____________________________________ TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION Revised Version By Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com ____________________________________ Disclaimer: All characters seen or mentioned on the X-FILES belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Production, FOX networks, DD, GA, etc...I have no permission to use them (although give me a few minutes with Mulder or Skinner and...) The characters of Lydia Chamberlain, Travis Danton and Preston Powell Jr. belong to me, and if I had as much money as Preston does, somebody might want to sue me for this...but since I don't...IN MEMORIUM by Alfred, Lord Tennyson is also used without permission. If he can come back from the grave after me, then maybe I'll get my own X-File number and get to meet Mulder after all...HEAD OVER FEET by Alanis Morissette is also used without permission but with great admiration. (Please don't hurt me, angry girl!). GONNA GET A LIFE is sung by Mark Chesnutt, but I don't know who wrote it, and I hope whoever it is will forgive me for using it without permission as well. TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION No. 1: September It's So Hard to Say Goodbye To Yesterday By Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com Dana Scully opened her desk drawer and surveyed the contents. After six years, not really much to call her own. A few pens, a couple of half-empty rolls of breath mints. A handful of pictures she'd sneaked out of the packets of official photos. Mostly candids or either her or Mulder, depending on who was wielding the evidence camera at the time. "Save me some of those." Fox Mulder's voice was close by her ear. Her hand shook, dropping one of the photos. It fluttered to the desk, and Mulder reached around her to pick it up. He held it where she could see it, too. It was one of her, looking like hell. Mud-streaked, her hair in rain-soaked strings, dark circles under her eyes that might have qualified for an X-File investigation of their own. "What a babe." Mulder's dry comment was little more than a warm breath in her ear. She rewarded his attempt at lightening the mood with a half-hearted smile. "Get the feeling we're not going to be coming back this time?" "Five strikes, you're out." Mulder sat on the edge of her desk, facing her. His hazel eyes were mostly gray today, matching his suit. "It'll be okay." She shook her head. "No." "We've been through this before." "Mulder, you refused to see me for weeks--and you were still living here in D.C. that time." She looked away from his uncomfortably direct gaze, wishing he didn't have such a potent effect on her sense of balance. From the first time she'd walked into this office and looked into that earnest, boyish face, she'd been lost. Willingly became Mrs. Spooky, following where any sane man or woman would fear to tread. She'd have walked through hell to prove herself worthy as his partner and friend. She HAD walked through hell. And back. And now that she owned his respect, loyalty and trust, he was leaving for Boston and she was returning to Quantico. Six and a half years, and she was back to square one. "It's not the same this time, Scully." "No. This time you'll be living 400 miles away." "Maybe that's good." She looked up, trying not to show the stabbing pain that cut through her heart at his words. "Good?" "Scully, maybe it's time you start having that life you're always talking about." He put his hand on her arm, but the touch was oddly impersonal, much more so than usual. She had the strange sensation that she was looking at him through the wrong end of a telescope, watching him grow smaller and farther away. His hand fell away, leaving her arm feeling cold. She drew a swift breath and stepped away from the desk, turning so she didn't have to look at him. "What about you? Are you going to get a life?" He slid off her desk. As he brushed past her on the way to his more cluttered side of the office, he bent and murmured in her ear. "I keep telling you, Scully, I HAVE a life." She forced herself to start packing up her things, working with methodical precision, driving herself. But again and again, her gaze trailed across the room to settle on her soon-to-be ex-partner. He packed with less feverish determination, but she could see past the outwardly casual demeanor. The termination of the X-Files still had the power to hurt him, even now that his sister was back, safe and sound. He'd always hinted that his obsession with the X-Files would end once he found Samantha. But like any addict, he was finding it hard to go cold turkey. Scully understood. She was suffering her own withdrawal symptoms. An hour later, their packing done, Scully and Mulder silently sifted through the photos she'd found in her desk. He took the photos of her, and she claimed the ones of him. Neither commented on their choices. Both looked up when the door to the office opened and Assistant Director Walter Skinner's bulk filled the rectangle of light. "I wanted to say a proper goodbye before you two got away." Mulder was sitting close enough that Scully could feel the tension radiating from him. "Wanna make sure we're really good and gone this time?" Skinner's mouth twitched slightly. "I wish I had the power you seem to ascribe to me, Agent Mulder." Mulder's mouth curved slightly. Scully felt him relax. "So do I, sir." "Agent Scully, I hope you'll find time to drop in and say hello." She nodded. "I will, sir." Skinner leaned against the door frame, folding his large arms across his broad chest. "I believe that the work you've done here in this division was important work. It made a difference. You have every reason to be proud of what you've done. And I'll do everything in my power to make sure that your accomplishments receive the respect and admiration they deserve." Scully felt embarrassingly close to tears. Mulder shifted uncomfortably beside her. "Agent Mulder, I fought for the Boston assignment for you because I was informed that your sister was working on her doctorate at M.I.T. this year." "Why not D.C., sir?" Mulder asked. "Or Baltimore?" Scully looked up at her partner, surprised. His expression was unreadable. "The only available assignment in D.C. is wiretapping surveillance, and I have no intention of wasting your talent like that ever again. Baltimore did have an opening, but it was strictly entry level field agent--not for you. Boston's opening is much higher on the ladder. You'd be in spitting distance of the ASAC position." "I'll never make ASAC, Skinner. You know that as well as I do." "Never is a long time, Agent Mulder." "Wait," Mulder said as Skinner turned to leave. "Why'd you stick Scully back in the Academy? With all she's done--" "She's a department head, Agent Mulder. Also a step up." Scully blinked. "Department head?" Skinner's unexpected smile transformed his face. "Halloran forgot to mention that, Agent Scully. You'll be head of the Academy's Forensic Pathology Department. Six M.E.'s under your supervision. I expect you'll be heading up the F.B.I. Academy in less than ten years--if you haven't already taken my job by then." Skinner gave a little nod and left. Mulder shifted restlessly beside her. "He could've found me something around here. I still think he's helping them keep us apart, Scully." She wasn't so sure anymore. The jobs she and Mulder were being offered were far better than they had ever hoped to have, considering the enemies they'd made over the past six years. The thought that Mulder could make Assistant Special Agent in Charge... "Mulder, this is such a wonderful opportunity for you. You haven't been on the fast track in years, so maybe you don't remember just how hard it is to get there. And you'll be right there in Boston, not that far from your mom and minutes from M.I.T. and your sister." "And 400 miles from you." There was still that, wasn't there? She nibbled her lip. "Ah, hell, Scully. I ought to just resign. I feel like my life's not my own anymore." He slipped the photographs he'd chosen into his pocket. "I could go into private practice." "You'd hate it." He nodded. "I'd hate it." "Boston is a lovely city." He nodded again. "Samantha will be there." "It'll be nice living in Massachusetts again, knowing that she's there with you, won't it? Like healing old wounds." His gaze pierced her, forcing her to look at him even though she knew it would be painful. "Sometimes you scare me, Scully. You know me so well." She looked down at her hands. "Cuts both ways." They