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Title: The Blackthorn Tree III: Each Wish of My Heart Summary: What if you got back everything you'd ever lost? What if none of it was what you thought it was? The weirdest day of Scully's life continues. Disclaimer: Characters and situations belong to Chris Carter and Ten- Author's Note: You'll probably want to have read "The Blackthorn Tree II: Around the Dear Ruin" first; it'd be nice to have read "The Blackthorn Tree I: Believe Me". Both have been slightly revised. This one is dedicated to all the nice people I met at Pennsic, especially Heather Rose Jones and the other folks who took my class on Medieval Irish Poetry. Bless you! This story takes place after "Gethsemane" and was conceived before "Redux I" aired, so everything is still taking place in April or May, not November. And considering all the weird stuff I stuck in here, I don't think you'll be surprised to learn that I didn't feel it necessary to follow the Redux version of what was really going on - though I loved those eps, btw. Adjustments have been made here and there for new character information, however. As of this story, we start getting into some X-File territory again. I hope that the Melissketeers out there will be pleased; I haven't actually seen any Melissa eps except "Christmas Carol" and am working entirely by fanfic. When I finally saw the Lone Gunmen on _More Secrets of the X-Files_, I had to say, Frohike is not such a little troll as y'all have been telling me. "Unusual Suspects" and other LGM episodes I've seen have not altered that opinion. I like him, so I'm getting him a date. You Have Been Warned. Scathach's family information is courtesy of the Tain Bo Cuailnge and "The Death of Aife's Only Son". Even if what is in a song is false, it is a permanent falseness, not one that passes. All is false, after all: even riches, even a person, however well-satisfied. Neither gold nor horses will come more easily If the Art is rejected, people... The lays are preserved by us... Knowing history is no freedom. -- from "A theachtaire thig on Roimh", He sat down at the battered manual typewriter and rolled in one more sheet of typing paper. Not that erasable crap, of course. If you took your writing seriously, you had to set something down permanently and live with the mistakes. Or start all over again. He had made many mistakes in his life. When had they become irreparable? Was it as far back as the Bay of Pigs or the orphanage? Or had it been when he claimed his Samantha and left a little boy named Fox an only child? Did it matter? He sighed. Of course it mattered. It mattered to that boy, who had killed himself in despair after so many years of faith. It mattered to his partner, picking herself up again in her practical way and going on, since she would see Mulder again so soon. And it mattered to him. He began typing again, carefully heading each page with the story's name and "Raul Bloodworth". He wished that name really was his. If only he had retired years ago. Being a failure as a writer was more honorable profession than being a success as a killer. He had almost finished "Three to Dare". Jack Colquitt had discovered that Kit Reynard, the tall, lanky iconoclast he had hired as his assistant, was also the son of his lost love, Tina, and his memories paralleled how Kit fell for girl reporter Darine "Red" Connery. Kit and Red had just gotten engaged, the three had managed to save Kit's sister Sarah from the west coast Thuggees who'd kidnapped her, and everything was set for a happy ending. "But good days are as fleeting in my business as sunny ones in Seattle," he typed. "Without warning, a car like a hundred others on the street turned and plunged at us. I saw that the driver wore the terrible tie-dyed scarf of a Kalifornian devotee. With desperate strength, I pushed Sarah out of the way of the car. We wound up in a doorway. Sarah got up, her palms skinned and bloody, hiding the old terrors in her eyes behind the curtain of her tangled brown hair. ""Kit! My brother!"" "Shielding her eyes with the bulk of my body, I turned to see. The Thuggee was dead. Red was crumpled and her notes scattered, but she was breathing." "Kit was crushed between a fender and the wall." ---------------------------------------- I think I hear my sister Annie, And I wish weel it may be... -- from "Fair Annie", traditional Scottish ballad It had been a long day. But matters like her partner's suspicious death, a condolence call from Cancerman, and said partner turning up alive, well and a shapeshifter were well within dealing range for Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. This was not. Scully turned away from the peephole to Assistant Director Walter Sergei Skinner, who, unlike the Lone Gunmen (who had come into her apartment building disguised as electricians, and would find their van covered with work requests when they returned) and Mulder (whom she had unknowingly brought inside in the shape of an Irish wolfhound), had come openly to her apartment to see how she was holding up. He did not know about any of this. Maybe she had imagined it. After all, she was seeing dead people again. Skinner looked at her. At the moment, she looked like someone had cut whatever strings had been holding her up. "Who is it?" "Sir, I must be