williams then begins the inquisition. "Agent Anzotti, it has come to the Bureau's attention that a man named J. Salvatore Anzotti is to be arrested for murder in NY. And, unfortunately for the FBI, there is some question as to your ties to the suspect. Do you know this man?" he asks, sliding a picture to me from out of a thick manila file. Of course, it's a picture of dear old Dad. I glance at the Polaroid, flipping it back to Williams nonchalantly. I mutter a yes, humiliated by my family name, the family I was unfortunately born into. "Could you speak up please." "Yes," I state louder, annoyed. "And how do you know him?" I swallow down the truth hard but look right at the AD. "He's my father." "Your father?...Did you know that your father has suspected mob connections to the Gambino crime family?" "Look, Assistant Director--" I begin until I hear the door to the conference room behind me swing open, everything coming to a deadening halt as all attention reverts there. There where Dana stands. When I see her, I automatically jump up from my chair in protest. God, this scenario could not play out any worse in my nightmares. The thought of them purposefully bringing her here while I'm interrogated infuriates me. Doesn't anybody in this room have any human decency? How could they subject her to this? Dana and I look at each other, both our eyes raging with emotion. I can tell she's as shocked and as dazed as I was to walk in on this and she's struggling to keep it together as she knows what's coming. My anger gets the better of me, my voice rising uncontrollably when I finally find my tongue. "What--what the hell is Agent Scully doing here?! She has nothing to do with any of this!" "Agent Anzotti, sit down and lower your voice!" AD Williams commands. "Agent Scully, please join us." Dana's breathing comes in little hitches and starts, her own confusion and anger getting the better of her though it's not overtly apparent to anyone but me. Though she has now been officially invited to the party, she makes no move to sit down. "Sir, I was told I was meeting with my AD. What's going on here?" "Relax, everyone. Agent Scully is here to substantiate any claims of misconduct on the part of Agent Anzotti. Agent, please sit down. Agent Scully works in the X-Files division with Special Agent Mulder." I still stand, my mouth nearly agape, my fists clenching convulsively at my sides. "Assistant Director Williams, this is not really necessary. Agent Scully doesn't know anything. Please--you don't need her here for this." "Agent Anzotti, sit down!" I would plead with them. I would tell them everything I know about my father just to spare Dana this embarrassment. Unfortunately, I seem to have this nasty habit of embarrassing her. However, the real problem here is I truly don't know anything. Despite what I'd told Dana about my past, about what I'd done, she attempts to keep up the fight. "Asst. Director Williams, if I may say so, there's been no misconduct on the part of Agent Anzotti." "I'm afraid that's open for debate." AD Manzi then pipes in. "Wait a minute. I'm confused. How could Agent Scully substantiate any claims of misconduct when Agents Anzotti and Scully are not even partnered? Do they even know each other?" Williams quickly answers the question with a kind of smarmy glee I'd like to knock right off his face. "Well for those of you who don't know, Agent Anzotti and Agent Scully are married . . . To one another." At that, an unmistakable buzz flies through the room. And I cannot fathom why. Is it really that surprising that two FBI agents were married? Maybe it would be different if we worked together in some capacity or were partners but we have practically no contact on a work-related basis. The only time Dana and I did work together is when I requested her forensic expertise on a serial killer case I was assisting in Boston. Williams attempts to calm the masses. "Now, if everyone will just settle down and Agent Scully will take her seat, we'll continue." Williams waits until Dana does as asked. "Now, Agent Anzotti, we have agents assigned to long-term undercover operations within the Gambino circle. For them to give up any information regarding your father's activities, whatever they may be, would compromise their covers at this time. So we want you to tell us what you know about said activities." "I only know what I read in the papers." "Is that so?" "Yes, I have no idea what my father does, what his activities include." "But you did know he was involved in organized crime?" I repeat myself, displeasure and frustration infusing my words. "I really don't know what my father did or does." "Answer the question. To achieve the level he's attained, he would have had to have been involved in organized crime for a good many years. While you were even growing up, perhaps. Surely, you would have had some idea." "I guess I was aware at some point." "You were aware yet here you sit as an agent of the FBI...Did your father ever attempt to bring you into the fold?" "No," I lie easily. There's no need for them to know that part of this ancient history lesson even though it is, among other things, what lead to the massive rift between us. "Have you had any recent contact with him?" "No." "Why is that?" "We decided that we don't like each other very much." "But we're under the impression that there has been some written correspondence between the two of you." Under the impression? I truly wonder if they've been spying on me as well. "He's sent me some letters." "What do these letters contain?" "My father's attempt at a reconciliation." The cold voice turns to Dana. "Is that what the letters contain, Agent Scully?" "They contain exactly what Agent Anzotti has just explained." "Have you responded to any of these letters?" "No." "Didn't it concern you that your father's improprieties might be traced back to you at some point?" "To tell you the truth, I didn't think about it all that much." "When you applied to the FBI in 1988, surely you must have realized that your father's reputation would have precluded your acceptance into the bureau. Apparently, your application and interviews were not screened properly as it is the only explanation why you were accepted as an agent of the FBI at all. Any other ideas why you weren't weeded out?" I know exactly why but whether I want to admit it or not is another story so I remain mum. If I answer the question, this is where I start to look bad or worse, whatever the case may be. And this aggressive fuck of an AD, of course, will not let it rest. "Agent Anzotti?...Agent Anzotti, answer the question." "I lied. I lied and claimed that my father was deceased." "You lied...How do you explain this? Your job is to uphold the law and there you were lying on your application and in the interviewing process? Explain yourself." "My father's activities have nothing to do with me. I didn't understand why my love of law enforcement, why my desire to be an FBI agent should be punished because of what my father chose to do with his life. It was his choice, one I certainly don't agree with or aspire to." "Didn't you see the conflict of interest?" "I have no regrets about what I did. I love this job. I have always done the best I could to uphold the laws and the integrity of the Bureau. What my father does has nothing to do with me." Still, we're back to beating a dead horse. "What do you know about your father's activities?" "How many ways do you want me to say it? I don't know anything. I haven't seen or spoken to him since I was 20." "I'm afraid your word doesn't mean much at this point in time as I'm sure you can well understand." "Despite having given over 10 years of loyal, devoted service to the Bureau?" "But your conduct over the years has been questionable, no? In front of me is a review of your conduct about two years ago in an incident in NY. This involved your brother, Salvatore--" At the mention of Sal and the incident in question, Dana goes pale, her sorrowful eyes finding mine. "That was a personal matter," I explain. "That may well be you're still an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and are expected to conduct yourself in the appropriate manner. . . You were initially charged with assault but the charges were dropped. Is that correct?" "Am I on trial here?" "Answer the question, agent. I won't ask you again." "Yes, the charges were dropped." "It says here that your brother was 'beaten to within an inch of his life'. You nearly killed your own brother--how do you explain this?" "My brother and I have a very volatile relationship for reasons that are of no concern to anyone but myself." "So you have nothing you'd like to add, nothing you'd like to explain about the matter." "Not at this time." Then he turns to Dana. "What about you, Agent Scully? Do you have anything you'd like to add?" "Not at this time," Dana responds coolly, reiterating my stance. Williams flips through the file before him to find my next offense. "More recently, the DCPD picked you up for speeding." Oh, here we go. This just keeps getting better and better. While Dana squirms uncomfortably in her seat, her anger continuing to build, I swallow down my own anger and reply. "I made a mistake and I apologize." "You also botched a gun raid, not once but twice," the smug AD continues his assault. At that statement, Dana's eyes catch mine and burn into them with anger. Neither one of us can believe these bastards are holding me responsible for my behavior during those raids which was uncontrollable and drug-induced. I force myself to turn away, not able to look at her when I reply, defeated. There's no point in fighting this anymore. "Yeah, I screwed up." I catch Dana looking at me again, confused, questions written on her face. All I can do is close my eyes and shake my head. She, however, will not remain silent a moment longer. No, my wife, my hero, my savior comes to my defense. Yet again. "Sir, may I say something?" "Certainly, Agent Scully." "If you're going to accuse Agent Anzotti of misconduct, then you should have all the facts." "And just what are those facts?" "When those incidents occurred, Agent Anzotti was under the influence of a powerful amphetamine that his partner had been drugging him with for quite some time." The AD doesn't react in the slightest and then voices the mother of all accusations. "That's one version of the events. Isn't it true, Agent Anzotti, that you and your partner, Brian Anderson, were in on the gun scams together? Maybe the deals went bad, one or both of you got greedy, and he tried to do you before you could do him. Isn't that more along the lines of how it went?" I stare at the AD nearly agasp, feeling like I'm being burned at the stake. As calmly as I can, I sit with my hands clasped before me on the table, not granting any one of these fuckers an explanation because I'm through. I'm through defending myself. No matter what truth I present they're going to believe what they want. They're going to turn everything I say around to fit their own needs. Dana's eyes and body language emanate fury, a fury, I can tell, is about to explode. "This panel would like to know if the gunrunning had anything at all to do with your father." And that'll just about do it for her. The AD's question thunders inside my head. I don't know why but I'd answer the question if the prospect wasn't so utterly ridiculous. I zone out for a minute with Williams still demanding answers to his questions. "Agent?...What do you have to say for yourself?...Agent?!" There's nothing, absolutely nothing I have to say. I just stare at my accuser with an icy glare, shaking inside with my own fury and trying to keep my composure. "Agent Anzotti, due to your silence, I have nothing to conclude but your guilt. Pending further investigation into the matter, you are hereby suspended--" "No, you can't do that!" Dana rises and blurts out. "Agent Scully, sit down and calm down!" "I will not calm down--" "You are suspended from the FBI immediately!" "You can't do that! Agent Anzotti has done nothing wrong!" Having finally had enough of their bullshit, I stand, pulling my gun from its holster and my badge from my suit jacket and laying them out on the table. "Here, you don't have to suspend me. Take my badge, my gun, this job and your sanctimonious attitude and stick it up your collective asses because I quit." I storm away until I hear my wife's voice. "Michael, wait!" Dana blurts out again, the desperation in her voice stopping me cold. As much as I have to get out this room and away from these people, I can't leave her like this. "You are not dismissed, Agent Scully!" the Director commands, glaring at her. She glares back without fear or recrimination. "The hell I'm not!" she declares defiantly, her voice low but so strong. As she hastily makes her way around the table to get to me, AD Skinner grabs her by the arm and pulls her to him, his voice full of pleading desperation. "Agent Scully, let him go. You're just making this worse for yourself." "Let go of me, Sir. Let go of me and butt out," she demands, eyes on fire, pulling her arm out from within Skinner's grasp. Together, we depart even as the Director's voice drones on. XXXXX We step into the small alcove outside the conference room, and I head for the outer door leading to the main part of the Hoover building. Instead, Michael halts my progress, backing me into a corner of the alcove. I'm dimly aware of the conference room door clicking open, someone in close proximity, watching us. Michael's voice is soft, apologetic when he speaks. "Baby, listen to me. I appreciate what you were trying to do for me in there, but don't do it on my account. I want you to go back in there and make amends." "What?...Why? They ambushed you. They ambushed the both of us." "We both knew this was coming and I won't let you risk your own career because of what I've done." "Michael, you haven't done anything. We both know that." "It doesn't matter. Just promise me you'll go back in there and fix this." I swallow hard unsure of what to do, unsure of this job, these people. He's caught my uncertainty and brings me back to the only thing I am certain of these days--he, himself. "Dana, look at me. I love you. So much. Please do this for me if you won't do it for yourself." We kiss then, long and desperate, and I pull him into a tight embrace, holding him with every ounce of strength I possess. When we finally release each other, I look past his body, my eyes falling upon Skinner's form, watching us surreptitiously from the opposite corner. Anger boils within me at his presence. "You know, we'd appreciate some privacy here," I suggest with an edge to my voice, not able to contain my displeasure. With that, Skinner glances away