were silent for a few minutes, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. After all this time, they were far beyond the need for small talk. She was the one who finally found the strength to make the last, fateful move. "We'd better get moving before we take root." She dropped her selected photos of Mulder into the small cardboard box on her desk and reached for her purse, which hung off the back of her desk chair. She picked up the box, fighting a wave of unutterable sadness. "Skinner said the Boston office is expecting me bright and early on Monday morning." Mulder picked up his own somewhat larger box. She noted that he'd left most of the X-File esoterica still posted to the bulletin board behind his desk. No need for it in Boston, she supposed. "Are you flying or driving?" "Driving. My car's still got some good miles left on it, so I thought I'd take it with me." "Guess you don't need me to take you to the airport, then." She sighed. Was this good bye? This one pitiful moment in time? "I'll call you before I go." "You don't have a place in Boston yet." "So I'll find one and you'll help me move in. Did I mention I'm thinking about buying a grand piano?" She smiled. "I like you, Mulder, but not that much." His laughter was soft, a little rueful. He nodded toward the door. "Ready?" As I'll ever be, she thought. She followed him to the door, pausing for a second to look back at the office. By this time next week, a cleanup crew would've removed any trace that she or Mulder had been there. They wouldn't leave it as is this time. She was about to turn away when she caught sight of the poster tacked to the wall. I WANT TO BELIEVE. "Coming?" Mulder was several feet up the hall by now. "I forgot something. Go on, I'll call you tonight." She waited until he turned the corner, then went back into the office. She carefully removed the poster, rolled it into a tight tube and secured it with a rubber band from her box. She tucked the poster inside the box and left the office. The ringing click of the shutting door followed her up the hallway. * * * * * * Mulder surveyed his apartment, amazed at how little was left to take with him now that he'd thrown away everything he deemed non-essential. Scully accused him of being a pack-rat, but he knew that his endless clutter was more a result of apathy than a compulsion to collect things. Truth be told, Scully had a lot more keepsakes than he did. But then, she had a lot more good memories to want to keep alive. In the end, he was able to pack most of his belongings in his car. When Scully called Saturday night, he kept the conversation short, steering their words far afield from the dangerous emotions that roiled inside him. He was losing Scully she was going to be taken from him again God don't let them take her from me again I can't do this without Scully don't make me do it without her... The jumble of thoughts terrified him. It wasn't like he hadn't known for years now how much he depended on Dana Scully's quick mind and steely strength. But as the hour of his departure approached, regrets were turning to panic, and he was beginning to realize how utterly their lives were intertwined, even though they'd tacitly agreed not to pursue a deeper relationship. How could it get any deeper, though? They were so intimate already, making love would almost be an afterthought.... For Scully's sake, he had to make the cut swift and clean. It would bleed a little, but time and distance would heal their wounds. Wouldn't it? And Boston wasn't the other side of the ocean. It was just 400 miles away. A six hour drive, less than two hours by air. If she needed him, he could be here in no time. And she could be there for him. If he needed her. He just had to figure out how to stop needing her. They arranged to meet on Sunday for brunch at a favorite D.C. cafe. He was early. Eager to see her one last time, he supposed. She entered the cafe right at the appointed time, her coppery hair ignited by the mid-morning sun streaming through the cafe windows. He wanted to run across the room and grab her, make her come to Boston with him. He didn't want to find out if he could survive without her there to watch his back. She paused as she caught sight of him. Her small hands clenched into fists, then relaxed, and she resumed her walk across the cafe. He turned, pressing his back against the solidity of the bar, glad for the support. She held out her hand and he took it, careful not to crush her fingers. "All packed and ready to go?" she asked. He nodded, tugging her gently to him. She didn't resist when he slipped one arm around her shoulders and held her against his side. She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Promise you'll at least call, Mulder. Or e-mail me." "Count on it." She looked up at him. "I know how you are, Mulder." "Yes, you do." "If you don't call me, I'll call you. Collect if I have to." "I'll call, Scully." "Don't think you can get away with an unlisted number, because I have ways of hunting you down." He laughed, which he suspected was her intent all along. "Okay, Scully, I said I'd call. Every day, probably, since I doubt I'll even be able to pick a tie without consulting you." She grimaced, her small Roman nose crinkling. "I'm not taking credit for your ties, Mulder." He wondered what she'd do if he kissed her. The temptation was especially strong now, with her standing so close, looking up at him with those sad sea-blue eyes. It really would be the perfect time, he thought. A good-bye kiss. Just to see what might have been. Should have been? Then Scully moved away from him and the moment passed. "Let's get a table." He motioned for a waiter, who came and seated them. Scully ordered a bagel, and he chose an omelet. They ate in silence, as if observing their own special ritual. The releasing of each other, to other places, other lives. The omelet stuck in Mulder's throat, but he forced it down, keeping up appearances for Scully's sake. She walked him to his car. He was already packed and ready to leave for Boston as soon as he turned in his keys to the landlord. He'd arranged for a moving service to take the furnishings he couldn't pack into his car to a small warehouse rental place Samantha had found near her apartment in Cambridge. He'd check the furniture out as soon as he found a place to live. He paused at the car, turning to look at her one more time. "I'm staying with Samantha at her place until I get a chance to rent a place." "Call me to let me know you got there safely." "I will. Um, by the way, I need to get my spare key back from you." She glanced up quickly, unable to wipe the stricken look from her face. He felt a little queasy at the sight. "I have to turn it in to the landlord." She looked away, rummaging through her purse until she found her key ring. Her fingers trembled as she removed his spare key and handed it to him. He caught her hand and held it. They stood in the bright sunlight, eyes narrowed against the glare as they looked at each other for a long, aching moment. Then Mulder opened his arms, and Scully hurtled forward, pressing her face against his chest. He felt her body shake, reminding him of another time and place, when he'd held her, comforting her after Donnie Pfaster had almost killed her. He remembered telling her it would be okay. He'd believed it then. But he wasn't so sure now. So he stayed silent. He wouldn't lie to her, even to make her feel better. Or himself. * * * * * Scully's mother dropped by her apartment unannounced and stayed with her all afternoon and into the evening. They talked about everything but Mulder's departure. Scully knew her mother was aching, too. She loved Mulder as if he were her own child. Her other sons were far away--had been for years. She'd grown accustomed to brief visits, few and far between. But since Missy's death, Scully knew that her mother and Mulder had been in frequent contact--phone calls, usually a weekly visit to catch up. It had started partially as a typical Mulder penance--he'd missed Melissa's funeral out of his overwhelming sense of guilt, then felt guilty about that, too. So he'd spent part of Mother's Day with Margaret Scully, then the next Saturday afternoon...and the Thursday evening after that. Soon, he was almost seeing as much of Scully's mother as she was herself. Mulder almost never included Scully in those visits. It was his special time with her mother, and Scully had respected their privacy. Still, now that he was physically removed from her, she missed that time they'd