overtired." She shook her head. "I...take a look, sir." She moved out of his way and he looked through the peephole. Silence. "Sir?" Skinner gathered himself. "Obviously one of your alien shapeshifters or clones. Either that, or the product of a very good plastic surgeon and a sick mind. We'll sort this out." Without further ado, he opened the door and drew his gun on someone who looked just like Melissa Scully. The woman in the hallway flinched and reacted. Her hand blurred and wrenched the gun out of his. In the next instant, she stuck her foot in the door. "Dana, I am sensing some very negative energy from your boss here. Tell him not to worry so much, okay?" Dana was in no state to reply. Her eyes and ears were reporting to her numbed brain that this was indeed Melissa. Here a mannerism, there a familiar expression on the face that she had forgotten until she saw it again.... "Look, miss," Skinner was saying, "I don't know who you really are or what you think you're doing. But if you're going to play on Agent Scully's grief, you're going to have to go through me first." Melissa gave him a look of regret. Skinner didn't like it. "I'll only do that if I have to. Look, all I want to do is talk to my little sister and tell her what's going on. If she doesn't want to talk to me, I'm out of here." She turned. "Am I in or out, Dana?" Scully didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Come on in, Missy. Everyone else has paid me a condolence call today." Skinner stood back and let Melissa in. But as she passed, he whispered, "She may believe you, but I don't. If you hurt her...." "I know. And you'd give your life for her, or for any of your people." She looked at him wistfully. "I hope that won't be necessary." The New Age Scully's skirts brushed against him as she walked past. The spicy incense that hung around her went down his spine like a cold wind. He didn't like this. Not one bit. Scully hugged her sister. The joy and relief in her face made his agent look impossibly young. "Missy! It's you! It's really you!" She finally stopped hugging her, but held onto Missy's hand as tightly as she'd held Mulder's earlier. "Yeah, it's me. How are you holding up? I know it must have been a shock to find out that Mulder'd survived." Scully dropped her hand and stared at her. Skinner felt for his gun. "What do you mean, Missy?" Scully asked, fighting to keep her voice level. Missy snorted. "Just what I said. Unless he hasn't gotten here yet?" She paused and almost sniffed the air. "No, he's here. Look, we haven't got time for all this. If you don't remember everything yet, that's the first priority. Come on out, Cat." One moment, it was just Missy and Scully. The next, a redheaded young man stood beside them. A brilliant green sheet embroidered in gold was wrapped around him. He took Scully's hands and pulled them to his breast. "I've missed you so! It's been so long...." He faltered. "You still don't remember, mathair?" "What?" She backed away. "Who are you?" "That's not the right question," Missy told her softly. "Who are *you*?" The young man stood up straight. He was not much taller than Scully. A large gold brooch held the sheet around him, Skinner saw, and kept the back of it pinned into something like a collar. By God, he was wearing a cloak! And then he began to speak, or chant, while harp music came out of the air. Missy leaned over and whispered in her sister's ear. "Nice harp tape, huh? Sure beats dealing with temperamental accompanists, especially the invisible ones." "Come back with us to the hill. You treat us like strangers? Still? How can you not recall, You, who taught us all?" What the hell is going on here? Skinner wondered. "Remember the Student's Bridge You built up to our ridge? A bar to those without skill, Cleverness, or will." Somehow, it didn't sound like he was talking about Quantico. "Remember the spring-boughed yew Of dark green shade? Your view From it - mistakes in the fight. Your speech bore foresight's light." Scully was staring at the man. Well, hell, she should. But it looked
like she was having flashes of...recognition.... "Scathach, reclaim your name The young man named Cat looked at her, obviously torn between embarrassment and pride. He needed to know what she thought of his latest composition. Why? Didn't he know the worth of his own work by now? How could he have so little confidence in himself after all these years? But how do I know that? Where have I seen him before? And then she saw him lying in her arms, a tiny, squalling, red-faced creature with the most beautiful green eyes in the world. Except, of course, for Uathach's and Cuar's. And Mulder's. And she held Mulder in her arms; he too was covered in blood. Not the last time he'd suffer a gunshot wound - but only because she'd made a leap of faith. Trusted she could get through nine lives without memory of what she was. Hoped she would find him again. Loved him well enough to do the next worst thing to dying. As her father had. And Airdgeme stood before her, the only father she'd ever known to call him that, and he called her name. Then her memories of nine shifted lives awoke, and him with her in each one. Before them, she remembered being a redheaded slave, child of no clan, stealing what bits of meat she could. But then he adopted her, in spite of his spirit-born