and shifts his weight from one foot to another in nervousness. When Michael attempts to glance over his shoulder at our rude onlooker, I gently pull his face to mine instead. "Hey, I love you, too. Always. Never forget that." Despite what we've just been put through, his eyes shine with happiness at my pronouncement. Then, he pleads with me again. "Go back inside. Please." "What are you going to do?" "Clean my stuff out of here. Go home and then to the gym. Or for a run. I need to keep moving." "Okay," I sigh. "I'll be home as soon as I can." Michael pulls me to him and we hold each other for a long time. After I reluctantly let him go, he places my hand in his, pulling us toward the outer door. He grants Skinner a long, hard look before returning his attention to me with a tender kiss to my lips. Then he's gone. I fix Skinner with my own displeased look, and he still appears embarrassed when laying his news on me. "It may be sooner than you think, Agent Scully." "Come again?" "You may be going home sooner than you think. They're suspending you, too. For insubordination." "Really? Then let them." "Aren't you going to go back in there and fight this?" "No, I have no interest in defending myself to those people." "Well, I think you're making a mistake. There's no reason this has to go on your permanent record." "Did we just witness the same thing? That was a lynching in there." "Scully, I'm truly sorry." "Are you? Because you sat there like someone had abducted your tongue." "If I could have done something to warn you about what was coming, I would have." "You knew what I was walking in on then?" "Yes, it came down from the Director himself at the last minute to have you present. There was nothing I could do." "What the hell was going on in there?" "Scully, they want answers to some legitimate questions." "Then they should have spoken to Michael privately. Instead, they put on this show and use me to get to him." "But they're figuring that there are probably answers that only you and you alone can provide because of your intimate knowledge of him and his family." "No, I don't know anything, sir. He barely has anything to do with his family...Michael's a great man, a great agent. You should know--you've worked with him." "Briefly, Scully. I really don't know anything about Mike. How can you expect me to vouch for him so easily?" "Because I know him. I would think you would trust my judgement of people after all the years you've known me." "Scully,...love sometimes blinds people to a good many things." His insinuation is painfully hard to swallow. "Is that really what you think is going on?" "I didn't say that. I just...I think--" "You know what I think, sir? I think all of you got your fucking jollies having me sit there while my husband was interrogated like some Goddamn criminal!" Without missing a beat, Skinner broaches his question. "Is he a criminal, Scully?" I glare at him, shocked by his nerve. I have no intention of answering such a ridiculous question but he continues to look to me expectantly. Then I tell him just that: "I won't even dignify that with an answer, sir," I spit and turn on my heel, leaving him standing in the hallway alone. Bastards. Every last one of them. Even Skinner. I can honestly say I don't wish bad things on people but if something tragic should befall one of those fucking FBI bigwigs I wouldn't bat an eyelash though I'll at least grant Skinner a pass; he had meant well. Even though there had been no concern for Michael, he had cared about me and not some twisted agenda. Unlike the others. After my confrontation with good, 'ol Walt, I stomped down to the basement to retrieve some files I'd left on my table, er, desk in Mulder's office and, thankfully, he was nowhere to be found; I could just get the work and go home and not be subjected to playing 20 questions. As luck would have it though, I couldn't find those blasted files anywhere and while I was still looking, I could hear Mulder approaching, his familiar footsteps falling upon the floor in the basement hallway quickly and with purpose. I was afraid that purpose was me and I couldn't help wanting to run and hide because of it. I mean, I was still fuming and just about anything would set me off now. And knowing Skinner, word about my suspension had already gotten back to Mulder and he was coming to grill me about it though I had no apologies and not much patience to offer him. Just as I start rummaging through the X-Files cabinet, he enters the office without a word. I sense him standing there looking at me and it feels like a long time before he speaks. "Scully, what are you doing?" Jeez, isn't it obvious? What, is it a crime to look through his precious files? "Looking for something. Did you put those files I had out back in the cabinet?" "No, and that's not what I meant. I want to know what you're doing risking your job." "Not that it's any of your business, but I was trying to help defend a good name. Something I've done for you on many occasions," I declare and finally look to his face. "At least my name was always worth the sacrifice." "Mulder, you're ego never ceases to amaze me. What exactly are you implying?" "Scully, I never had anything to hide. You knew exactly who I was, who I am. I just hope you can say the same for Mike." "I can without question so don't you worry yourself about it," I assure him and then turn back to my task. But he won't let it go at that. "How can you be so sure?" "Because he's my husband," I sigh wearily. Why must I explain at all? "Scully, please--you sound like one of those weak, stand by your man types. I never figured you for that." I sigh again. "You know, I'm not really in the mood to debate this with you." "Why are you doing this?" "Why are you worried?" I accuse and again turn back to him. "Because my suspension makes things inconvenient for you?" "That's not it and you know it. I'm worried about you. Worried about what you've gotten yourself into. You think mafia wives are privy to everything their husband's do?" "Mafia wives?" I laugh. "I'm a mafia wife now? Spare me, Mulder. That's sounds like something out of some soap opera." "You know what I mean. Just because he was clean a couple of years ago doesn't mean he is now." "Clean a couple of years ago?...So you actually did it, didn't you? You had him checked out. You had an FBI agent checked out? Really, Mulder," I admonish disgustedly. "What did you expect me to do, Scully? I told you I loved you and you practically told me to go to hell. What was I supposed to do? Let you run off with any poor bastard that came sniffing around?" "No, I expect you to trust my instincts and my judgement of people. Of our own colleague. Someone you worked with and told me was a good man on more than one occasion. Is that too much to ask?" "When it concerns your well being, Scully, yeah it is. I'm sorry," he says, coming over and laying a reassuring hand to my shoulder. Without finding what I was looking for, I slam the file cabinet closed and literally shrug off his concern, just wanting to get away from here, from him, from everything. "Listen, I've gotta go. I'll see you as soon as my suspension is lifted. Probably in a couple of days," I mutter and make my way to the door. Just as I'm about to slip out the office, Mulder's voice comes again, making me cringe inside; I just want to go, and he won't let it rest. "Scully, just tell me one thing before you go." "What?" I ask quickly. Unkindly. "Would you lie for him?" I answer without hesitation, not having to consider his question for even a moment. "You mean, the way I've lied for you, Mulder?...In a fucking second." XXXXX With the rain coming down the way it was late morning on the drive home, I figured for sure Michael had hit the gym or was working out at home. When I went looking for him, it soon became clear I had figured it wrong since he was at neither place. That worried me a bit but he was a big boy and could take care of himself. Most of the time. If Sal wasn't involved. Since Sal was hundreds of miles away, I concentrated instead on one of my little boys and gave Mike a call at the orphanage. We talked for a good half hour and I promised him that Michael and I would visit soon. His voice and exuberance helped brighten my dim mood, which I was thankful for. Children had a way of doing that, of putting things into perspective quickly. Sadly, my good mood would not last long when I started to think of the problems Michael and I had already started to encounter in regard to adopting him. Then thoughts of Michael and our predicament started again. I stayed put in my chair by the window, watching the rain splash hard against the window panes. It was coming down pretty heavy, and I kind of became mesmerized by it all, losing track of time. When the front door finally opened, I snapped to attention, gazing upon my husband standing in the vestibule hallway looking like a drowned rat. Every bit of him--sweat pants, tank top, sneakers, hair--was drenched in water. "Dana--" There's surprise in his voice even though my car is parked in the driveway. "I was worried about you...What were you doing running in the pouring rain?" "It felt good. Felt freeing." "It won't feel too good when you come down with pneumonia," I mutter as I fetch a bath towel for him to dry off. "What time did you get home?" "Eleven-thirty." "Why so early?" he questions. I tell him the truth but look from his face. "They, uh,...they ended up suspending me, too." "For what?!" He's not happy to say the least. "Insubordination." "Even after you went back in there?" "I didn't. . ." I mutter. Again, looking away. "You didn't--why not?" "Because I wasn't going to apologize after what they did to you." He flings the towel to the floor in a huff. "Damn it, Dana! I knew you wouldn't do it for yourself but I thought you'd at least do it for me. I knew this was going to happen!" "That what was going to happen?" "That somehow you'd be put in the middle of this. That you'd suffer...Dana, I deserved what I got." "For what? A 10 year old lie about whether your father was dead or not? Who cares? You've been an excellent agent with an impeccable record for all of that time. And you've had no contact whatsoever with said father." This reasoning sounds out of character for me but it's how I feel. "Dana, you're not looking at the big picture. With my father being who he is even back then, I should've never have even gotten my foot in the door at the FBI. You know that." "What's done is done," I argue. He continues to try and be the sensible one. "I've embarrassed the Bureau; they look like a bunch of fools." "What else is new? With Ruby Ridge, Waco, all the spying going on right under their noses--they've looked like fools for decades. Your situation is just one in a long line of embarrassments. And a much lesser one at that." "I have to pay for what I've done." I shake my head. "I can't believe you're content to let them win--you let them goad you into quitting." "I didn't have choice. You heard how they twisted everything around-- blaming me for those botched gun raids when I was high out of my mind. I didn't stand a chance in hell." "I hear what you're saying, believe me, but the Michael Anzotti I know is no quitter." Hurt emanates from his voice. "Look, I'm sorry I disappointed you but I don't want to argue with you of all people on this." He stands there a moment, waiting for me to reply but I don't. I can't. Without another word between us, he departs for the bathroom to wash the rainwater from his skin. I didn't reply. I couldn't reply. He'd honestly stunned me a little. For him to think that he has ever disappointed me for even just a minute was mind boggling. He has been the most loving, patient, strong, honest, and steady partner (I mean that in a romantic sense, not in a Mulder sense) that I've ever known and I'd spend however long it took to convince him so. Wednesday My stubborn wife had remained suspended for over a week until my constant prodding weakened her resolve. Dana is such a proud woman. Strong and fierce in her defense of me but it was not worth it. Not worth the price she would pay. So she finally gave in and made the necessary appropriations to her superiors though I'm sure it was only to get me to quit nagging her, not because she was worried about her job. Apparently, I was the only one worried about that. Anyway, her first day back I find myself driving her to and from work, find myself waiting for her at 5 pm in the lobby of the Hoover building. It feels strange as I can't remember the last time I even entered through the front of the building. Leaning up against the wall, I try to shrink into the surroundings, avoiding eye contact with people, acquaintances, co-workers as they pass. With my mind elsewhere, I'm caught off guard by a familiar voice uttering my name. "Mike." I address the man before me with a distinct distaste in my tone as he has done. "Mulder." What he's doing in this part of the building is anyone's guess. I had a good mind to call him Fox but think better of it, hoping to keep this as civil as possible and not antagonize him. "I'm afraid I heard the bad news." He utters the statement with a slight smirk that is maddening. "I bet you did," I return. "You know, it's a wonder they even let you in the building anymore." "Mulder, if you don't have anything useful to say then get out of my face." He ignores me completely. "You know what I don't get in all this is how you could do this to her. . . How could you involve Scully in your mess of a family?" Not for the first time, I stare at him for a moment, struck by his audacity. "Mulder, you have no idea what you're talking about so stay the hell out of it." "I know enough about you that it's not unfathomable to think that you could be involved in your family's crimes. And it's not just your father, is it? Even your brothers are in it up to their eyeballs." "How would you know unless you've been poking that big nose of yours in my business." "I was only doing what I felt I had to." "It's none of your damn business, Mulder." "Scully's my business." "Professionally, she is. But personally, no. Not anymore. Dana's A moment of silence follows and then he continues right where he left off. "So, what's your place in all this, Mike?" "Stay out of it," I warn. "It's a simple question. You're going to have to answer it sooner or later. Where do you fit in?" "I don't. I never have." "Oh, c'mon, Mike. Do you really expect anyone to believe that crock?" "Mulder, I don't give a shit what you believe." "No, of course not as long as you've got Scully fooled. Did you think I was just going to stand by and let you sweep her off her feet without having you checked out? She doesn't deserve to be lied to and you