spent apart, even the times he'd spent with her mother. She wanted more time with him. Only when the phone rang around seven o'clock did either woman bring up Fox Mulder's name. Margaret Scully looked up at her daughter and mouthed the word, "Fox?" Scully answered the phone. "Hello?" "It's me, Scully." She smiled and nodded at her mother. "You sound tired, Mulder." "Six hours on the road with the unwashed masses, Scully. It made sea travel suddenly much more attractive." She chuckled, knowing just how bad a sailor he was. "How's Samantha?" "Just as hard to live with as she was twenty-six years ago." He made an "oomph" sound that sounded suspiciously like a sisterly whack on the back. "She's messy, too. Must be a Mulder trait after all." "I've always said so." She glanced at her mother, who sat forward, eagerly trying to fill in the blanks of the one-sided conversation. "Mom's here. I think she'd like to talk to you." Tamping down her reluctance, she handed her mother the phone. "Hello, Fox, how are you?" Scully leaned back, soothed by the sound of her mother's voice. She closed her eyes and listened with Mulder's ears, trying to feel what he must feel when he talked to her mother. She knew that he loved his own mother, but all that had happened during the years before and after Samantha's abduction had taken a heavy toll on their family and on Mulder's relationship with his parents. Anger and guilt that couldn't be overcome easily. But with Scully's mother, Mulder had known nothing but unconditional, overwhelming love. The love Margaret had always given her own children, love that had weathered adolescent rebellions and adult disappointments. Tears filled Scully's eyes as she heard her mother's words with Mulder's heart. "I expect phone calls, Fox. At least on Christmas and Mother's Day." Scully wiped away her tears. She saw her mother smile at whatever Mulder said in reply. "Me, too. Here's Dana again." Scully took the phone. "I'm back." "You Scully women are real nags, you know?" He softened the words with vibrant affection that reached through the phone. "I'm racking up a big phone bill on Samantha's phone, and I'm afraid she'll try to make me pay it." Another "oomph" sound indicated that Samantha was still listening. She heard a soft, unintelligible sound and Mulder added. "Samantha sends her love." "Send mine back." "Can I keep some for myself?" Scully couldn't find words for a second. He sounded so much like a lost little boy that she was afraid she'd choke up. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and found the strength to reply. "All you can hold." He didn't answer right away, and she could feel his struggle with emotions through the phone line. He took a wobbly breath as if he were about to speak, but he fell silent again. Nothing could stop Scully's tears this time. "If I don't hear from you by Tuesday, I'm calling your ASAC and filing a complaint." She hoped her voice didn't sound as thick and teary as she thought. "I'll call you tomorrow." His voice sounded hoarse. Strained. "Bye." She couldn't wait for his answering good bye. She hung up the phone and buried her face in her hands. A moment later, she felt her mother's strong arms wrap around her. "He's not that far away, Dana." She pressed her burning face against her mother's shoulder. "He was already too far away before he ever left, Mom." "Did you ever tell him that?" She drew back, mortified at the thought. "No, of course not. Do you know how unprofessional it is to be so emotionally attached to your partner?" It was better that she'd never told him how she felt. "He's not your partner anymore." Scully shook her head. "He's gone, Mom." "Boston's just an hour or so away by air." "It's finished." "It doesn't have to be." Scully rubbed her hands over her face, wiping away hot, salty tears. "Maybe this is what it will finally take for him to have a happy life. I'm not going to stand in the way of that." "Maybe you're what will make him happy." "It would've happened already if it were going to, Mom." She knew Mulder loved her, in his own way. But she didn't believe he loved her the way a man loved the woman who would claim his bed and bear his children. And she didn't really love him that way, either. She didn't. Really. * * * * * * * * Samantha curled up on her couch next to Mulder, resting her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her, marvelling at the feel of her solid warmth against him. He'd looked for her so long, but until she'd actually walked out of that warehouse in Baltimore, he'd never truly believed he'd see her again. The strangest part of finding her was finding out how close he'd been time after time. She'd been living in San Juan, Puerto Rico when he went to the SETI array in Arrecibo. Working at a restaurant in Atlantic City during the Jersey Devil case. Visiting New Mexico with friends the fateful April when he'd barely escaped death in a fiery boxcar. She'd even been attending the University of Oregon that time he and Scully went to the Pacific Northwest on their very first X-File investigation together. "I would never have found you without Scully, Samantha." "I know." "She got me through so many nightmares. I didn't think I needed anybody until she walked into my office." He smiled at the memory. She'd walked in, looking like Ms. J. Edgar Hoover with her sleek red hair and her tailored suits. He'd dripped sarcasm, hoping she'd run screaming for the hills, but she'd just smiled that little Mona Lisa butter-wouldn't- melt-in-my-mouth smile of hers, and he'd been sunk. Day by day, she'd gotten under his skin--sometimes aching like a splinter, sometimes soothing like a balm, but always delving deeper, making herself more irrevocably a part of him. He'd never had a relationship--no friendship, no romance, no family tie--that was deeper or more satisfying than the bond he had with Scully. Their quick goodbye in D.C. hadn't severed the tie. She remained inside him, a warm, bittersweet throbbing. "You're going to miss her," Samantha said. God, yes. "She can come visit," Samantha added. Not right away, he knew. She'd have to dive right into her job at the Academy. Being department head over all those male M.E.'s was going to be tough. Scully was up to it, of course, but he wished he could spare her the headaches she'd be facing in the months to come. All he did know was that he wasn't going to let his sudden neediness get in her way. "We'll both be busy settling into our new jobs." "So maybe she can visit over the Thanksgiving weekend?" Maybe, Mulder thought. He didn't want to think about it too much. He could picture himself obsessing on the thought of her coming to visit. Counting the days, hours and minutes. Driving himself crazy. "Fox, you know, Preston's coming by on his way home." Mulder glanced at his sister. "Are you asking me to get lost?" She smiled. "No. I'm just trying to prepare you so you'll be on your best behavior." "Much as I'd love to hang around and chat with you and Thurston Howell the Third, I'm beat. I'll just grab the couch in the utility room and get some sleep." "Fox, I told you to take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch out here." "I'm used to sleeping on a sofa, Samantha." He winked and stood. "Besides, you might need that bed yourself." "Fox!" She threw a sofa cushion as he retreated down the hall. He closed the door to the utility room, surrounding himself with darkness. He didn't expect sleep to come easily, especially without a television to lull him. And it didn't. Sometime later, he heard the door open and voices. Samantha's boyfriend, Preston. He tried to soothe himself with the happy timbre of her voice, the gentleness he heard in Preston's lower tones. Soon came the sound of music, and he imagined his sister and the man she loved, sitting side by side on the sofa, hands entwined, hearts in tune. The music was slow and soft, the kind Samantha liked. The tune sounded vaguely familiar, and he closed his eyes, trying to make out the words. "I don't know where this road is going to lead, All I know is where we've been and what we've been through, If we get to see tomorrow I hope it's worth all the rain It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. And I'll take with me the memories To be my sunshine after the rain, It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday." Mulder opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, missing Scully. * * * * * * * * Scully had to admit that Mulder kept his promise to call. Every day, he rang, and