daughter Aoife's protests, and took her home, and taught her all the arts of war, so that she could raid cattle instead of kitchens. He taught her magic, which was useful, and poetry, which was the best thing of all. So she had words and swords at her fingers' ends, and she could tell what would come to a person. The world was hers, and all was right with it. But then she almost died in battle, he gave her half of his life, making her one of the Sidhe and as truly his daughter as Aoife. And when the nine lives had passed for them both, and he had spent some small time with Aoife and herself, he grew restless and went to find another daughter or a son. But this time, he never came back. So she had grieved, while Aoife raged and called curses on the head of a poet who would hide the future from her own kin. As if she would do such a thing. As if she would not have saved Airdgeme if she had seen this coming. So at last, they had come to war. And the war ended in defeat for Aoife only because of Cuchulain, thought Scathach, and the skills he learned in my school. She sighed and thought of that strange boy, Cuchulain. Womb-born to a Sidhe, so he had the shifting talent but not the longevity. Not that he worried much about long life. She had taught him the gae bolga, that she never taught anyone else. Her daughter Uathach had loved him. But Aoife had borne his son, Condlae. And when she sent the young man to his father, Cuchulain killed him before he knew who he slew. In a few short years, Aoife lost her war, her lover, and her only son, Scathach thought. No wonder she had turned from battle and rule and gone searching for answers. Strange that it was I, practical Scathach, who ended up finding some first. All I wanted from the lands of the Romans was a sense of their fighting techniques, tactics and strategies. But I also found a man who spoke with authority about death and life. I learned more from him than from centurions or books. She thought of him and felt the old incredulous joy. But time plays games on everyone, and she knew how often she'd failed to live up to what she knew was right. She knew she was permitted to be a soldier, but still she felt dissatisfied. She could have been a ruler, but that was Aoife's real love, not hers. She had done her best to reconcile these things, but still found herself trading off wandering times with Aoife, and coming back to the Hill ever more heartsick. She remembered Arthur's dream, and Charlemagne's, and Brian Boroimhe's; she remembered what had come of them, both good and bad. But she also remembered centuries of war, centuries of doing her best to keep people alive by teaching them to kill. Centuries when her best was never good enough. And then she saw another in her arms. Her husband Micheal, who had mistrusted her nature, refused to go under the Hill, asked her to swear to act as a mortal while he lived. Who had refused to let her break that promise when the potatoes they ate to live were blighted, while the golden grain in the fields was shipped to England to pay the rents. She had watched him die of hunger and her code of honor and his own terrible human stubbornness. Then she had taken ship to America, sick at heart, hoping to find nothing there to remind her of any old grief. For a time, she had found something there of the dream she sought. She had hidden from any deep knowledge of the place, though; put off reading newspapers and the like until she was stronger. All she wanted was to live in peace. And then the new place went to war against itself. She picked the side where she was living, with its lovely warm weather that never reminded her of the Hill in Scotland or Micheal's farm in Ireland, and marched away to defend its freedom against the rich and oppressive North. It was too late when she found she had picked the wrong side. She had already met Sullivan Biddle.... Scully's blue eyes opened wide and stared into nothing. Then she came back to herself. Her eyes flicked to the young man and filled with tears. She rushed to him and hugged him with a fierce possessiveness. "A Chat!" she cried. "A Chat, mo stor, mo gra...." One hand snaked out and pulled Missy in. "Aoife... mo siur...." Skinner's hand fell away from the butt of his gun. He'd been privileged to see a few happy family reunions in his time, and this was clearly one of them. But Scully with a son? And calling her sister Aoife? Somehow, amid all this strangeness, he wasn't surprised to see Mulder run, gun drawn, to Scully's side. "Snap out of it, Scully! These...clones...are using some kind of prior brainwashing, probably done under the guise of tests you underwent in the hospital. You've got to resist this!" Scully turned to him - and went dead white. Again her eyes stared into nothing. Then she got that look of recognition again. "Don't be silly, Mulder," she said calmly. "Or should I say Sullivan Biddle? You already know Missy. Come meet my son." At which point Mulder's eyes got that faraway look too. Something was definitely wrong with Scully. She had been furious when he investigated past lives instead of trying to keep the Church of the Seven Stars from committing suicide. For her to call him Sullivan Biddle.... But it was his name, of course. Why shouldn't she call him by it? Not that anyone had, not since.... He remembered