know I care about her way too much to let you fuck her over." "Mulder, I'm warning you--" "You won't get over on her. I'll make sure of it!" he seethes. Then I lose it, my voice echoing loudly in the cavernous walls of the Hoover lobby. People surely turn to look at us, staring at the scene we've made but fuck 'em. "She's my wife, so back the fuck off! Do you hear me?!" We stand shoulder to shoulder, face to face, nose to nose. That is, until Dana's voice breaks the stand off though neither one of us had heard her approach. "What's going on here?" she asks concerned but with an edge of anger as she gingerly steps between us. "Nothing, Scully," Mulder mutters, backing off quickly. Nothing my ass, but Dana doesn't need to be privy to our pissing contest. At least he recognizes this. Until she specifically asks, I don't have much to say either. "Michael," she says then pauses, eyes searching mine. "What's going on?" She has this way, this way of looking to me that gets me every time. And she's doing it now. I have to try real hard not to give into it, into her charms and blab the truth. "Nothing, Dana . . . Like Mulder said. C'mon let's go home," I suggest, dropping my arm possessively across her shoulders and pulling her to me. Definitely not convinced, Dana looks to Mulder and me suspiciously for a long, agonizing moment. Then, she and Mulder exchange pleasant 'good nights.' The only thing Mulder and I have to exchange are angry glares. The drive from the Hoover Building to the house in Annapolis was disturbingly quiet. Knowing Michael so well and enduring all the rough times that we've had in the past, it's not a good sign when he doesn't talk. And being Italian, he likes to talk. And talk and talk and talk. For awhile, I let it go. He was still reeling, understandably, from everything that had gone down the past week, afraid that this was it; that he'd never work as an FBI agent again. And what went on between Michael and Mulder hadn't helped any. Still, when I had spoken to him earlier in the day, he had sounded good, his frame of mind positive. But in the span of a couple of hours, his attitude had changed drastically. And very drastically by the looks of the flowers and candles on the table and the dish of chicken marsala he had prepared. It looked like we were in store for a very romantic, enjoyable evening which was nothing like the vibe I was now getting. I seat myself at the table and Michael brings the food over and proceeds to serve us. I try to dig in but notice him picking and poking at the food on his plate and call him on it. "Michael, you fixed this great meal and you're not eating." "I'm not hungry," he informs me, head down, still poking at the chicken cutlet. "What's bothering you?" Since he's doing nothing that remotely resembles eating, he places his fork down. "I was just thinking." "Thinking, huh?" I sigh, putting my own fork down. My appetite has suddenly disappeared. "Somehow, I get the feeling I'm not going to like this." "Probably not...I was just thinking that maybe...maybe we should back away from each other for a little while," he says slowly without looking at me. I nearly choke on the water I'm sipping. "Excuse me?" "I said maybe--" "No, I heard you; I just can't believe what you're saying." I look at him like he has three heads or there's an alien imposter behind his hunky good looks and perfect bod. "Just until there's some resolution to this," he adds absently, trying to explain his reasoning away. "Michael, that's crazy. We're not some horny teenagers involved in a summer romance. We took marriage vows. Vows I have every intention of upholding." "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think it kills me to even suggest such a thing?" "Then why suggest it?" "You know why." "Well, spell it out for me because I'm having a hard time trying to understand...This marriage means everything to me and I know it means everything to you. We've been through hell to get here." "And you've been through hell as a woman in a male-dominated field. I won't let you or your career suffer further because of what I've done." "Do you really think I'd still be toiling around in the basement if I was worried about my career?" "Oh, Dana, that's a loaded question if ever there was one." "Don't, Michael; don't turn this around and make it about Mulder. . . What did he say to you earlier?" "Nothing I hadn't already thought of myself." "Tell me," I implore. "Dana, it's nothing." "Well, this nothing has put a ridiculous notion in your head that won't make any difference." "Yeah, it is ridiculous but I need to feel like I doing something to shield you from this. I'm not going to let them put you in the middle again," he says rising and starting to walk away. "Just leave the dishes--I'll take care of them later." "Michael," I sigh with frustration, chucking my napkin to the table. "Where are you going?" "To the gym." "So, that's it? I don't have any say in this?" "Who said that? Nothing's been decided. I know how you feel and you know how I feel. That's about all I can wrap my brain around at the moment." With that, he grabs his keys and slips quickly out the door, our conversation forcibly over. Nothing more would be said on the subject when Michael returned later in the evening. Thursday And nothing more was said the following morning either. Upon my return from work, the house was quiet but Michael was most definitely home. Somewhere. Somewhere in this too large house I'd find him based on the fact that his truck was still parked in the driveway. Indeed, I came upon him in our bedroom and when I got a load of what he was doing, my heart sank. I watched him silently for a moment wondering how I could change his mind. I had to change his mind. That I was sure of. While he digs around in the closet, I sit beside his half filled bag of luggage lying on the bed. I poke through the bag of mostly jeans, T-shirts and button down shirts, fingering one of my favorites. When he finally turns around to put something else in his bag, I ask of his intentions, the hurt in my voice obvious though I try to mask it. "You going somewhere?" He jumps back slightly, surprised by my presence. "Dana...you're home early." "Yeah, there was nothing much doing at work. I skipped lunch and thought I'd come home early. Thought I'd surprise you. Looks like I'm the one getting the surprise though." "Yeah--you caught me," he admits sheepishly. "Where are you going if you don't mind me asking?" "I just thought I'd go see Gina and the kids," he says innocently, plopping more clothes into the bag. "Oh--when were you planning on telling me?" "After I had my bag packed so you couldn't change my mind." He knows me too well. "Well, I wouldn't be me if I didn't try to change your mind...Michael," I murmur softly, my eyes pleading with him as I take his hand in mine, "let me change your mind." "Baby, this is no big deal," he tells me, squeezing my hand and then letting go. "Maybe to you. But I still don't think your leaving is a good idea right now." "I'm not worried." "Michael, they're going to be watching. Do you really want to give them something to work with, something to use against you? Going to NY right now is just asking for trouble." "I don't give a damn what anyone thinks...Anyone but you." "What about me ? Didn't it even occur to you how this was going to look to me after our conversation last night?" "Dana, I told you that you're making more of this than there is." Nothing seems to be working for me here. So I end up using a tactic I didn't want to--the subject of Mike has a way of forcing him to reevaluate things. "What about this weekend? What about Mike? Have you forgotten we're supposed to take him to the Oriole game." "There'll be other games, other days out with him." "You don't know that. Do you want to disappoint that poor little boy?" "I can't worry about it right now." I continue on with my questions, hoping something I say will finally make him change his mind. "Is Gina expecting you?" "No, I figured I'd surprise her. We have some stuff we need to work out face to face." "What about Sal? What if he's hanging around?" "Don't worry about Sal." "I'm not worried about Sal. I'm worried about you ." "I'll handle it." And God help us all if he does. "Oh, you'll handle it? Like you handled it the last time? Then where will we be?" Trying to kill your own brother is not my idea of "handling"it. "It'll be fine. Do you think I'd make the same stupid mistake twice?" "Ordinarily, no. But where Sal is concerned, I don't think you can see straight--you're a loose cannon." "That's where you're wrong. I only lose it where you're concerned-- last time because of what he did to you, what he did to us. But make no mistake about it. If he ever comes near you again, I'll kill the fuck." I grimace at his curse though the description of his brother is quite accurate. Sal scares me to death because of how much hatred Michael feels for him and what that hatred seems to make him capable of. "Thanks. That's real reassuring." "What do you want from me, Dana?!" "I want you to stay here...Don't take off on me like this." "You make it sound like...like I'm leaving you." "Aren't you?" "Dana, I'm just gonna go visit some family. That's all." "No, you're leaving to put distance between us. That's what this is about." "Regardless, my flight leaves at 8," he tells me with finality, zipping the luggage closed and hoisting it up to his shoulder. Disbelieving, I stare at him for a long moment, tears stinging my eyes. But he doesn't even look at me as he walks past and out the room. It's almost time to leave. The taxi taking me to Dulles will be here any minute now, but I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to go. You see, uncertainty floods my brain and butterflies plague my stomach. I try to push both aside, convincing myself that what I'm doing is best for Dana. I don't need or want her to put her career on the line because of my fucked up family ties; she's worked too Goddamn hard to get where she is. If I just put a little space between us, maybe they'll leave her out of this. If they want to take me down (though I know nothing and have basically done nothing), there's no way in hell I'll let them take Dana with me. And Mrs. Anzotti's not very happy about it. After her valiant attempt to convince me not to go to NY had failed, we sat down to eat some dinner but I was the only one eating; Dana just pushed the food from one side of the plate to the other and back again kind of like I had the night before. She wasn't even the least bit interested when I tried to strike up a conversation about Mike, one of our favorite topics these days. Then when I placed the call for the cab, she gave me a severely disappointed look and then slowly, quietly rose and left the room. No, she's not very happy about it at all. But my feelings on the matter haven't changed. Since you can't please everyone all of the time, you might as well please yourself. Isn't that how that stupid saying goes? While I crouch down to stuff some deodorant and toothpaste into my luggage, Dana pads over and crouches down beside me, her leg purposely knocking into mine. "Hey," she smiles softly, enigmatically. "Hey," I return, smiling in spite of myself. I'm pleased that she's even speaking to me at this point. "You have everything you need?" she asks, eyeing my bag. "I think so." "What about this? I don't want you to forget it." She produces my cross from her pocket and holds it out, both of us admiring it momentarily. Just then, the cabbie's horn blares loudly through the open window which we wordlessly ignore. Before I can take the cross from her, she clasps it around my neck, a small but pleased smile upon her face when she's done. "Thanks," I murmur. "My pleasure." "See, I'm a mess without you." "Then why are you leaving?" "Dana . . ." "Okay. . . Okay," she acquiesces and embraces me. Her lips find my neck and then my own lips and we're lost in some serious groping and open mouthed kissing. It could easily escalate to sex right here and now on the living room floor if I let it. The cab's horn annoyingly blares again. With regret, I pull away, catching my breath. "I gotta go." "I know," she murmurs. "Michael, if you honestly feel that you need to do this, then go; I won't stop you. But no matter where you go or for how long, it's not going to change anything . . . I'm not going anywhere...So, promise me...Promise me you'll be careful." "Promise," I say, winking. Grabbing my luggage, I rise and leave after a long look at her, savoring everything that she is. I had wanted to go back and kiss her again but I knew if I did I'd never leave. Once outside the door, I stopped for some unknown reason, poised to go right back inside, right back into Dana's warm, loving arms. With the sound of the lock on Dana's side of the door sliding into place and the cabbie looking ready to knock my block off for making him wait, I reluctantly push on towards my destination. All I know is I'm already regretting this. Day has turned to night, everything awash in light and time marches on until I'm ready . . . I look around, everyone busy on their computers or phones. Dozing. Reading a newspaper, book or the latest romantic novel. I, for one, couldn't keep busy. Couldn't keep my mind on such trivial things. Earlier, I'd bought a pack of cigarettes, hoping to ease the tension. My nerves. Brought a cigarette to my lips. Lit the match then the cancer stick and took a drag. And had this vision of red and green... God, I feel depressed after Michael is gone and could use a good, stiff one. A good, stiff drink that is. Anyway...a nice swig of scotch or whiskey if I was a drinker. Since I'm not, I settled for a cool glass of water that I downed. I then sank into the couch and flipped through the channels on the TV, hoping I'd come across some interesting distraction. None was to be found though. Let's face it. I had Michael on the brain and nothing else was going to be of much interest. The guilt pangs I was experiencing weren't helping matters either. I had toyed with the idea of offering him a ride to the airport. That would have been the nice thing to do. The right thing to do for my husband. But I ultimately decided against it because it would have been like I was condoning what he was doing. Like I was agreeing with him. And it just didn't make sense to me. If anything, we needed to stay together, stand united if we were going to see through this. How could we do that when he was shuttling off to NY in an effort to purposefully keep his distance from me? Even with nothing on TV, I let the picture play, turned down the sound, and laid down on the couch trying to sleep. Maybe when I awoke Michael would be back and this whole mess would