they talked in brief, narrative spurts, outlining their days, how the new jobs were going. Mulder sounded tired but she could tell he was slowly easing into the new rhythm of the Boston field office. As for herself, she was meeting all the expected resistance from the men under her supervision, but after six and a half years of dealing with heptivorous mutants, E.B.E.'s and vicious government conspiracies, six testy male pathologists were a walk in the park. Missing Mulder was a much harder problem to overcome. If only she didn't feel so utterly separate from him. Their conversations were full of information but short on any real meaning. He wasn't there in the room with her where she could read his expression, discern his thoughts in his eyes. He wasn't there to put a steadying hand on her back when she needed it. And she wasn't there to protect him from the slings and barbs from his heartless fellow agents. Mulder had a reputation that was bound to follow him, even to Boston. She hated the thought of him facing all that alone again. He'd been so alone when she first met him. One man against the whole world. She liked to think she'd done that much for him. Helped him see he didn't have to be alone. And if another woman reaped the benefits of her work, she'd have to find a way to be happy for them both. She thought she might even be able to bear it, if she just knew she still owned a little part of him that no one else could take away. On Friday of that first week apart, she got a sign of sorts. An envelope came in her daily mail, postmarked Cambridge, MA, with an unfamiliar return address in Mulder's quirky scrawl. She ripped the envelope open. A shiny new key slipped into her lap. She quickly scanned the accompanying note, a smile spreading across her face. "S, I'm thinking about getting more fish. I'm over the grief of losing the last crop. So how about jotting down my new address and hanging onto this key? The fish flakes will be by the tank, like always. The guys here in the Boston field office are turning out to be okay. When I find one that looks as good in a skirt as you do, I'll grab him for my partner. M." She retrieved her key ring from the hall table and flipped through the keys. She found the newly empty space, and quickly, before fate could change its mind, she put the new key where the old one had been. It looked right, she thought. And she realized she was already starting to feel better. END OF #1 TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION No. 2: October Gonna Get a Life by Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com The little e-mail icon in the upper left corner of his computer screen blinked. Fox Mulder wheeled his mouse pointer in that direction and clicked. A smile darted across his mouth when he saw her name. The note was brief but full of information. His smile faded rapidly as his eyes scanned the screen. M, Getting a life like you suggested. Travis Danton, 38, brown and blue, 5'10", teaches English Lit. at Georgetown U. Bkgrnd check clean. Met him at a G'Town/U of Md basketball game. Dinner and a movie, tonite. Don't wait up. Your move? S Mulder stared at the screen, absently squeezing his lower lip between his thumb and middle finger. Your move? What was that supposed to mean? Your move, Mulder, sweep into D.C.and stop me from falling into bed with the good professor? Your move, Mulder, say those three little words that'll get YOU a one-way ticket into my bed? He shook his head. No, that was just wishful thinking. No game-player, his Scully. She meant it was his move to get a life of his own. He punched the mouse button, scrolling down for the next message. Samantha's i.d.--SAM-I-AM. Tension in his shoulders eased a bit. He double-clicked to bring up her message. All caps--he kept telling her that all caps was the computer equivalent of shouting, but Samantha had returned to his life with a stubborn streak wider than his own. FOX, UP FOR PIZZA AT BOTTICELLI'S? A PSYCH PROF FRIEND OF MINE IS DYING TO MEET YOU. LYDIA CHAMBERLAIN. SINGLE, NOT MUCH PERSONALITY, BUT A REAL DISH, OR SO THE GUYS SAY. PRESTON AND I WILL BE GLAD TO CHAPERONE. DANA'S GOT A DATE, DID SHE TELL YOU? SAM-I-AM ;-) So, Samantha was taking pity on him. Dana Scully's got a date, so we have to take poor Fox's mind off the matter by setting him up with a dishy psych professor. He ought to go. Scully would go if the situation was reversed. Hell, she WAS going--with the English Lit. professor. Why shouldn't he go? Why not meet the dishy Professor Chamberlain, see if he still had what it took to get in her pants? Sauce for the goose.... One more piece of e-mail. Mulder's eyebrows rose as he read the tag. DR-LUV. What did Frohike want? Mulder, Bad vibes happening. The lovely Dr. Scully has a date. I checked the guy out. Total sleaze-- Coming from Frohike, that said something, Mulder thought. --drives a Volvo, votes Republican, subscribes to the Wall Street Journal, GQ, and the Disney Channel and collects British memorabilia. Date from hell. We have to save her. I need your help. DR-LUV Mulder didn't want to know how Frohike knew all that. He clicked on the e-mail export system, pulled up Frohike's e-mail address and jotted a note. DR-LUV, Some folks' nightmares are other folks' dreams come true. Scully deserves a life. It may not be the one you or I would choose for her, but.... Don't peep through her window if she invites him in. She'll shoot you dead. Mulder He clicked on the send button and opened the next reply window to jot a quick note to Scully. Then he shut off the computer and picked up the phone to tell his sister he'd meet her and the dishy professor at Botticelli's. * * * * * Dana Scully applied a quick coat of lipstick as she booted her computer. She'd showered and dressed as soon as she got home after her last class at the academy. Now was the worst part-- waiting for the dreaded knock on the door. She'd been out of the dating game for too long. Her stomach was in knots. The e-mail icon flashed in the corner of her monitor screen. She checked her mail. One message, from DR-LUV. She suspected Mulder had given Frohike her e-mail address. Blackmail or bribery of some sort must've been involved for her partner to sell her out to the little troll. But at least Frohike posted notes sparingly and was usually on his best behavior. Beloved, Statistically speaking, English Literature professors are more likely to be homicidal maniacs than postal workers--and not nearly as interesting. Have a lovely evening. Don't do anything I wouldn't do--or most of what I would. DR-LUV Scully deleted the message from her database, smiling in spite of herself. She was about to shut down the computer when the e-mail icon blinked again, alerting her to a new piece of e-mail. She clicked on the icon and went immediately tense when she saw Mulder's i.d. She never should've posted her note to him. What had she been expecting him to do--tell her not to go? She opened the note. S, Ask the good professor what this comes from..."by faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove." Words to live by, I'd say. I'm taking your challenge. My own prof-- Lydia Chamberlain. No personality, just a dish. Write back if you want to compare notes. M Damn! She jabbed at the mouse button, closing down the e-mail program. She shut off the computer and leaned back in the chair, temper rising like flames to heat her cheeks. Lydia Chamberlain. No personality, just a dish. Sounds suspiciously like a Bambi Berenbaum moment to me. Damn it, Mulder! Okay, fine. Isn't that what she'd wanted him to do, go out and have a good time? Finally have that life they'd been talking about all these years? Isn't that why she had agreed to her own date with Travis? The knock on the door kept her from having to answer her own question. * * * * * Samantha had been half-right, Mulder thought. Lydia Chamberlain WAS a dish. But she also had a good personality. Smart, funny, relaxed. She was his age, maybe a year or two older, but good bone structure and lucky genes gave her ageless beauty. Her eyes were brown, her shiny hair the pale brown color of pecan shells. She wore her hair straight and shoulder-length, framing fine cheekbones and delicate features. Her skin was creamy olive, hinting at Mediterranean ancestry. In the little black book he kept in his eidetic memory, he gave her nine sunflower seeds out of a possible ten for looks alone. So far she had also avoided the major pitfall of most psychologists--she hadn't made a single attempt to analyze