being shot. He had seen a great light, then, and begun to float towards it. But he hadn't seen Sculley there. It wasn't fair. He'd just realized who she was, and now it looked like they were going to be separated forever. He cursed and fought against going to that now-hated light. And he succeeded in turning from it. He went the other way, and did not see Sculley out in the darkness either. Damn it! He hated the light more and more, and so went further from it. And then he felt himself dragged back to his body. He fell back into it with a shock. It wasn't quite the same body he had left. Sculley was lying on top of him. Her body glowed and began to separate into tiny glowing bits, which floated into his body and made it glow as well. He felt his body begin to change from a single organism into a great many small...things, all working together. Were they living creatures, or incredibly intricate machines, or something in between? Sully couldn't tell. But thinking back, Mulder wondered. Nanotechnology? Whatever they were, there was a price to pay. The small creatures each held some part of Sculley's memory. To give herself only half of them meant that Sculley gave up who she was. For a long moment, while they lay body to body, Sully shared memories with her, and learned what it was like to remember Gawain. He felt her learn his life as if it had been her own. And then the light flared around them, and it was gone. The download was done, Mulder thought. So his memory went too. And then he was flying away, a great white bird crying out as he flew, with another white bird, a female, racing alongside him. An eternity of flight, no future or past. Nothing but the wind and the quiet crack of wingbeats. A white bird. One of the standard shapes used by the Daoine Sidhe and the Tuatha De Danaan. Which others did he use? A deer? A black dog? A wolf? A pig? The memories were very vague. And then he was a human again, at least once. He remembered that. He had been in the shape of a girl named Rachel. And Sculley had been in the shape of a man, and when he found the girl on his doorstep, he had taken her in and been a father to her. Him. Whatever. Until the Nazis came and they were killed. By Cancerman? Cancerman's father, perhaps? He shook his head, frustrated by the vagueness of it all. His memories jumbled again. He had been a horse, he thought, and then another bird; he couldn't say what kind. But he had flown far in his migrations, until he came at last to Martha's Vineyard, and 'died' in a cold January storm. And the tiny creatures that were his life and his memory had found a house nearby, and a woman trying to have a child; and he had taken the shape of an embryo in her womb. He felt a surge of elation. That black-lunged bastard wasn't his father! Neither was Bill Mulder. His father was in an old graveyard somewhere in the South. But that meant Samantha wasn't really his sister. And she was. She was as much of a sister as he'd ever had. And then he felt the grief. So many sets of parents, so many people he'd known, and never a real chance to say goodbye.... "Mulder." The voice was urgent. "Mulder, it's me. Come back now. Don't get lost in that eidetic memory of yours." His eyes cleared. Scully was there, blue eyes staring up into his, the look on her face still as determined and worried and down-to- earth as it had ever been. "Hey, Scully. Or should I call you Scathach now?" "What you will," she said, codeswitching at random through speech patterns she had known. She hoped that would settle soon. It sounded incredibly pretentious. "Just as long as you don't call me Dad." "Hey, if you can't keep it in your pants...." She gave him a look, and he subsided. Then she glanced over at Aoife. "You were keeping an eye on us." "To a certain extent. Once we found out where you were." "And being my sister?" Aoife looked uncomfortable. "The original Melissa Scully died when she was two, after you were born. She fell. I buried her and took her place. Your parents - our parents never noticed the substitution." Scully's eyes narrowed. "And you swear to me you had no thoughts of changelings? You didn't assist her death, or hinder her living through inactivity?" "I swear it, by the gods our people swore by." Scully watched her a moment more. "If you say so." She looked unhappy. "I don't know how I'm going to tell Mom about all this. And I'm afraid to tell Bill. There's something wrong with him." "Then don't. They don't need to know the truth, especially a truth they couldn't possibly accept." Scully looked shocked. "How can you say that? I'm not going to lie about this!" Skinner found himself momentarily forgotten. Good. He looked around the living room and used a lifetime's worth of investigative and reconnaissance experience to find a door that looked like it might lead to a bathroom. He commandeered two Tylenol - Agent Scully didn't seem to have any aspirin - and washed them down with some water. If someone had been drugging Scully's water like they'd done to Mulder's, it didn't matter. He was already seeing things. He thought about Sharon. Well, a few dead people turning up alive wasn't really that strange, compared to what he'd seen with her. It was the paperwork that was gonna be hell. He heard Scully's sister shriek. "What? But of course you're coming home to the Hill! We