miraculously be over. But trying was the operative word; I had a hell of a time falling asleep in the first place and when I finally seemed to slip into that state between sleep and consciousness, the phone rang. I sat up with a start, my brow crinkled in a little confusion and frustration, my eyes darting around the room in search of the phone. I found it on the nearby end table and grabbed it on the third ring. "Hello?" My voice is already a little groggy. "Dana, it's me. . . Did I wake you?" "No, baby, no...I was just dozing off." I switch on the lamp light, the brightness stinging my eyes momentarily. "You still angry with me?" "Michael, I'm not angry with you. Confused and disappointed, yes. Worried and missing you terribly, without question. . ." I glance up at the clock on the wall noting that it's already after 10 pm. "So by my estimation, you should already be in or getting in now. How's the NY skyline tonight?" "I wouldn't know. I'm still sitting in the airport." "Your flight was cancelled?" I remark with surprise. I couldn't get that lucky, could I? "No, nothing like that." "Michael, I'm not sure I understand...Are you all right? You sound...a little funny." "I'm fine. I'll explain when I see you--meet me for coffee?" "Just tell me where." "Starbuck's. That little table Nick always saves for us in the back. Just give me a head start." "Let me come pick you up." "No, I'll grab a cab. You sure you're awake enough to drive?" "Yeah," I sigh more wearily than I intend. "You don't sound like it. You know what, stay put and I'll just get a cab home." "No, don't argue with me, Anzotti--Wherever you are, I'm there." With a light rain falling on this week night, business is a little slow. I'm bored and could think of much better ways to occupy my time like hanging with my girl or even doing (gasp)homework. But I need this job to help pay for school which I'm committed to. I have to be; I won't let my mother or big brother down. And that gets me thinking of my "brother." He's not blood but he was there for me in every sense of the word when I needed him a few years back. Then, he'd just moved from Chicago and had the house two doors down from my mom and me. I don't even remember how we met but he was friendly and cool and let me hang with him on his boat on his days off while I was doing nothing with my life since I'd graduated high school. When I ended up getting mixed up in some heavy enough shit and the cops were ready to nail me to the wall, he came to me and my mother's aid, got the charges dropped and my file destroyed. Said he knew what it was like to fuck up young and then get a second chance. That second chance saved him--he'd become an FBI agent, not to mention married one. He gave me my second chance. Even gave me money toward school to get my life together. He was always there when I needed to talk or get my head screwed on straight. I owe him so much that I can never repay, and I'm very glad he's still a part of my life. Though I hadn't seen him since his wedding, he and his wife come into this Starbuck's all the time mainly to see me, I think. We even see each other quite often outside this place as we go to dinner together every few weeks. They, their relationship, and their success inspire me to achieve all that I can. As it happens, the man who is my role model, my mentor, strolls into the store carrying, strangely enough, a bag of luggage and I must rib him for it. He'll even expect it of me. "Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. What's in the bag, Mikey? Dana finally got smart and told you to get out?" "Shut it, Nicholas, or I'll arrest you for being one very unfunny dude though if I didn't know better I'd say you wanted Dana for yourself." "What's not to want? A hot chick with a big gun." "Down, boy." "Where is the wife?" "She's on her way. How's your 'Mrs?'" he smirks. "Mike, please, I'm only 21." "Yeah, Nicholas, but lest you forget I've seen you with Kelly. You're a goner if ever there was one. And believe me, I know a little something about it." "I'll attest to that," I smirk back. The guy is hopeless where his wife is concerned. "Gee, thanks. Are you gonna get me some coffee or what, kid?" he grumbles jokingly. "For you, absolutely...Will it be the usual?" "Yeah, and for Dana, that nonfat mocha...majigy thingie--" "Nonfat mocha cream latte, Mike. When are you gonna get it right? She drinks that all the time." "Smart aleck, piece of--" he starts to say but stops, leaving me to fill in the blanks. "Didn't I teach you better?" he questions, digging in his wallet and flinging a $20 bill at me. "Always," I assure him and fling the money back. The least I can do is treat these very special people to some coffee. "Now, why don't you go sit down and I'll bring it out to you when Dana arrives." He smiles in response to my suggestion. "I did teach you well, Nicholas," he remarks and smiles again with satisfaction. He begins the walk to their table in the back and then turns to me with a request. "Hey, and give Dana one of those powdered, chocolate cream-filled donuts. She loves those." "For your lady, whatever you want." Despite being more sleepy than I would ever admit to Michael, I quickly freshened up, changed into leggings and an old FBI T-shirt, and hightailed it over to Starbuck's. Even ran a red light just to get there a little faster. I don't know what it was but I was anxious to see him, like a young girl rushing to see her new beau or like we'd been separated from each other for awhile. At a loss to explain my reaction, I chalked it up to hormones or the fact that Michael's leaving bothered me more than I admitted to him or to myself. When I arrive and don't see Michael at our table, my stomach falls and my question to our dear young friend tending the store spills out of my mouth in a rush. "Nick, is he here?" God, I sound desperate. And though I hadn't had the decency to greet him properly, he's as sweet as ever. In his wisenheimer way. "Relax, Dana, he's in the restroom. I told the bum you finally wised up and told him to get out." Yeah, that'll be the day. "Sorry, Nicky. I like that bum a whole lot. I think I'll keep him around awhile." "I can't say I'm surprised. A little disappointed maybe but not at all surprised. Just take a seat and relax and I'll bring you out some coffee." "Thanks, Nick," I coo with relief and take my seat, my eyes plastered upon the men's bathroom door nearby. When he exits, I automatically spring to my feet and toward him. "Hey, you," I greet him with extreme pleasure in my voice, throwing myself into his arms. Then, I'm up on my tiptoes covering his face in my kisses. I can't seem to help myself. When I finally give him a second to breathe, he's a little concerned. "Baby--You all right?" "Yeah, just very happy to see you is all." "I know the feeling. Come sit down with me," he says and grabs my hand, steering me to our table and pulling out my chair. A mild frown crosses his face for a reason I can't discern. Then he shouts out to Nick, successfully busting his chops. "Hey, Nicholas! Coffee! Now!" "I'm on it, bud," the poor kid responds. No more than 20 seconds later, I've got my favorite donut and cup of Starbuck's coffee in front of me though I don't touch either one. As much as I love this heavenly brew and this scrumptious donut, I can't tear my attention away from my husband. "So," I say, looking at him longingly. "So," he returns smiling lightly at me. "So...here we are...Here we are when you were supposed to be on your way to NY." "Good observation, agent." "But the question is, why?" "Why indeed? That is the question," he smirks. I wait for a moment, thinking he'll quit having fun wih me and elaborate. But I'm wrong and have to ask again. "So?" "So, what?" he smirks again. "Are you going to tell me or be a wise ass all night?" I smirk back. "C'mon, Dana, you know you love my wise ass. Or is it just my ass you love? That's it, isn't it? You have to admit it's a very nice ass." "As I just told Nick, I'm very fond of your ass," I confirm, grinning. "Now, spill it." He reaches down to his bag of luggage on the floor and pulls out a pack of cigarettes which he holds out to me. "Do you remember the last time I bought these?" There's a question on my face until the answer suddenly starts to dawn on me, my question then replaced by a knowing smile and a warm feeling all over. "Yeah, I do. Vividly." "Well, I bought this pack tonight for the same reason I did then. Because I was tense and nervous and also feeling guilty about how I left things with you. But when I lit the cigarette tonight and took a drag, it was like déjà vu. . . I had this vision." "You had a vision?" I ask incredulously. "Yeah, I did. A vision of you actually. From that little motel room in Baltimore." "Are you serious?" "Absolutely. Dana, when you came out of the bathroom that time, your red hair contrasted against the green satin of your robe...I just...I was just bowled over. You were a vision to me then, a dream come true that you were finally giving yourself to me...And tonight, I don't know why but that feeling that I had--it all came back to me instantly when I started to smoke that cigarette. What you said to me about leaving finally sank in, and I couldn't get on that plane; I couldn't leave you...Dana, you're still a vision. Still my dream come true." My heart breaks a little. "You know, Michael...sometimes, the things you say--" "The things I say what?" "Quit interrupting and I'll tell you," I instruct, my eyebrow arching. "The things you say to me...take my breath away." "Ditto," he interrupts again. This time I ignore him, continuing my train of thought. "And I can't believe we're here. I can't believe that I was lucky enough to find you and have you in my life, have what we are. And then sometimes I sit back and wonder what really attracted you to me. I mean, look at you. . . And I'm so far from your type it's not funny." "You're wrong--you're exactly my type." "You're kidding me, right?" "Not at all. Just who do you think my type is?" "Oh, I don't know...some gorgeous blonde or brunette with legs to her neck. I mean, look at Angela." "Dana, you should look in the mirror and see what I see, what everyone else sees, see how beautiful you are. Inside and out. Angela was just a pretty package, a distraction. Nothing more." "Michael, tell me what your eyes see in me." "Everything. Everything light, beautiful, brilliant, right and good. Then there's this darker side that's sexy, sexual, stubborn, unpredictable. And it's everything. Everything I could ever want." "How is it that you seemed to know exactly what you wanted all along even though we had only met a few times before?" "This is going to sound cliché, Dana, but I swear I knew the first time we met. Do you remember that day?...It was raining out like it was when we got married. We were down in the basement office and when Mulder introduced us, you gave me this firm, assured handshake that immediately caught my attention. You stood in front of me, shaking my hand and asking me some question I can't even remember, and I was just kind of dumbstruck. You smiled at me and I mean really smiled and joked around about yourself. Then you asked about me and there was no awkwardness or feigned interest on your part. I was just so impressed Then the three of us went downstairs to the cafeteria to grab some lunch; and as we sat there, I couldn't keep my eyes off you. I clearly remember you were wearing a wine colored suit with stockings and heels, and I don't know what it was but you seemed to be glowing. That color . . . that color looked really good on you. And you smelled sweet. I don't know if it was your hair--which was a little longer than it is now--but you smelled sweet like peaches or strawberries. Your lips, your full, perfect lips had on just the right amount of lipstick...It was all that but then . . . Then Mulder started in on you, good naturedly, about some weird theory on a case and when you opened your mouth and I heard what came out, I was knocked flat on my ass. I swear I was a goner. You were so cool, calm and collected in the face of Mulder's intimidation. Intellectually, you matched him point for point. . . stood up to him, put him in his place. And I thought it was just so amazing. You were amazing." I'm overwhelmed, flabbergasted even. "Michael," I murmur shaking my head. "I had no idea." "No, no you didn't. I had it bad from the get-go." "You know something, I did you a big disservice and I apologize." "How do you mean?" "When I asked you to tell me what you saw in me, what it was that drew you to me, I expected a typically male, flip answer. You know, something like, 'nice breasts, a nice ass, a pretty face.' And I don't have the faintest idea why I expected that from you of all people. You've shown me over and over how very special you are, how you, yourself, are the amazing one. What you told me was touching, sensitive, honest, and revealing. Thank you. Thank you for sharing that with me." "You're welcome. Now, what do I get for being so...wonderful?" he says, rolling his eyes and leering at the same time. My eyebrow shoots up, considering. "I don't know. What do you want?" His simple answer comes without a moment's hesitation. Even after all this time. "You." A devilish grin paints my face. "I know that can be arranged. Let's blow this place," I say uncharacteristically and we both grin widely, thinking of something else we'd both like me to blow. We shoot out of our seats, very eager to be on our way, Michael calling out to Nick. "Nicholas, we're outta here. Be good, man." "Have fun, kids," he yells out to us, smirking. Oh, we will, Nicky. You can count on it. Friday Following a long, frustrating autopsy at the end of the day, I returned home to an empty house, which I expected being as late as I was. Michael had already left for Frederick to pick Mike up as the little one was staying with us over night and we were having the Piazza's boy next door come over to visit for a bit. The Piazza's were due to bring their son over any minute so I rushed around like a maniac to shower and make myself presentable. So, of course, when the bell rang I was expecting Anthony or Maria Piazza at the door with their son, Tommy. But a real familiar voice greets me instead. A voice I've heard in my ears almost everyday for the last eight years. "Hey, Scully." It's a sheepish Mulder leaning up against the side of the house looking a tad uncomfortable. "Mulder--" I say surprised as he's never ventured here before. And I guess it's apparent on my face. "You're surprised to see me, huh?" "A little...What's up?" I ask, stepping outside and pulling the door nearly all the way closed behind me, my arms crossed over my chest. "May I come in at