him. Nevertheless, she kept steering the conversation toward him. They remained in the corner booth, talking softly, while Samantha and Preston left to join the noisy dance crowd at the far end of the pizza place. A jukebox in the corner was playing a country song, something loud and rollicking. "I'm gonna get a life. That's what I'm gonna do, And startin' now, You can find one, too Gonna get a life Like I shoulda done A long time ago Before you wrecked this one." Mulder sighed and picked at a mushroom that had fallen from his pizza to his plate. "You're one of the few people I've ever met that have actually heard of the X-Files project, Lydia." "The psychology department won a private grant a few years ago--cutting edge of scholarly paranormal psychology research--a ten year study into the benefits of regression hypnotherapy in cases of alleged Satanic Ritual Abuse and repressed Alien Abduction memories." A bell went off in Mulder's head. "You're the one--" "Samantha was one of the first patients I met." "You helped her remember she had been abducted." Those memories had eventually led her to a dangerous showdown in Baltimore, where she'd finally remembered that she was Samantha Mulder. Lydia smiled. "She was more than ready, Fox. I was just in the right place at the right time." He felt a little niggle of discomfort at her use of his first name. He thought about Scully, who'd tried calling him that once--and only once. He'd made sure of that, and Scully had done what she'd always done, respected his wishes. What if he'd let her call him Fox? What if he called her Dana more often? He tried to remember the way his name had sounded on her tongue. Hesitant, like a little girl trying to scrape up the courage to ask for her heart's desire. Danger warnings had gone off in his head. So he'd laughed. Shook his head. Fed her some line about how he didn't even let his parents call him Fox. She'd hesitated then, for a split second, trembling on the edge of retreat. Then her pointed little chin had jutted forward, and she'd bowed only slightly to his wishes. "Mulder, I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you." Oh, Scully, back then you had no idea just what kind of trouble I could get you into, did you? * * * * * Travis took Scully to the movie first, then dinner afterwards. Her stomach was rumbling wildly when they finally got a table at a trendy Arlington pub. She grabbed the basket of crackers and ripped open a little packet of melba toast, uncaring about what her date might think of her. Mulder wouldn't have cared. In fact, he might have tussled with her for the toast. To his credit, Travis didn't seem to notice her frantic struggles with the cellophane wrapper. He was too busy looking around the crowded pub. "Did you know that Hemingway once ate at this pub?" She lifted one brow. "Earnest?" He frowned, not getting the joke. She stifled a disappointed sigh, trying to ignore the sarcastic little whisper in her head. Loo-hoo-ser. Mulder's voice. Mulder was her conscience now? The thought almost made her laugh. "Legend has it he was on a fishing trip in Virginia and stopped in. This bar was pretty new then. He drank whiskey sours and penned the first four paragraphs of a new novel on a cocktail napkin. He got plastered, tossed the napkin in the trash by mistake, and got back to his lodge to find that he'd picked up a napkin with a woman's phone number on it instead. History isn't clear on whether he rang her up or not." Travis waved for the waiter. "I'll have a gin and tonic. Dana?" "Iced tea," she said, and suddenly remembered Mulder's e-mail. She'd forgotten to jot down the quote, but it had been pretty simple. Her memory wasn't eidetic like her former partner's, but it was pretty good. She leaned toward Travis. "A friend of mine wanted me to ask you about a quote he heard somewhere." Travis' eyebrows lifted slightly. "Shoot." Never say that to an armed woman, Scully thought, and had to stifle a chuckle. She searched her memory for the quote. "By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove." Travis hesitated only a second. "'In Memorium.' By Alfred Lord Tennyson. From the prologue." "Oh." She felt curiously deflated. From Mulder she would have expected Edgar Allan Poe at the very least. Then she remembered. "In Memorium." Her mother had told her about the days right before she'd turned up in the hospital on life support. How her mother had already ordered the grave stone, despite Mulder's insistance that she was giving up too soon. Her mother had looked so guilty when she admitted that. Scully didn't know what to say to comfort her. Mulder had been angry. Frustrated. Too soon, he'd insisted, when her mother asked him if he'd speak at the memorial service. But she'd pressed him. And he'd agreed, finally. He'd told her mother he wanted to read from a poem. "In Memorium," by Tennyson. Then Scully had mysteriously appeared in the Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, and the memorial service was postponed, then called off. Scully realized she had to see the poem. Surely she could find it in one of her old college textbooks. If not, she'd head for the library. The investigator in her gnawed at her insides, insistent and impatient. She'd know what else lay in that poem before sunset tomorrow. * * * * * Mulder realized with a guilty jolt that Lydia was staring at him expectantly. Waiting for a reply to some question he hadn't even heard. He rubbed his finger down a red-stripe on the checkered tablecloth. "I'm sorry?" Lydia's eyes narrowed a bit. Suddenly he revised his earlier impression a bit. She WAS psychoanalyzing him now. "I asked if you missed the work." "Yeah, sometimes. Not the hassle, though." He didn't miss sniffing the air for cigarette smoke every time he walked in a room. He could certainly wait another lifetime or two to see Mr. X skulking in a shadowy parking garage. But he missed walking into that cold, dark basement and seeing Scully sitting at her impossibly neat desk, her wire-rimmed glasses making her look like a studious school girl as she looked through file after file of the Bureau's version of Ripley's Believe It or Not. He missed the heady challenge of coming up with one plausible excuse after another to touch her without getting decked. He missed her arguments and her soft chuckles, the way she sized up his choice of ties with one tiny little twitch of her eyebrow. This time, he heard Lydia's next comment. "Did you know I've actually met your former partner, Agent Scully?" He looked up, instantly interested. "Well, you couldn't really call it a meeting. I attended a lecture she gave last month at Georgetown University. Unexplained pathological phenomena. She profiled eight cases that I suspect were pulled straight from the X-Files. Very interesting talk." Mulder smiled. Eight, huh? Which ones, he wondered? Definitely Tooms. Maybe the retrovirus in that dead FBI agent from Syracuse--the one that had almost killed Mulder himself. Or how about the strange little corpse in the exhumed grave in Oregon--their first X-File investigation together? "She seemed rather--well--passionless about the whole thing, though. Not quite what I expected." Lydia leaned back, her brown eyes narrowing slightly. "I have a confession. When I was doing some preliminary research into the X-Files, I talked to some of your fellow agents at FBI Headquarters. There was an informal office pool about you and Agent Scully. About whether you two ever--" He shook his head. "We didn't." Her reply was smug. "I knew that as soon as I saw Agent Scully." He didn't frown, although it took freezing every muscle in his face to keep from it. When he didn't reply, she continued. "Classic repressed sexuality. Asexual dress, chilly demeanor, decided detachment." All that from one lecture? Dr. Chamberlain thought too highly of her psychoanalytic abilities, Mulder thought. He didn't like her so much after all. "She's Catholic, no doubt, and she was probably a daddy's girl. Maybe there was even something incestuous--" Mulder had overturned his mug of beer before he even realized he'd moved. He was on his feet, breathing hard. Lydia looked up, eyes wide. "What's the matter?" God, Scully would hate him if he stood here and reamed his date because she'd said something bad about her. She'd be so embarrassed and absolutely furious with him. Of course, if she'd just heard what Lydia said-- He took several deep breaths, fighting for control. "Lydia, there's one thing that I learned a long time ago when I was training in