haven't been able to talk to you for more than a century!" "I just had this argument with Bill," Scully said calmly. Calmly, but loud enough to be heard even in here. "I have given my word and my honor to this fight, and it would put a blush on my face to leave it before it is over." "Fighting. Always fighting. And when will you have peace?" Skinner shook his head. He wouldn't have argued with Scully in this sort of mood. Time to go out and make sure Melissa Scully didn't end up dead after all. Scully still sounded calm, but her voice began to ring out as it had when she testified before Congress. "When no more little children are abducted from their homes by persons with unknown motives, or stung by bees which carry designer smallpox strains. When no more women are kidnapped, used for experiments, and given cancer or Purity Control. When no more men are imprisoned against their will and sent to die in hellholes, invaded by extraterrestrial organisms." Skinner came out of the hallway. Scully's back was to him. Her voice rolled on. "When the lawless men and women who commit these crimes under the cloak of a government meant to provide us with liberty and safety have been exposed to the justice of the American people and the scrutiny of the world - then, and only then, will I lay down my gun. This I swear." Mulder was staring at his partner as if he'd never seen her before. "I read about Scathach when I was at Oxford. And the Tain was right. You're a poet, Scully." Scully rolled her eyes, embarrassed. "You're an easy date. That was just an oath." Melissa and Cat were eyeing Scully with that wistful look Skinner didn't like. "You shouldn't have sworn that, Dana," Melissa said softly. Behind them, still unnoticed, Skinner tensed. So when Melissa and Cat proceeded to fade from sight while Mulder stood there amazed, and Scully froze, looking betrayed, Skinner immediately pounced on Melissa's last position. And what do you know. He found himself with an armful of what looked like thin air, but felt pretty solid. Without ever loosening his grasp, he shoved the invisible body to the floor. Scully reacted first. "Whatever you do, sir, don't let go of Missy! Mulder, you block the front door. I'll get Cat." She walked off calmly, stalking, judging the scent of Sidhe in the room. "You shouldn't have tried this, Cat. I taught you everything you know. And then Mulder taught me to trust no one." Skinner tightened his grip on Melissa as she wriggled in his arms, unseen. She was gonna try something soon. He knew it. Sure enough, her body slimmed at a rate even Jenny Craig couldn't claim. Her legs flowed together underneath him and streamed out behind. Afraid she would simply flow away, Skinner clamped his feet down on this 'tail'. In retaliation, it shot out faster and coiled around his neck, choking him. Skinner didn't have three hands. Instead of battling to free himself without freeing Melissa, he simply let himself fall on her. With all his weight. The tail-noose loosened in shock. Skinner reached up with one hand and pulled the tail over his head. Then he shoved the tail back under his body and whomped down with his weight again. But Melissa was not going to give up that easily. Skinner felt her changing shape again. She abandoned her invisibility and began to gather herself up in a little ball, humped up uncomfortably underneath Skinner's bulk. Snake scales began to change into hair. The hair grew together and thickened. Suddenly they were turning into - aw shit - quills. He hadn't signed up with the Marines or the FBI to wrestle giant killer porcupines. Especially one that was kin to an agent, so he couldn't just shoot the sucker and get it over with. "I wasn't raised to hit women," he said reflectively. "But my hands are starting to kill me, and my feet are well protected. So I hope Agent Scully won't mind if I kick her sister's ancient shapeshifting ass." "That won't be necessary, Assistant Director." "I ran her name through this killer search engine I wrote. I didn't play D&D all those years without learning something about Celtic mythology." "All's fair in love and war." Skinner looked up. A trio of men stood over him. One wore a vaguely professorial suit. One had long hair, glasses, and a black T-shirt. The third wore a vest and carried an odor of sleaze around him as definite as Melissa's incense. He marched forward, squatted in front of her, and put his hand down what remained of her blouse. He grinned and stopped groping. "Grant me a boon." Melissa looked up at him. "That was a thousand years ago!" "Your rules, lady. If I were you, I would have picked the leprechaun geisa, but.... Grant me a boon." "Fine," she said, trying to sound bored. She didn't do it anywhere as well as her sister. "You may have whatever boon you will, provided you can speak it in the space of three breaths." Frohike smiled. His colleagues chimed in suggestions behind him, but he ignored them. He knew what to ask for. Oh, yes. "The full truth to our questions, your oath not to harm me or any of my friends, and my son from your body - the old-fashioned way." Then he grinned at Aoife/Melissa Scully. Somebody kicked him. He looked around. Dana Scully/Scathach was standing over him, her son Cat headlocked and dragged along with her. "You asked for what!? From my sister?" "It was in the