least?" "I'm not sure that's such a good idea." "Why's that?" "Michael will be back soon." That's all I need. More male posturing and testosterone flying. Mulder's been good for a long time but with all this stuff going on with Michael, he's already stuck his two cents in one too many times. "Just for a few minutes. Please," he practically begs with those puppy dog eyes. "He won't even know I was here." "Make it fast," I relent and swing the door open, Mulder falling in behind me. His appraising eyes whirl around the living room and he's unable to refrain from commenting. "Nice place you got here, Scully." He steps to an end table adorned with two of my wedding pictures, examining them. "You made a beautiful bride. Too bad it was for the wrong man." "Mulder--" "Who's the cute kid?" he quickly cuts me off, picking up the picture of Joseph, Michael and I. "Michael's nephew," I respond just as quickly with a lie, snatching the picture from his hand and placing it back in its rightful place on the end table. No one including Gina, the closest person to Michael besides me, knows the truth about Joseph and no one else needs to know. Mulder continues his appraisal of my home, now examining the pictures along the mantle of the fireplace. When he's satisfied, he turns back toward me. "Nice place...Homey." And I grow impatient for him to get to the point of his visit. "You already said that. What brings you by, Mulder? I'm sure it wasn't to comment on the décor." "Scully, I wanted to . . ." he states carefully, "appeal to your sense of reason." "Regarding?" This should be good. "Mike," he says without preamble. Oh, for the love of Pete! I knew Mulder couldn't stay out of it. "I'm afraid I don't understand," I lie again, making him spell it out for me and hoping he'll embarrass himself. "Do you have any idea of what you've gotten yourself into?" "What I've gotten myself into?" I question slowly. "No, Mulder. Why don't you explain it to me." "Mike. Mike's family. They're mixed up into some heavy shit. Organized crime, Scully." Like I don't know this. "Mulder, if this is the reason you came by, then I want you to leave," I sigh with impatience and turn for the front door. Mulder follows behind, the two of us facing one another at the door in a near stand off. Even with my obvious unwillingness to discuss this, he continues on. "Would your mother approve if she knew?" "I don't live for my mother's approval. Or anyone else's for that matter," I tell him pointedly, holding the door open. He pulls the door from my grasp and pushes it closed with his hand, staring down intently at me. "Did you know your husband was arrested for dealing drugs?" "Jesus, Mulder, you're something else, do you know that?!" I react immediately, upset and dismayed with his audacity. "He sold drugs, Scully! Probably to kids!" "He was a kid himself for crying out loud!" "He was 17. Hardly a kid. They could have charged him as an adult but the charges conveniently disappeared. I wonder why." "I'm not going to listen to this," I declare, shaking my head. "That was over 15 years ago." "He lied, Scully. He lied to get into the Bureau," Mulder insists. "He never lied to me," I argue. "You knew all along then? You knew and didn't say anything? Then you're both liars! I can't believe you, Scully!" he cries. Me ? He can't believe me ? Oh, Mulder is in rare form all right. Apparently, it was perfectly fine to lie for him. I'll be damned if it wasn't practically expected of me at times but I wasn't supposed to keep a confidence of my husband's, the man I pledged myself to? Is that truly how he sees things? It seems to be and I can barely contain my intense anger because of it. "You know, I seem to recall a time that I lied to cover your ass and went to prison for it. And I barely rated a nod of thanks. That was okay though, wasn't it, Mulder? That was okay as long as it was for you because you think that everything revolves around you." "That's not true and you know it," Mulder shouts like a petulant child. "Mulder, I refuse to listen to this anymore," I say walking away from him but he continues to hound me. "Scully--" I quickly stop in my tracks and turn around, throwing my hands up in surrender. "I knew, Mulder! I knew he sold drugs! I knew his family was involved with the mob! I knew he lied to get into the Bureau!...What do you want from me?!" "So, because he shared these things with you that makes it okay, Scully? What else has he lied about? What has he lied to you about?" "Mulder, just drop this now. I don't appreciate you coming into this house and accusing--" "When was it too late?" "Too late for what?" I ask, confused at the abrupt change in direction of the conversation. "For you and me? When was it too late for us?" he clarifies. I sigh with weariness. "Mulder, let's not do this." "No, I want to know," he insists. "I really think you should go," I strongly suggest. I try to move back toward the door but his hand clamps down on my arm hard, turning me around and pulling me to him. His voice is harsh and angry. "I'm not going anywhere! You know, I've stood by all this time and held my tongue while you dated him, while you were engaged, when you married him--" "Let go of me!" I roar, struggling in his grasp. Oh, he had held his tongue all right. Although Michael and I had married quickly, I had told Mulder of our plans beforehand, had hoped for his "blessing." That was asking a lot, I know, but he hadn't offered anything but a blank stare. No well wishes, no hopes for happiness. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Typical of most of our emotional conversations. Again, his voice is angry. Dangerous. Out of control in a way I never heard before. Then his tirade begins. "What was it, Scully?! Huh?! The fact that he married you?...You never seemed to give a shit about any of that. What the hell could it have been? Was it the sex, Scully?!...Does the young stud give it to you hard all night long?!...Is that it?! . . . Is that the way you like it?! God knows you and I were both hard up but I could've fucked you good, too!!" In response, my hand reaches out and slaps him hard across the side of his face. "How dare you! How dare you come into this house and talk to me like that, you bastard! You have no idea what the hell you're talking about!" After our heated confrontation, we both stand around breathing heavily and gaping at one another. Then Mulder's hand reaches to his face, holding it. "I deserved that," he murmurs ashamedly. "Yes, you did," I agree, feeling only mild regret. And he did. When the bell rings again, I'm figuring it must finally be the Piazza's and therefore hoping that Mulder will hit the road. Instead, there's am incredibly good-looking fifty-something year-old man standing on my doorstep to greet me. "Hi--You must be Dana." Though he looks familiar, I can't really place him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't seem to recall. Have we met?" "No, I'm sorry, Dana...I'm Mike's father, Joseph Anzotti. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Now, it's my turn to be surprised, my mouth nearly dropping open. ". . . Mr. Anzotti--I'm . . . It's good to meet you, too," I say, joining him outside on the steps and putting my hand out. He shakes it with just the right amount of pressure, firm but gentle, just like Michael's touch. I struggle for something to say. "What...What are you doing here?" "Came to see Mike and meet you, of course. You're as lovely as I've heard." Gina, no doubt, had told him plenty. My cheeks grow warm with the compliment. "Thank you." "Is my son home?" "I'm afraid not." "Do you know when he will be? Maybe I can come back then--I'd like to talk to him." "I'm not really sure it's a good time, Mr. Anzotti." That's the truth in more ways than one. "Please call me Joe...It'll never be a good time, Dana." "No, probably not, Mr.--Joe," I smile, remembering, "but we're expecting company tonight . . . How long will you be here in Maryland?" "Only a couple of days. That's why it's imperative that I talk to him as soon as possible." "I'll tell him. Just give me a chance to make him aware that you're here--your presence is going to catch him off guard, and I'm not sure that's a good idea right now." "I understand but, again, it's very important." Just then, Michael's truck turns into the driveway and I feel all the blood drain from my face. Mr. Anzotti seems to notice. "Dana, is something wrong?" Um, something? How about everything ? Let's see. Mulder's in the living room. And worse yet, Michael's estranged mobster father shows up on our doorstep out of the blue. What could possibly be wrong? I scramble around in my mind for something to do or say. Maybe I can convince him to leave before Michael sees him. "Listen, Joe, why don't you get going and I'll--" "Get going?" he questions, confused. "But Mike's home." Yes. He. Is. Carrying little Mike in his arms, I watch him make his way up the driveway, oblivious to the turmoil that is surely awaiting him. When he nears the walkway and we catch sight of each other, he winks and smiles at me. But then that happy, content look on his face is replaced with a seething anger when he joins me on the stoop and gets a look at our visitor. In response, he does his best to shield Mike from his father's view. I eye Michael with worry but the only thing he does is hand Mike over to me. "Dana, please take him inside." Despite my husband's request, I make no attempt to move, apprehensive as I am about leaving father and son alone. Uncertainty floods my face as I look at him. "It's all right, Dana. Really. Just take him inside for me." "Are you sure about this?" I whisper. "Positive," he assures me with a chaste kiss and a playful ruffling of Mike's hair. With reluctance, I do as he asks, passing through the living room and by Mulder without a word. In the other room, I sit Mike in front of the TV and pop a "Blue's Clues" tape into the VCR to keep him occupied while I attempt to get rid of Mulder and play peacemaker if need be. Unfortunately, Mulder's settled comfortably into the couch and doesn't look like he's planning on leaving any time soon. So, I prod him a little. "Mulder, why don't you get going. Now. Out the back." "And miss the show," he grins, referring to the Joe and Michael show right outside the door. "Why would I want to do that?" God, could Mulder be any more cruel? "Because I asked you to," I say simply. "Scully . . ." "Mulder, please." I'm practically begging. And still he denies me. "Scully, I can't just leave here and forget about this." Oh, but he can. Because there's nothing for him to be concerned about and it's most certainly none of his business. No matter what he thinks, I'm safe-- I'm home and I'm with my husband. That being the case, I stalk over to the door and shut it unceremoniously. Now, neither one of us will overhear Michael and Joe's conversation, or "the show" as Mulder put it. For once, my father is transparent, his face, his feelings readable. Awed reverence paints his face upon seeing me again, his words spilling forth nervously and awkwardly. Which is, again, very unlike him. "Mike--you...you look wonderful." But his obvious nervousness does nothing to soften the hard glare I fix him with. Or the hardness in my voice. "What do you want?" Age hasn't been as kind to him as it could have been though he still looks pretty good. I suppose the killing, all the crimes he's perpetrated over the years take their toll on the psyche as well as the body after awhile. He shrugs off my harshness, attempting another tactic to draw me in. "What's the little boy's name?" he asks referring to Mike. "It's none of your concern. What do you want?" "Son, I needed to--" "Son? What's this son stuff? You have the nerve to call me that when I haven't seen or heard from you since my graduation from the Academy, was it? . . ." It's true. And though my mother would never have admitted it, I know she had a hell of a time getting him to go; he wasn't all that gung ho about celebrating my being an FBI agent. And why would he? His son was now the enemy. A traitor. That's exactly what he called me to my face in our last shouting match. "What the hell are you doing here? You haven't given a damn about me for nearly fifteen years." "Mike--I needed to talk with you. Somehow try to make things right between us again." "That's not possible." "We have to try." "The only thing that will make things right is for you to get out of my sight and off my property." "Michael, please--give me a chance to--" "To what? Apologize? How do you apologize for fifteen years of abandonment or for being a ruthless killer?...Huh, Joe?" He bristles at my calling him by his first name, not the fact that I also called him a killer. "Don't call me that." "It's your name, isn't it?" "I'm your father. Show me some respect." "'My father.' That's a good one. You don't even have an inkling of what being a real father entails. You're nothing to me. Just like that bastard son of yours." "You don't mean that." "Oh, I do, Joe. Don't kid yourself. You and Sal are finally going to get what's coming to you and I, for one, couldn't be happier." "Mike, I'm sure once you calm down and think it through, you can find it in you to give me another chance." I laugh. "You really don't know me at all, do you?" "Leave Dana out of this. Just get off my property, stay away from me and stay the hell away from my wife. You got me, Joe?" I snarl and turn my back on him, entering the house. Through the screen, I stare at him and enjoy the look of dismay on his face when I finally close the door on him. Just as he had done to me so many years ago. If seeing my father again after all these years wasn't enough, Mulder's presence at this juncture was just about more than I could bear. Upon shutting my father out, I turn around to find him sitting on my couch with Mike comfortably on his knee. Anger and jealousy surge within me at the sight and just as a pained, worried Dana goes to retrieve our boy, I pull him away from Mulder instead, unable to keep from muttering aloud. "Boy, this night just keeps getting better and better." Mistrust and disdain shine in my eyes at Mulder who's most likely undermining me in my own house. "So, Mulder. What the hell brings you by? As if I didn't know." "I just needed to talk to Scully." "And, of course, it couldn't wait until Monday." "No, it couldn't." "Is it about a case?" "It's not important," Dana cuts in. "Mulder was just leaving, weren't you, Mulder?" Dana suggests, attempting to squire him out. He makes no attempt to move, however. "Yeah, it's a case we're working on. I had some pressing questions." "Oh--oh really. Well, I'm all ears. Why don't you tell me what it's all about? Maybe I can help." "That's all right--we've