psychology that really stuck with me. Something that apparently passed you by." Her eyes narrowed to slits, and he realized he'd just pushed her hot button--questioning her skill as a psychologist. Good, he thought. This is a lesson worth learning. "Arrogance is worse than ignorance, Dr. Chamberlain. It cuts deeper and it leaves a bigger scar. And I can assure you, based on years of experience rather than a single afternoon's lecture, that Dana Scully is a woman of great passion, great strength, and great mental health. She has seen and experienced things that no human being should ever have to know, and she's emerged stronger for it." Lydia's eyes were cold. "Maybe there are things you don't know about your former partner." "I'm sure there are." He bent forward, invading her personal face the way he often did with suspects he was interrogating. "And frankly, right now I'd rather be learning some of them than sitting here with you." He tossed a twenty on the beer-puddled table and walked away. He stopped long enough to let Samantha and her fiance know that he was leaving, then headed into the cool Boston night. * * * * * Scully put a quick end to the evening. She'd chafed through dinner, impatient to get back home to her closet and dig out her old English Lit textbooks. Surely with all the Tennyson she'd been forced to endure during the early years at Berkeley and U. of Maryland, she'd find the poem somewhere. Travis tried to kiss her goodnight. She forestalled him with a not-very-subtle hand against his chest. "I'll call you," he said. She'd deal with that bit of unpleasantness when the time came. She locked the door behind her and went straight to the closet. Two old British Lit books looked promising--NORTON'S ANTHOLOGY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE and ENGLISH WRITERS. She tried the latter, which was smaller, thumbing through the index quickly. Tennyson--and a daunting string of page numbers. She carried the book to her desk and started flipping through the listed pages, pausing only long enough to boot up her computer and check her e-mail. Nothing. The empty screen mocked her, and she sighed. She found the poem. "Strong son of God, immortal Love Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove." Other phrases jumped out of her. "Our little systems have their day; they have their day and cease to be; they are but broken lights of thee..." She thought of Melissa, how their "little system" of government had failed her. Scully's heart clenched. "...For knowledge is of things we see..." They'd seen so much. So much she couldn't explain--yet. Then, a stanza that seemed to stand out, stark and rife with meaning she didn't want to think about. "Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair, I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved." She closed the book and stared at the computer screen, remembering endless days and nights when she'd feared Mulder had died in a burning boxcar in New Mexico.... Her marquee-style screen saver had kicked in, displaying a scrolling quote from a song she'd heard and liked. Alanis Morissette, HEAD OVER FEET. "You are the bearer of unconditional things You held your breath and the door for me Thanks for your patience You're the best listener that I've ever met You're my best friend, best friend with benefits What took me so long?" She grabbed the mouse and clicked on the e-mail program. Grabbing Mulder's address from her on-line address book, she composed a message. M, Back from getting a life. Not all it's cracked up to be. BTW, re the quote: It's from "In Memorium" by Tennyson. Made me cry. So, was your dish tasty?" S She went to the bedroom to wash off her makeup and change into pajamas. * * * * * Mulder got back to his apartment just before midnight, after walking a couple of hours through the streets of Boston. He checked his e-mail, not really expecting anything but unable to deny his curiosity. He couldn't suppress a smile when he saw Scully's name and noted the time of the e-mail post. 11:21 p.m. So she'd gotten home at a reasonable time. Of course, he thought as his finger hovered over the mouse button, prepared to pull up the text of her message, it could also mean she and the professor were settled in for the night. His smile faded, turned upside down. He took a deep breath and clicked. Scanned her note quickly, bracing for the worst. Relaxed. Read it one more time. Grinned broadly. Reached for the keyboard. * * * * * Scully was turning off the lights when she realized she'd forgotten to turn off the computer. She crossed the room and was about to shut down the power when she saw the e-mail icon. DR-LUV already? He'd probably followed her with his night goggles or something. She sat down and opened the e-mail. Her heart quickened. Mulder. She quickly pulled up his note. S, Yeah, getting a life sucks. And no, the dish wasn't the least bit appetizing. Needed more spice. Boston's nice this time of year. Any vacation time saved up yet? M Scully smiled. End of #2 PLEASE COME TO BOSTON, by Kenny Loggins (I think) is used very briefly and without permission. But it always makes me cry, so I thought it fit. TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION No. 3: November Please Come to Boston By Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com Dana Scully took pains to make a quiet approach to the last office in the FBI Boston Field Office suite. A secretary had pointed her in the right direction, not hiding her interest. Apparently Fox Mulder's reputation had not only preceded him but made him something of a sex symbol among some of the female staff. Scully tried not to let herself think about it. After his one apparently disastrous date with the psych professor, he'd never mentioned another woman, on the phone or in writing. That didn't mean he was still playing the monk, of course. But at least Scully had room to believe what she found comfortable to believe. She found him in the end office as she'd been told. It was a tiny room, more cramped even than their basement hovel back at the J. Edgar Hoover building. But here there was light and warmth. Afternoon sunshine streamed through the window, and Mulder and another agent were making use of the illumination to study some slides Mulder held up to the light. "Look at the eyes," the unknown agent said. "Do I have to?" Mulder had his back to her, but Scully could tell by the sound of his voice that he was grimacing. She had a feeling she knew why, considering how she'd just spent the last four hours. "Looks like some kind of weird allergic reaction." The other agent took the slide from Mulder and held it closer to his eyes. "Swelling and redness around the eyes and nose." Mulder nodded. "It's a reaction to a retrovirus caused by a toxin not native to this particular part of the solar system." Scully smiled and took a step into the office. "Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials, Agent Mulder?" He whirled around, eyes widening. A big, boyish grin spread across his face, and she realized just how seldom she'd seen him smile that way in all the time she'd known him. "Kinda hard not to when they're always kicking your ass." He crossed the room and gave her a swift hug. "What are you doing here? And please tell me you aren't about to get back on a plane to D.C." "I'm here on a consult, and I don't have to be back in D.C. until Monday morning." "Great!" He looked over his shoulder, waving the other agent over. "Scully, this is Kelvin Thacker. I'm trying him out as my partner this week." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "We're still working on the the skirt thing." Thacker held out his hand. "And you must be the enigmatic Dr. Scully Mulder can't stop talking about." "Nice to meet you." Scully cut her eyes at Mulder as she shook Thacker's hand. "We'll talk later," she murmured to her former partner. He smiled. "So, how many bizarre, obscure or insane theories has he dropped on you so far, Thacker?" she asked. "One or two." Thacker smiled. Scully decided she liked this man. He was a handsome black man about Mulder's age, seemingly witty and good-natured. Of course, he'd have to be to put up with Mulder, she thought with affection. She squelched a moment of jealousy. "So what's your consult?" Mulder asked, his arm still draped over Scully's shoulders. The heavy warmth felt good, Scully thought. "This." She tapped the slide in his hand. "Think the mighty morphin bounty hunter is back?" "God, I hope not." She still shuddered when she thought of that---that thing, clothing himself in Mulder's shape while he brutally attacked her in a Germantown, Maryland, motel room. Mulder tightened his arm around her, no doubt remembering his own nightmare encounter with the bounty hunter. He'd almost died. She realized belatedly that Thacker was staring at them. "Mighty morphin what?" he asked. Scully looked up at Mulder. Don't ask me to try to explain this one, she thought. "I'll tell you about it later, Thacker." Mulder released her, robbing her of his warmth. "So, are you through here, Scully?" "Yes. I finished the autopsy about a half hour ago. It's definitely the retrovirus." Mulder nodded, as if he was sure all along. Which he probably was. "There were reports of an altercation taking place in the alley where the body was found. My bet is, the deceased tried to mug somebody he should've steered clear of. Maybe not our particular bounty hunter, but one like him." She tried not to shiver. "Well, my part's done. I'm about to hop in my rental car and look for a hotel for the weekend. I'm trusting you to come up with a properly shabby motor court that'll make me feel right at home." He flashed a lop-sided grin. "I know just the place. Chateau Mulder." "Unh-unh." She shook her head, trying to ignore the way her heart jerked into higher gear at the mere thought. "You don't even own a bed anymore, and I'm not sharing that couch with you." "I own a bed now. I had to buy one when Mom came for a visit last month. It's all yours." "Because you still sleep on the couch?" His sheepish grin was her answer. She sighed. He could always beat her with those little boy expressions of his. "Oh, all right. Head me in the right direction." He jotted down a quick set of directions. "Thacker and I have to finish up here, but I'll be there before seven." "Is there anything to cook at your place?" He looked suitably insulted. "One or two things." She couldn't wait to see what that meant. "I'll whip up something for dinner." She turned to Thacker and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Agent Thacker." "Believe me, Agent Scully, it's my pleasure." Scully gave Mulder's hand a quick squeeze. "See you at your place." She headed for the door. Behind her, she heard Thacker murmur, "Wow, Mulder-- sharp-shooter, great legs and she cooks, too?" I'll take that as a compliment, Scully thought. * * * * * Mulder had always taken great pride in his self-control, for he was at heart a man of deep emotions and fierce desires to be constantly kept in check. Despite most people's assumption to the contrary, he was no loose cannon, living from one reaction to another. He made calm, calculated choices, albeit based on his unorthodox view of the world. He set priorities, made sacrifices, put aside his more primal impulses to accomplish a greater good. But today, he just couldn't get his mind of the fact that Scully was waiting at his apartment for him to get home. Not even the prospect of tracking down an alien life form could lure his mind back to the job at hand. At five-fifteen that afternoon, Thacker threw up his hands. "For God's sake, Mulder, just go home and see her. You're not concentrating, and besides, sixty hours a week is enough for anybody. The weekend guys can analyze these statements and have the reports ready for you on Monday morning. Go. See your friend." Mulder didn't argue. He grabbed his coat and jogged down to the parking lot to pick up his Taurus. A dried out air freshener dangled from the rear view mirror, reminding him of stakeouts past. The past three months had been hell, trying to break in a partner. Thacker made number four. Mulder knew his ASAC was getting a little impatient with Mulder's inability to "work well with others." It wasn't like he didn't try. But his partners didn't know when to talk and when to shut up. They asked him inane questions about the X-Files that Scully, even in the very first tenuous days of their partnership, had been way too smart to ask. They didn't smell like fresh soap and sunshine, the way Scully did. Okay, that was probably asking too much. He could admit that. He thought Thacker might be working out. He was quiet, smart, and minded his own business. He didn't blow a gasket when Mulder proposed one of his "out there" theories, but he didn't let Mulder walk over his own rational take on the case, either. He wasn't Scully, but he was going to be all right. Mulder thought he was going to be all right, too--on the job, at least. He was past those first horrible nights when he'd skated on the edge of sheer panic, wondering how he was going to handle the complete and utter upheaval of his life. Ever since he'd met Scully, whenever his professional and personal life had been ground up and churned out (which had happened more times than he could count), he made it through the torture and escaped more or less intact. That was Scully's doing, anchoring him, keeping him from hurtling wildly into the stratosphere of madness. Now, suddenly, his professional and personal lives were chugging along smoothly enough, but his anchor was far away. Still within reach, thank God, e-mail and cellular phones. But too damned far away. Until now. He turned into the parking lot of his brownstone apartment building. A shiny new rental car was parked three slots down, and he knew it was hers. He raced up the stairs to his third floor apartment and pushed open the door. Scully lay stretched out on his couch, talking on the phone. She waggled her fingers at him as he closed the door behind him. "Yeah, he's here now. Just walked in." Mulder shrugged off his overcoat and tossed it toward the wooden coat tree by the door. It hooked on the first try. "Who's on the phone?" he asked softly. Samantha, she mouthed silently, then spoke into the phone. "Yeah, don't worry. I have ways of making him bend to my will." He arched his eyebrows, and she gave him one of her patented Scully smiles. His stomach curled up in a hot little knot at the familiar sight. God, he'd missed her. "We'll see you in about an hour. Bye." She hung up the phone and sat up. "You're home earlier than I expected." "Time off for good behavior." He loosened his tie and looked down at her. Gone was the tailored pearl-gray suit and sensible black pumps. Scully had changed clothes, donning a pair of faded denim jeans and a body-hugging long- sleeved black t-shirt. Her face was scrubbed and free of make-up, her copper-fire hair was mussed, and her small white feet were bare. In six years of knowing Scully, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd seen her look this relaxed. That fact probably saved their partnership, because this Dana Scully was T-R-O-U-B-L-E. He looked down at his tie, where his faltering fingers were taking way too long to unravel the Windsor knot. "Hmm, no unrecognizable smells wafting in from the kitchen. What, you couldn't find the Spaghetti-O's?" "We're meeting Samantha and Preston for dinner. At a pool hall on Bennett Street. She said you'd know it." He did. Samantha was almost obsessed with playing pool. She loved the challenge to her mathematical mind, gauging all the elements of space, time, gravity and trigonometry to create the perfect bank shot. He grinned at the thought. He bet Scully, with her undergraduate degree in physics, was hell on wheels in a pool hall, too. "So you're finally going to meet Thurston Howell the Third." "Preston Powell, Jr.," she corrected with a chuckle. "Mulder, you're worse than my brothers, and I didn't think that was possible." "I don't believe you have brothers, Scully. I've never seen them, except in photos. And those can be faked." She looked down her nose at him, bringing back a hundred warm memories with that one little expression. "Must be an X-File." "Get your shoes on, Scully. The pool hall's within walking distance. I'm going to change and we'll go." She knelt on the couch and leaned toward him, sea-blue eyes teasing, as he walked past. "Don't change too much, Mulder." Yep. Trouble with a capital "T" he thought, escaping to the bedroom. * * * * * The pool hall was little more than a hole in the wall, decorated in garish colors and filled with people and noise. Coming in from the November cold, Scully felt as if she were walking into a wall of sheer heat. She unzipped the brown bomber jacket her brother Bill had sent her for her birthday last February and flapped the edges to let in some air. "Whoo! Turn down the heat!" she muttered. Mulder glanced at her. "The sweaty atmosphere is part of the charm." "Are we early?" Scully glanced