story." She kicked him again, harder. "I know it was in the story! I was there the first time! And you know how that ended!" "I know." Frohike looked mulish. "Hey, I'm smarter than that guy Cuchulain. I wouldn't run off to get killed. I like my life." Scully kicked. Missy's hand blurred, reached out and caught it. "Don't freak, little sister. I'm a big girl. I keep my own face from blushing." Scully blanched. "What are you saying?" Missy smiled. "You never told me Frohike was cute." Frohike lost his smug look. Langly and Byers glanced at each other. Who'd caught who? "Let me get this straight, Scully." Mulder kept his voice low so that nobody in the living room could hear him. "My skeptical partner turns out to be a multi-reincarnated...." "Serially-shapeshifted. Keep it straight." "....nigh-immortal...." "No wonder Clyde Bruckman was evasive." "...nanocreature-infested, odor-detectable..." "We try to keep that part out of the literature." "...sword-swinging hero-training warrior princess..." "Queen. And you didn't see me throw any frisbees or caterwauling, either." "...redhead grandmother from the dawn of Time..." "From Ireland and Scotland. Not the same thing." "...and your sister Melissa and I both come back from the dead, and the only part that disturbs you is that Frohike may soon be joining the Scully clan?" "No," she admitted. "The whole thing bothers me. But I know there must be a scientific explanation to cover all this, and at least I'm not going to be dying of cancer. If you'll give me a moment." Mulder went absolutely still. She took a deep breath and turned her attention inward once more. It was delicate work, feeling her way through her own anatomy. But the tumor had made itself intimately known to her over the past few months, and now she used what pain had taught her. Gently, delicately, slowly, she instructed each part of the tumor to turn into blood and, bit by bit, to flow away. And it did. She could already feel the relief of lessened pressure. There would be no more nosebleeds like the one she had felt threatening her at the hearing this morning. There would be no more poisonous brews to put in her body, no more tests, no more poking and prodding. No more of the deadly lethargy that had crept up on her all spring. No more horrible birthday dinners for Mulder, both wondering if this would be the last year they'd see together. But then what? She turned to look at her partner. She had just learned that they were not really who they were. And yet, what had really changed? She was still herself, albeit with a few more skills and many more memories; and she'd known Mulder far longer and more well as Mulder than as Sullivan Biddle. Her sister was still annoying and dear, though with more practice at both. It was her worldview that had changed most. Suddenly she carried several more bushels of facts and opinions than she had before, and some of them appeared deeply contradictory. She would have to reconcile those contradictions soon, or make decisions as to which were right and which wrong. But frankly, this was not the most urgent matter. As long as those she loved were safe, intellectual matters could wait. That is the soldier talking, she thought, not Dr. Scully. And the thought saddened her. But the Scathach of old could never have healed this tumor, had she been able to have one, for this was far more complicated than simply willing one's blood to clot a little faster and one's flesh to knit. Perhaps this sorting process was more urgent than she had thought. But it was Cat who really worried her - Cat and her other children Cuar and Uathach back in the Hill, and their children, and their children's children. How were they? What had they been doing this long time? They, being womb-born, did not have the longevity of a spirit-born Sidhe like herself or Mulder. Would they envy Mulder that? Would they resent her gift of life to him? Or would they love him, and her, and understand? And what had possessed Cat and Missy? She looked up, still monitoring the slow flow of blood through the delicate vessels of her brain. Mulder took that as his cue to speak. "A lot's happened, Scully. Are you sure you're going to be all right? And 'fine' is not an acceptable answer." She looked up at Mulder, now doubly dear. She thought of her family, and how she would not give them another death to mourn. She looked around her, at the friends she would not have to leave and the world that would be hers to enjoy for thousands of years, barring accident. She felt the Worm Ouroborous on her back and smiled her 'Get thee behind me'. The circle had broken at last, and she had found that other self she had always searched for. "Fine? I'm great. Wonderful." She searched for words as she smiled, still incredulous of her own good fortune. "And why not, Mulder? I've been given everything I ever wished for. Including you." "Be careful what you wish for, Scully," he warned her seriously. She touched his cheek gently in response, secretly dismayed. What will it take to make you happy? "I think I am careful," she answered him with equal seriousness. "I think all my wishes have been good ones. And if I have to pay for it all with a few interesting times," she smiled up at him, "they say you get what you pay for." The End
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