got it under control." "Oh, c'mon, Mulder. I was a good agent. You told me so yourself once. What's it all about? Who's the suspect?" "Uh," he stammers uncharacteristically. "A guy named Escobar...Right, Scully?" he prompts my wife. "I'm afraid I don't recall, Mulder," Dana shrugs, not going along with his obvious lie. If I had any lingering doubts about where her loyalties lie, what she has just done would dispel those in a heartbeat. Moments pass uncomfortably as Dana and I stare Mulder down until I deposit Mike in Dana's arms to pull Mulder aside and out of earshot. "You know, you've got some fucking nerve coming into my home and speaking ill of me to Dana though I'm surprised it's taken you this long. . . I bet you've been biding your time, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to crucify me in her eyes." "That's not what I was doing, Mike," he argues. "Save it," I order. Despite my anger, I try reasoning with him calmly, hoping he'll admit his deceit. "Mulder, I'm the last person you need to save Dana from. I know she's your partner but you've got to let her go...in every other sense...She made her choice and you've got to accept it; you've got to let go. For all our sakes." He shakes his head, not owning up to anything. "You've got it wrong--" My calm rationale flies out the window. "Get out, Mulder," I insist, stalking to the door and flinging it open with a flick of my wrist. "Mike--" Is he deaf? I can't make myself any clearer. "Get out, Mulder!" "Mike--" "GET. OUT," I command with finality. Without another word, another lie, he finally does as I've "asked." Despite the unpleasant surprises that had popped up, our evening went on as planned; Tommy Piazza and Mike had a great time, the four of us playing games, watching a movie and eating pizza until Tommy's mother came to fetch him at around 10 pm. Michael and I had barely said two words to each other much of the night though I wasn't sure if it was because he was angry with me or the situation hadn't necessitated it. But make no mistake about it. He was angry. Or had been. Not that I could blame him all that much. Having the father he hated appear out of nowhere was bad enough but seeing Mulder in his house with Mike perched comfortably in Mulder's lap had been too much. And I had let the latter happen on purpose--Mike had wanted to stay with me when I went to check in on him so the two of us had joined Mulder in the living room. Curious with the presence of a new person, Mike had wandered over to Mulder with Mulder responding positively, giving Mike the attention he sought. I had hoped maybe a precocious four year old child might finally be the thing to drive Mulder away but my hopes had kind of blown up in my face when Michael returned suddenly. With Joe and Mulder gone, Michael's mood had improved as the night had wore on. I knew if I gave him a little time he'd get over my mistake and we'd discuss the important stuff; Mulder was the least of our problems. And we had discussed these things once my mother had made a late surprise visit and offered to take the boys out for ice cream. The short reprieve was a chance to talk about Michael's father, see how he was really doing with it all and learn, understandably, that his feelings about his father hadn't changed despite the dire circumstances facing the man. Michael's wounds were bloody and deep and no band-aided words of his father's were going to fix anything. While I cleaned up from Mike and Tommy's mess, Michael was upstairs putting Mike to bed. Truth be told, Michael was reading him a story but if Mike was true to form, he would fall asleep way before the end. When nearly a half hour had passed and Michael had still not returned, I wandered up the stairs to the extra bedroom and found him lying down on the bed beside Mike, just watching him sleep. The book Michael had been reading to him was long forgotten, lying closed on the night table. Quietly, I hover inside the doorway, my heart swelling at the sight before me. I'm reluctant to disturb them until I catch Michael's eye and he smiles. "He's asleep again?" I whisper. "Yeah, fast," he states in the same hushed tone as mine and then gingerly rises from the bed to avoid rousing Mike. He covers Mike with the blanket and then clicks off the bedside lamp. "Did you get to finish it this time?" I ask low as he joins me in the doorway. "No, the little stinker fell asleep right before the end again. You know as many times and I've read him "The Velveteen Rabbit" I don't think he knows how it ends." "And you know what? I don't think he cares as long as you're the one reading it to him," I tell him and punctuate it by trailing my fingernails down his forearm to his hand and squeezing it. The contact between us feels electric. He takes hold of my hand and brings it to his lips for a tender kiss. In response to what I've told him, he offers something between a smile and a frown, what's going on with his father and the FBI clearly shaking his confidence. His belief in himself. "I'd like to think that I'm a good, strong male role model for him but--" "But nothing. You are . You know you are. I know you are," I tell him with conviction, his eyes anchored to mine. "Don't let them make you think otherwise. That's what they want. That's how they win." "They've already won," he laments. "No, Michael, don't say that. It's going to work out and we're going to get through this. You'll see," I aver with my eyes, face and body as well as my words. He pulls me into his embrace, his breath hot on my neck causing chills. "Oh, Dana, I'd like to believe that. I really would. And when I see that fire in those beautiful blue eyes of yours, I do. I really do." After holding each other a little longer, our attention reverts back to a sleeping Mike. It feels wonderful to have him so close, to have him as a part of our family. We steal a few more glances at him until finally stepping out of the doorway, my hand perched on the doorknob to pull the door shut. "You closing the door?" Michael questions. "Yeah, why?" "What if...what if he needs something?" he asks, sounding nervous. The fact that this is the first time Mike's spent the night with us might have a little something to do with it. "We'll be right in the next room. He'll be fine. I promise...C'mon," I coax, pulling him along with me toward our bedroom. "Baby, what are you doing?" "Just follow me," I instruct, still tugging him along. "I have plans for you." "What kind of plans?" We stumble through the doorway of our room a little off balance, my slighter weight pushing firmly against his mildly resistant, solid form. Then we stumble to the bed, Michael helplessly falling atop it with me pushing him down hard. "You know, besides being incredibly hot and smart and funny, do you know you talk too much?" "Well, what do you want to do instead?" he asks, gently cradling my face. "hmm?" I pretend with a wicked grin. "I can't think of a thing." I start to quickly undo the buttons of his shirt. After a few moments of frustration in my haste, I abandon that and crush my lips to his as my hand slides down to caress the bulge in his pants. Rock hard doesn't even begin to cover it. He groans his pleasure into my mouth, kissing me with as much passion. Still he protests, albeit weakly, even as his hands possessively cup the cheeks of my ass and travel the length of my body to my breasts. "But Mike's right next door." "I'll keep it down," I breathe, my breath coming in little pants as I continue my assault on his mouth, neck and ear while grinding my lower body against his. It's funny. I was never a loud or demonstrative lover until now. Until Michael. I was always afraid to reveal too much of myself, too much of my feelings. Afraid to relinquish too much control to my lover. But, again, everything had changed with his presence in my life. And I loved what the sounds I made did to him. Turned him on even more if that was possible. Now, he furiously tugs at my clothing, and I, again, at his. When we're skin against glorious skin, my pace deliberately slows a bit as I make love to him with every bit of myself--eyes, lips, tongue, teeth, hands as well as the more obvious parts. Again, it was slower than it's been of late but lasting. Michael was so virile he could last as long as I needed him to, as long as I needed to show him exactly how I felt and what I thought. He knew, of course, but he was a little fragile and now was the time for reminders and reassurances. I wanted him to feel every single stroke, thought, and thrust, every murmuring, moan and groan of mine into his very soul. Our lovemaking was physical and mental, driving us both out of our minds with pleasure. How Mike didn't awaken from the sounds we made or the headboard of the bed continuously crashing into the wall was a wonder. The feeling was so indescribable and so tremendously satisfying. It was a feeling I'd never achieved with any other lover so much so that I didn't know where he ended and I began. A post coital glow settles over me. My brain is fuzzy and my body is warm and humming all over. "You okay?" Michael asks, stroking my hair softly. "Yeah. Lying here in your arms, I'm perfect." I feel his left hand smooth up my thigh to my hip and pull it to my lips for a kiss. I then hold my small hand up to his noting that it's nearly twice the size. Yet, we are so perfect together. In every way. I tuck his hand in mine, holding it close. "Hey, that was...phenomenal. I mean, it always is but that was even more so if possible . . . Is everything all right? Did something happen tonight that you're not telling me?" "No. Can't I just show my husband how much he means to me without there being a reason?" "By all means. You showed it. Nine ways to Sunday. And I thank you." "Don't thank me, Michael Joseph Anzotti," I admonish. "Uh oh." "Uh oh, what?" "It must be serious. I can't remember the last time you called me that." "It is serious. Extremely so." "Tell me," he purrs in my ear, kissing the top of it. "It's just that I love you. I love you with all my heart." "I know you do. You show me everyday. Every night. Every time we make love." "I just want you to remember that no matter who your family is and what they're capable of . . . I know that's not who you are." "Too bad everyone else seems so convinced." "Because they don't know you. Not the way I do." I edge up on my forearm so that I can look at him and touch him. Tell him all that I see in him as he had done with me. "I know these hands. Their strength and gentleness," I tell him, caressing them. I touch my hand to his chest and head. "I know your beautiful, generous heart and your brilliant mind. And these lips," I murmur, stroking the tender skin of his mouth with my fingers. "Yeah, these perfect lips are mine," I proclaim, kissing him thoroughly, stirring both our arousal. My hand then slides down to his cock, more than ready and at attention. "Oh, and that. I definitely know that," I groan with desire, mauling his mouth with my lips, teeth and tongue and pumping his cock within my hand. "Easy--that's yours, too, you know," he groans. "Is that right?" I mewl. "And you want it. Right. Now ," he tells me forcefully, pushing me onto my back. "You know it, baby," I concur with a growl, throwing my legs onto his shoulders, ready for another round of lovemaking. He trails kisses and his touch down my inner thigh, his enormously talented mouth then latching onto my hot core. Oh, God! God, he knows me. I know him. It's all we need. Saturday An empty bed and the smell of coffee and bacon has me up and out of bed in a flash. I traipse down to the kitchen where Michael stands at the stove tending to the bacon slowly cooking. The kitchen table is already set perfectly for three and if all goes well, we'll have three place settings at the table for a long time to come. "Morning, beautiful." "Mornin'," I mumble, shuffling up behind him at the stove, wrapping my arm around his waist, and standing up on my tiptoes to kiss him. I reach around him for the pot of coffee, fix myself a cup and then turn to lean against a nearby counter, admiring him in only tight black jeans and socks. The thing of it is I never get tired of checking him out. Add to that the fact that there's nothing like a man in the kitchen. A hot, half naked man is even better. I sip at the coffee mug in my hands, still eyeing him. "So, Anzotti, you slacking off or what?" "Slacking off? How so--I'm fixing you breakfast. . . What'll be? Eggs or egg whites?" "Eggs, scrambled. With bacon." He makes a face because I'm going for all the coronary artery clogging food; the bacon he's cooking is most certainly for me, not him. Then it's back to addressing my accusation. "So, smartypants, explain to me how I'm slacking off." "Well, I can't recall you ever missing a Saturday morning run." "No, but I thought Mike would be up at the crack of dawn to watch cartoons or something and I didn't want to leave. Turns out he hasn't made a peep though. . . And what about you, missy? You've missed two Saturdays out of three." "True but there were extenuating circumstances both times. I assure you there won't be a third." My mind then wanders to something totally inconsequential as I continue to watch him. "Michael, speaking of cartoons, inquiring minds want to know what your favorite cartoon was when you were a kid." "Um," he says, thinking back for a moment. "Scooby-Doo, probably. . . I had a thing for red-heads even back then," he says with a sly smile and a wink. I smirk. "Yeah, well, just do me a favor and don't tell me I remind you of Velma." "But you do, actually," he says with that same mischievous face of his. "Gee, thanks," I grumble, shuffling to the table and taking my seat. I liked Scooby-Doo just fine but I always hated that Velma couldn't be both smart AND pretty. Neither could I it seemed. For as long as I could remember, I was always the brains of the family while Melissa was the beauty. He joins me at the table, sliding into the chair right beside me while the bacon continues to fry. "Yes, you remind me of Velma because you're brilliant like she was. But," he clarifies carefully, "you're as hot as Daphne ever was." That elicits a smile from me. "Nice save, Anzotti, but," I press him, my eyes narrowing in skepticism, "answer me this--Ginger or Maryann?" "Really?" I ask with surprise but really shouldn't. Despite how stunning he is, he's never been conceited about his looks or judged others by theirs. "Really," he confirms. I must say I'm delighted with his answers. "Did I ever tell you that you're an intriguing man, Michael?" I murmur, taking his hand and kissing it. He seems to notice something and inquires. "What's that?" "What's what?" I return, truly having no idea what he's talking about. "On your finger. Your ring finger." With my hand now clasped in his, I peer at my finger where my wedding ring usually is. It's not there today as I'd removed it yesterday afternoon to perform an autopsy and never got the chance to replace it being in such a hurry to get home with Mike coming over. "Oh, that...it's a tattoo," I reply with mild embarrassment--it was only meant for me, not for him or anyone else to see. But he's intrigued, of course. "A tattoo? A tattoo of what?" "It's nothing. It's just...something for me," I shrug at him plainly, pulling my hand free of his grasp. "Let me see," he insists, lightly grabbing it back and inspecting my finger. "It's beautiful," he says admiringly and when it dawns on him what the tattoo is, his voice and face are full of awe. "It's...it's my name--" "It is," I confirm. M I C H A E L is spelled around my finger in fancy Old English and contained in the bands of a ring that is also tattooed around my finger. It's usually not visible and sits hidden beneath my gold wedding band. That is, when I don't forget to replace it as I've done in this instance. The awe he displayed only moments ago is replaced with an air of conceit. "You know, you must love this guy an awful lot to get his name permanently tattooed on your flesh." I play it cool, joking. "Nah, he's just a guy." Our eyes then catch, all joking set aside, his voice serious. "Dana, I love it. When did you get it?" "It was," I think "your first trip away from me back in the field. After the OD. I got it then." "Why?" I shrug and shake my head. "I don't know if I can really explain it." "C'mon, D. You gotta give me something." "I guess it had to do with this feeling I had. Since I started performing autopsies over ten years ago, I'd always removed all my jewelry beforehand. It's always been a part of my preparation. Rings, necklaces, earrings--everything. After we got married, I found it...strange to remove my wedding ring...I'd feel guilty almost because I didn't want to remove it. But again, I'd always done so before. And a lot of times at the conclusion of a procedure, I don't have the time to put my jewelry back on...I found that it bothered me not to have your ring on my finger, a ring we exchanged as a symbol of our love. So, I decided to get a permanent one, one that reminds me I belong to you." "Why didn't you tell me?" "I don't know," I shrug again, not really sure. "I guess I didn't think it was important to anyone but myself." "Baby--it's beautiful and the idea behind it is even more beautiful. You know, D, I had your name tattooed here," he admits quietly, pulling my hand to his heart and looking at me, the love raw and naked in his eyes. "That was even before you finally agreed to go out with me after I asked you for the third time. . .How pathetic was I?" It's true, the part about him having my name tattooed on his heart. I know this, and he admitted as much that night at Starbuck's. Touched, I gently hold his face in my hand, smiling. "You were far from pathetic. Besides, the third time's the charm." He smiles at that bringing my hand to his mouth, kissing my fingers, and again admiring his name colorfully etched into my skin. "It is beautiful. . . Must've hurt like a bitch though." "You have no idea but I think you're worth it," I tell him with a wink and smile of my own. God, is he. No matter what the hell anyone else thinks. After spending Saturday afternoon at the ball game, we had to bring Mike back to the orphanage by early evening. Then Michael and I just spent the rest of the night enjoying each other's company and trying to put the events of the last week as well as our profound sadness at Mike having to leave out of our heads. But as it always did, reality intruded when Michael was ordered to report to OPR on Sunday. Even though he had, for all intents and purposes, quit, he had to show up if he had any hope of getting his job back. I offered to accompany him for moral support but he refused, wanting to keep me out of this as much as possible. So while Michael took care of business on Sunday morning, I ran errands and such. Upon my return home, I found Joe Anzotti sitting on the outside steps. Waiting. Waiting for Michael no doubt to ease his guilt and conscience though I was afraid there wasn't much chance of that at this particular time. "Hi, Joe--What can I do for you?" "It's nice to see you again." "You, too...Michael's not home," I tell him sadly. Despite all I know, all that Joe has purportedly done, I can't help feeling a little sorry for the man. "Joe, I don't mean to interrupt and I know you mean well but...I don't want to see Michael hurt any further. And I think that's all you're going to accomplish at this point. Just give him some time." "That's just the thing, Dana. I'm afraid there's not much time. At least not for me." "No, I suppose not," I murmur. "Dana, I don't know what you know about the Anzottis. Does Mike talk about the family?" "To an extent," is all I'll admit. "But you know who I am? What I do?...The things I've done?" he murmurs almost ashamedly. "Yes," I allow, trying to keep my face and voice as neutral as possible. "Yes, your son and I have talked about what's gone on because of how its affected him. How it's affected our relationship--Michael and I had our own run-in with Sal not all that long ago." "I heard about that. Salvatore was extremely foolish to butt into yours and Michael's personal affairs and I made it clear to him that that was not to happen ever again. I'm so sorry for the pain it caused you. And, Dana, you must how much I regret the way I've treated Mike...I've wrote him letters...I've been trying to make it up to him for over six months . . ." "I know but what you did affected him profoundly and what Sal did...what Sal did to him was...unimaginable . . ." "You're right. I'm ashamed for both Sal and myself." "Joe, I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. It's not my place. I'm just worried about my husband--you can understand that." "I do. And you weren't making me feel guilty. I do that well enough on my own." Not wanting to deal with his guilt, I steer the conversation toward its likely point. "So, what kind of time frame are we talking about here? What's your situation?" "I've made a deal with the cops and will be arrested upon my return to NY. I was given this chance, this one chance to make things right with my son in return for my cooperation and surrender. I have to be back in NY by this Friday." "I see. That doesn't leave much time..." "Dana, knowing what you know, are you wary of me?" "No, not really. It's just that I can't give you what you want; I can't grant you Michael's forgiveness. I wish I could...I wish I could for both your sakes." "But you can help. That's what I'm asking of you. I know how much he trusts and respects you. If anyone can reason with him, it's you." "Joe, I can't promise anything but I'll try and talk to him." "Do you think there is anything, anything at all I can do to change his mind and make it up to him?" "I'm sorry to say that I honestly don't know." It's a pretty negative statement but it's all I'm able to offer the man. While performing such a mundane chore like emptying the dishwasher, I ponder Joe and the situation he has placed Michael and I in. I had foolishly and naively hoped that maybe one day down the line Michael and his father could reconcile. As hopeless as that idea seemed, I guess I just wanted him to have even a smidgen of what I had with my father. I wanted him to experience what a positive, loving relationship with a father could be. If my father was still alive today, he would have given Michael that; he would have loved Michael as his own as my mother did. Unfortunately, this was never going to happen and more obviously to me now, it was never going to happen with Michael's father. The sound of squealing tires in the driveway followed by the slamming of a car door and the front door robs me of my thoughts. Michael's home. And from the sound of things, it had not gone well. I rush to the door but he's already gone, up the stairs and out of sight. Chasing after him, I find him standing before his dresser bureau removing his watch and then his suit jacket, which I rescue from a heap on the floor. "I'm almost afraid to ask," I sigh. "Don't," he grumbles, his frustrated hands now fumbling with the knot of his tie. I join his side, offering my help. "Here, let me," I say and deftly undo the knot, sliding the tie out from under his shirt and collar. "It was a waste of time just as we thought it would be." A statement, not a question. "Monumental. They asked me the same ridiculous questions as before and I gave them the exact same answers. Because we're blood, I'm just like my father, didn't you know?" "They're still harping on that ?" "Why should we expect otherwise? These are the people that can't decipher their assess from their elbows. They're looking for the easiest and quickest solution to their problem and if that means fucking me, then so be it. And to boot, I've gotta have Mulder up my ass." "I don't want you to worry about Mulder. This is none of his business and I made it abundantly clear to him how displeased I am with his interference. He won't do it again." "Doesn't that make things awkward for you? Dana, the last thing I need is to be worried that his anger with us or with me will affect his judgement, his ability to cover you." "No, he's a professional. You know that. And it's no more awkward than it's ever been...He'll get over it. I know he realizes he's wrong." "Mulder wrong? Since when?" he asks sarcastically, settling on the edge of the bed. "Since I told him so." I toss him a T-shirt from his dresser and join him on the bed. He looks so downtrodden I can't help running my fingers through his hair soothingly as a mother would her child. My voice is low and soothing as well when I broach my question. "Any idea how long their investigation is going to continue?" "Not a clue but I get the feeling it won't be over anytime soon. And I don't even give a shit anymore," he sighs dejectedly. "Yes, you do," I refute and undo the first few buttons of his dress shirt encouraging him to relax. "You love your job, you're an excellent agent, and all this...all this bullshit that is going on is going to work itself out. I know it and I want you to know it. I want you to believe it . . ." "I'm trying...I'm trying," he sighs, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth as I look upon him with the same. My smile falls away. "I have something to tell you." He notices. "And I'm not going to like it." "Probably not...I, uh,...I ran into your father." "What do you mean you ran into him?" "When I came home from the grocery store earlier, he was waiting on the stoop." "Damn him. I told him to stay away from here. Stay away from you. He didn't ask you to do something or threaten--" "No, nothing like that. He actually seems like a nice man. Very polite--" "Don't let him fool you, Dana. He's like that when he wants something from somebody and right now, he wants something from you. When he doesn't get what he wants, he's vicious. He'll chew you up and spit you out, get what he can from you and then throw you to the curb like a piece of garbage. He's a fucking vampire." "I have some experience with vampires," I joke, trying to lighten the mood. But Michael's all serious, my joke not having the desired effect. "What did he say to you?" "He just wanted to know if I could talk to you. Get you to understand his side and how much he wants to apologize if you'll let him...The NYPD will be taking him into custody as soon as he returns. That was the deal--he'd surrender as long as he got the chance to come here and see you. Try to salvage some part of your relationship. But now I know you don't want any part of that. Any part of him." "What, am I just supposed to forgive and forget everything that's gone on? For all I know, my father told Sal to take me out all those years ago. As punishment for the money Chris and I were skimming and my resistance. As coercion to become what he wanted me to become...what both my brothers have become." "God, Michael...that's unthinkable. You don't really believe that, do you?" "I don't know--all I'm certain of is that both Sal and my father are...evil. And I don't want any part of my father no matter what he's going through. He wants me to ease his conscience, and I won't do it. I can't do it. He'll go to his grave knowing that I still hate him. That I'll never forgive him. I'm sorry if that makes me an unforgiving bastard in your eyes," he says touching my hair and looking at me with sorrow and an uncertainty in his beautiful brown eyes. "God knows, I never want you to think badly of me but this is about more than me. It's about who he is, what he's done, the people he's hurt...killed. What kind of FBI agent would that make me if I could forgive those heinous things? Worse, what kind of human being would I be? Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" "I absolutely do, love," I tell him, embracing him. "Your feelings make you the man I fell in love with, the man I married who has always been the most amazing person in my eyes. Never forget that." For three days, nothing happened. Nothing with Michael's job nor with his father. Joe had asked me to contact him when I had some news but my two phone calls placed to his hotel room went unanswered. Leaving voice mail to the effect that Michael didn't want to EVER be bothered with him didn't seem right so I didn't. And since my suspension, the FBI hadn't questioned me or contacted me at all in regard to their investigation of Joe or Michael though I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Even Thursday started off calmly and innocently. Until the evening rolled around. I had left from work to meet Michael for dinner at Cesco's. Our old friend Guillermo, the maitre de, had showed me to the nicest available table out on the patio for this late summer night. As I waited for Michael, Guillermo and I chatted amicably while I sipped the drink he'd brought out to me upon my arrival. He was as charming and funny as ever and his presence, along with my drink, helped relax me a bit. That's a good thing considering Joe Anzotti's sudden appearance on the scene happens to startle me. He barely waits until Guillermo and I have finished talking before he interrupts. "Dana--excuse me. I'm sorry for intruding." Figuring that the only way Joe could've found me here was by following me was not something I wanted to think about too hard. "Joe--what are you doing here?" Guillermo notices my uncomfortable reaction and immediately strikes up a protective air. "I'm running out of time and hadn't heard from you. I apologize if my showing up here startled you." "No, no. It's all right." " Is it all right, Dana?" Guillermo interjects with concern. "It's fine, Guillermo. Please bring my friend a drink if you would," I ask , touching my hand to his arm to assure him. Guillermo begrudgingly leaves to fetch Joe a scotch. "Dana, may I sit down?" "Uh...yeah but I'm expecting Michael any minute." "I won't take too much of your time...I take it nothing's changed since the last time we spoke." "No--I'm sorry to say he's not too receptive to anything right now. He's aware of your situation but it doesn't seem to change anything for him. I don't think there's anything I can do at this point. Maybe in time--" "It's okay. I appreciate that you tried. . . You're a very special woman, Dana. Aside from what I already know about you, I can tell. I'm glad you came into his life. I know how much you mean to him, how you've saved him in so many ways." "No, Joe, your son has saved me countless times. Given me the love and understanding I thought impossible to achieve. He's an extraordinary man." "No thanks to me...My wife practically raised him by herself. She did a wonderful job." I nod, agreeing. "I wish I could've known her." "I do, too. She was, as you say, extraordinary; he's just like her." I raise my glass in a toast. "Then to Gabriela and Michael." He raises his glass as well. As we sip our drinks, my eyes fall upon a man moving towards us who looks suspiciously like Michael's brother, Sal. I blink a couple of times thinking--hoping--I'm imagining things but the man saunters right up to our table. "Well, isn't this cozy. My father with his perfect daughter-in-law. What a great moment. I'd take a picture if I had a camera. Unfortunately, the only thing I do have is this," he announces, holding up a 38 mm pistol. While I try to remain calm, Joe bursts to his feet, his voice nervous. "Salvatore, for God's sake, put that thing away!" "Oh, Dad, calm down, will ya? You're such a party pooper these days!" Sal finally turns his attention to me. "Red, how the hell are ya? It's been awhile." I regard him warily. "That it has, Sal." Thank goodness for small favors. He glances around the room before speaking again. "So, where's my little brother? Dana, I find it hard to believe that Mike dares leave you alone with people of our ilk." I laugh to myself at Sal referring to Michael as "little." There is nothing little about him, and though he is younger in years than Sal, Michael is big and broad, easily towering over him. Before I can reply, an angry Joe interrupts. "What in the hell are you doing here, Sal?" "Why, looking for you, Daddy Dearest. You took off on us just like that to run to your traitor son, and I don't get it. Kindly explain it to me." "Go home, Sal. This is a private get-together and I will not explain "Well, I'm inviting myself," Sal announces, proudly waving his gun around. "But this get-together won't be complete until Mikey shows. Where is the hubby, Red?" I lie, praying he'll just go away. "I don't know. Your father and I were having dinner alone." Sal maneuvers behind me, pointing the .38 squarely at my head. "Now, why do you want to go and lie to me?" My heart skips a few beats and I have trouble replying since I know "Dad, don't you get it? I don't take orders from you anymore. Not since you betrayed me. Not since Mike became favorite son. I mean you've talked of nothing else but him for the last six months like he's some sort of hero, and it's tried every one of my last nerves. It just makes me hate him more. It makes me want to hurt him. And I figure the best way to do that is by taking this little lady away." Sal then slowly, agonizingly draws the gun across my head to my temple and along to my mouth, neck and chest. Time seems to slow to an absolute crawl as he does this, and I think my heart may actually stop. The metal of the gun is shockingly cold to my heated skin, his intimidation having its intended effect though I try not to let it show. "Sal--I'm warning you--take that gun off Dana or you'll live to regret it. I promise you." As sweat beads upon my brow, I try to reason with my husband's deranged brother. "Sal, I'm a federal agent. You don't want to do this. Trust me on that...Just put the gun away and we'll forget that any of this ever happened." "I'm sorry but I can't do that. You see, you're what Mike values most in this world and it's because of him that all of a sudden I find myself the undesirable, useless son. He needs to suffer." "Hasn't he suffered enough at your hands?" I accuse, unable to help myself. By God, he almost killed Michael once. Wasn't that enough? And that's not even including how he nearly ruined our relationship and how I'd gotten beaten up because of him. "No, not nearly enough, little lady. That's where you come in." I point out the obvious. "Blaming Michael for your problems is ridiculous. Can't you see that?" Sal's voice rages with anger. "What I see is an ungrateful father taking up with the enemy who is my own brother. And I've done everything for the man. Everything. Everything he's asked of me for ten fucking years. Risked my own life more times than I can count to carry out his orders. I've made him who he is. Now, Mike's the perfect son with the perfect wife and I'm a fucking afterthought." "Sal, that's not the way it is--you're talking crazy. Give me the gun and we'll work this out." "There's nothing to work out, Dad. It's almost too late. Too late for you. We all know that. Is that what brought on this sudden guilty conscience of yours?...This sudden, desperate attempt to reconnect with Mike makes me sick!" he yells. Then Joe's patience seems to dissipate in a flash. "I don't give a damn what you think! Just put that fucking gun down now!" "Shut up, old man or I swear I'll shoot you, too," Sal snarls, now turning the gun on his father. When I finally arrived at Cesco's, Guillermo had immediately sought me out, worried about Dana and the 'strange' men she had met up with. His concern, of course, escalated mine to new heights. Even with all my troubles, I'd been worried about how all this crap with my family was affecting her and if she regretted ever getting involved with me because of it. After the last fiasco with my brother, I had promised her that we would have no further dealings with my family aside from my sister, Gina, and my niece and nephew. Though recent events had been out of my control, I hated that I had been unable to fulfill that promise. If I could help it, it would be the first and the last promise I failed to keep. Guillermo offers to call the police but I nix that idea knowing it will only make things ten times worse. Then he shows me though the kitchen where I can slip close to the scene without detection and get a handle on things. I usher him away and tell him to keep everyone else away. And God, when I spy my brother holding a gun on our father and then Dana, I'm beside myself with rage and fear. I mutter a string of obscenities to myself and watch the scene unfold a little to figure out what I should do. It's mostly Sal trading accusations with Joe, the gun he holds trained on him, then Dana and back again with Sal still standing behind Dana. If I was ever unsure my brother was a crazy fuck, I'd be convinced now. Without a weapon, my only choice is to sneak up on Sal and disarm him while the gun's pointed at Joe. If the gun should go off in our struggle and my father is hit, it would be . . . unfortunate, but I would never take that chance with Dana. If Sal so much as scratches her, I'll put him in the ground. Permanently. The worst part of it is I might actually enjoy it which worries me and worries Dana though she's never admitted as much. The last go around with him I had experienced the same disturbing feelings but they've been beyond my control. With the gun still aimed at Joe, I make my move as quickly and quietly as possible, the conversation droning on in my ears . . . "So what are you going to do, Sal? Shoot us right here in public? Even you're not that stupid." "Watch your smart mouth, Red. You and I are going to calmly walk out of here and go for a little ride. Just you and me. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?" "I'm not going anywhere with you," she tells him defiantly and I freeze. The anger and defiance she displays draws the gun back her way--exactly what I feared most. Luckily, Joe doesn't make the slightest move to indicate my presence when he sees me. "Are you sure about that? Because I think I have the power to change your mind," he taunts, waving the gun in her face. But Joe draws the gun back to him by taunting Sal. "Sal, God damn you! You touch Dana and I'll take you down with me. I promise you that. Son or no son." "I told you to shut up, old man!" Sal sneers with venom, the gun right where I want it now--pointed at Joe and as far away from Dana as possible. Simultaneously, I come up behind him and grab for control of the gun with my right hand while wrapping Sal in a tight head lock with my left. Once Sal is contained, Dana and Joe scramble out of harm's way. Sal struggles a bit but is ultimately no match for me. "Drop the gun, Sal," I order..."Drop the gun now or I'll snap your neck." God, it would be so easy to do. So...satisfying. So...just. Finally, Sal smartens up and lets the gun go, the piece falling to the cement patio with a loud clatter. Dana immediately retrieves the weapon, holding it on Sal for good measure. Even so, I don't ease my grip on his neck and he starts to wheeze and gasp a little for air. Admittedly, I love the sound of him gasping. Struggling. Helpless. "I should just snap your neck anyway," I tell him, close to his ear. Dana overhears me and reacts, crying out my name. There's a warning in her voice. A plea. I look to her stricken face, our gazes locking, my eyes telling her the truth: That I'm with her and that I'm okay. That I haven't gone completely over the edge and won't do anything stupid. I'm just trying to scare the living shit out of my brother. "You sure like pointing guns at people, don't you, Sal?" Squeeze. "If you wanted to shoot someone again, you should've pointed that gun at me." Squeeze. A little tighter. "By God, you've had enough practice. But if you ever, EVER, threaten my wife or come near her again, I'll rip your fucking heart out!" Squeeze. Yet tighter. "You get me?" Just enough for him to answer, I ease the pressure at his throat, but he doesn't reply. "Answer me!" I scream at him. "Yeah, I get you," he rasps. "Are you sure?!" "Yes! Now get the--" I increase my hold at his throat yet again. "Easy, Sal. Don't be disrespecting me," I mock. "Let's try it again. Are you sure?" "Yes." With that, I release him, shoving him hard towards Joe. "Good. Now get the fuck out of here. Both of you!" At that moment, Guillermo pokes his head in and I urge him forward with a wave of my hand. "Everything's fine, amico," I assure him, wrapping my arm around his shoulder briefly. "Please do me a favor and escort these...gentlemen out of your fine establishment." "Whatever you want. Don't worry about anything, figlio." Joe appears horrified that this is it. When Guillermo comes to escort them, Joe stalls, Guillermo leaving with just Sal instead. "I'll leave--I just need a minute. Mike--" "Just go," I tell him angrily. "Mike, I have to return to NY to surrender to the NYPD. This is not how I hoped things would end." "No, I guess not. . . I tell you what though," I propose, my mind whirling. ". . . You see to it that Sal never bothers us again, never comes near my wife again and I'll consider trying to work things out...I'll consider talking with you. That's the best I can offer." Whether a lie or not. "That's...really good. Thank you, Mike. That's more than I deserve I know." He approaches Dana to say his goodbyes, knowing enough not to approach me. "Dana, I'm so sorry about what happened here today but it was such a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for everything." She attempts a warm smile for him. "You're welcome. Take care of yourself, Joe." With Joe finally gone, I turn to find Dana looking pale and emotionally drained. Yet, she still grasps the gun in her right hand, white-knuckled. Reaching her, I gently pry it from her fingers, release the clip, and tuck the gun into the waistband of my Dockers. I lead her to a chair, having her sit, and then I kneel down before her. "You all right?" I ask with concern, cupping her face in my hands. "I'm fine," she sighs tiredly. Noticing a sheen to her face, I touch my hand to her forehead. "You're sweating. And trembling." "No, kidding," she laughs. "I was pretty worried there for a minute." Gently, I push away some of the hair from around her face. "I'm so sorry if Sal scared you, sweetheart." "Sal's some piece of work. . . But it's not really him or what he did here so much that scared me...it's what he can do to us. What he can do to you. He seems to have this extraordinary power over you and that scares me." "I hear what you're saying but not today and hopefully not ever again." I embrace her, holding her close. "Dana, I'll never let him hurt us again. I promise you. I would give my life to protect you. You know that by now, don't you?" I ask, looking into her eyes. "I do, baby," she smiles, caressing my cheek. "Just as I would for you." We kiss then slow and tender, conveying all the love and concern that we are feeling into the movement of our lips. She pulls away to speak. "You know," she says thoughtfully, licking her lips and tugging playfully at my collar, "that was quite a concession you made with your father." "It was...difficult but worth the price if it keeps you safe." "Did you mean what you told him?" I shrug. "I'm considering meaning it," I try and we both smile. "Now, I'll have no more talk of...those two whose names I dare not mention." "You've got yourself a deal, husband. What's next?...What do you want to do?" "I don't know...What about dinner? You could probably use some sustenance." "I'm afraid I've lost my appetite due to all the goings on." "All right then. How about . . ." I muse, "how about I take you home; run you a nice, hot bath; give you a massage; rub your feet. . ." Dana's eyebrow shoots to the sky, considering my generous offer. "Whatever you want. Let me pamper you. How does that sound?" "Mmm," she sighs with pleasure and contentment. "Sounds like heaven. But only if I have the pleasure of getting you naked and wet, too," she leers... Mmm. Heaven indeed. Heaven is this woman. This precious woman by my side. And this life. The life I've chosen compared to the life I could have chosen. Joe and Sal are an acute reminder of what heaven truly is. END Go onto
What I Want 6: Dance With Devils
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