around, looking for Mulder's dark-haired younger sister. It took a double take to recognize her. "My God, Mulder, is that Samantha?" Mulder nodded. "She looks great, doesn't she?" Scully shook her head in disbelief. Though she and Mulder's sister talked often on the phone or over the Internet, she'd met Samantha face to face only briefly, just over eight months ago. Samantha had emerged from a burning warehouse in Baltimore with no memory of how she'd gotten there or or what had happened during the six weeks she'd been missing from her life as another woman. She knew only that her real name was Samantha Mulder, she had a brother named Fox, that she had lived in Chilmark, Massachusetts. She remembered small snatches of events from the night she disappeared over twenty five years earlier, then nothing for three years until she awoke in a South Carolina hospital with full amnesia at the age of eleven. Her adoptive parents had given her the name Sarah Chandler. Once she'd recovered from the smoke inhalation after the Baltimore fire back in late February, Mulder had taken her and their mother back to Massachusetts for a period of readjustment. Scully hadn't seen Samantha since, but she still remembered how she'd looked, lying in a narrow bed at Johns Hopkins Medical Center. That woman had been pale, haunted, thin. The woman bent over the pool table in the corner absolutely sparkled with health and happiness. Scully felt a little niggle of envy. After all Samantha had been through, after all the lost time-- Maybe I can find that kind of peace, too-- Samantha glanced up and grinned, looking for all the world just like her big brother Fox. Scully's breath caught in her throat. Mulder waved and pressed his hand against Scully's back, urging her forward. Samantha propped her pool cue against the table and murmured something to a tall, handsome man with dark hair and laughing green eyes. Preston Powell, Jr., Scully guessed. "Dana!" Samantha launched herself at Scully, catching her by surprise. But Scully recovered quickly, hugging Mulder's sister with a surge of affection. She was a female version of Mulder, Scully thought, all puppy-dog eyes and a winsome smile. "Fox, how are you?" The green-eyed man held out his hand. Scully glanced up to see how Mulder would react to his sister's boyfriend calling him by his first name. Mulder cut his eyes back at her, flashing her a look that told her he was grimacing inside, but he shook Preston's hand and made a polite reply. "Preston, this is my part--" He stopped, glancing at Scully again, a pained expression in his eyes. Her heart squeezed in her chest. She took a deep breath and held out her hand. "Dana Scully. Mulder and I used to work together in D.C." "I've heard all about you, Dr. Scully." "Please, call me Dana." "Let's grab a booth," Samantha suggested. "I'm starving!" As Scully and Mulder followed Samantha and Preston toward a corner booth, Mulder bent his head close to Scully's. "'Please, call me Dana,'" he mimicked. She rolled her eyes at him, and his mouth twitched. The booth was small and tucked away from the pool hall crowd. Mulder took the seat by the window. Scully scooted in next to him. "So, Dana, Samantha and Fox tell me you're a forensic pathologist?" She smiled at Preston, a little disconcerted that he wanted to talk about her line of work while they were thinking about ordering dinner. "Yeah. That's what I do." Mulder leaned forward slightly. "They don't call her the enigmatic Dr. Scully for nothing." She nudged his ribs with her elbow, then looked up at Preston. "Samantha tells me you're an tax law professor at Harvard? One of my best friends is in tax law." She glanced at Mulder, a faint smile curving her lips. "You remember Lorna, don't you?" Mulder made a little face. "Uh huh." "Tax law must be pretty boring compared to what you and Fox do all day," Preston commented. "Oh, I don't know. I've seen some tax forms that could qualify as federal crimes," Mulder murmured. Preston laughed. "Might even classify them as X-Files, eh, Fox?" Scully stiffened, waiting for Mulder to bristle as usual. But her ex-partner merely smiled. "If the X-Files were still open." Samantha lifted her water glass. "To the X-Files." "Gone but not forgotten," Mulder intoned, clinking his glass against his sister's. Scully looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling like an outsider. Mulder could treat the X-Files lightly now. He'd found what he'd always been looking for--his sister. She'd always known that was his driving force, after all. In his motel room in Oregon, on their very first case, Mulder had told her all about what kept him searching for the truth against all odds. About the bright light and the presence in the room. No big secret, Scully, she thought, rubbing her finger against a little nick in the wooden booth table. You always knew that the X-Files were about Samantha. Not about you, not about your partnership and friendship, not even really about the truth. "Scully?" She looked up at the sound of his voice. "Hmm?" "You didn't toast the X-Files with us." She looked away. "No, I didn't." A thick silence hovered around the booth. Great, Scully thought. Way to go, Dana. Make everybody miserable, why don't you? "Looks like somebody's about to claim your table, Sam." Mulder interrupted the silence, nodding toward the pool table in the corner. Samantha's hazel eyes widened and she shoved Preston out of the booth. "Order us a couple of burgers and fries. Labatt for Preston, I.C.B. Rootbeer for me." They hurried over to the pool table before the couple who were eying their pool cues could make a move. Scully felt even worse. Mulder had just given his sister a signal to get lost so he could talk to Scully. "I'm sorry." It took a second for her to realize that he'd just said the same thing. "It's my fault," she assured him. "I just--there are so many questions we never got to answer. But I'm glad for you, Mulder. Samantha's back, and I can see you finally have a sense of peace--" "You still have the nightmares, don't you, Scully?" His hazel eyes were too intense for comfort. She looked away. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. "What difference would it make? You can't hold my hand for the rest of my life." She took a sip of water. He closed his hand over hers. "I could try." Mulder like this made her want to cry. So sweet and hesitant, like a little boy. She could imagine him with Samantha as a child, half the irritating, know-it-all big brother she knew he must have been, half the gentle, sensitive soul she knew he would always be. She squeezed his hand. "Your arms are long, Mulder, but they're not 400 miles long." "I wish they were." He slipped his arm around her and held her close for a moment. She rested her head against his shoulder. "That's what phones are for, Mulder." She moved away from his touch and flapped her coat again. "Whew, it's really hot in here." "Take off your jacket." She scooted out of the booth and shrugged off the bomber jacket, then slid in the other side of the booth, so she could face him. He leaned forward, and so did she. "Where are you hiding your gun, Scully?" He gestured toward her tight-fitting t-shirt. She smiled. "Purse, Mulder. Where's yours?" "If there were just a dance floor in this place, I'd let you take a guess for yourself." He flashed her his harmless leer, one she'd grown rather fond of over the years. What would he do if she took him up on it? God knows the temptation was almost more than she could bear. She forced herself to change the subject. "I really liked Kelvin Thacker. Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I think he's going to work out. Knows when to keep his mouth shut." She arched one eyebrow. "So that's what made me a good partner?" He shook his head. "No. The secret to your success, Scully, was that you knew when to let me fly and when to haul me back down to earth." He reached across the table and squeezed her hands. "I don't think I'm ever going to find a partner like that again." She knew the feeling. She herself had lost much of her passion for her work, now that Mulder wasn't there to keep things fresh and turned upside down. He'd learned quickly when it was right to push her toward the fantastic and when it was safer to back away. And she knew she'd never find that kind of partner again. He released her hands and sat back. "I'm going to reapply for assignment to D.C. next month. I figure it'll take another six months to process my application. Maybe if I'm a very good boy and eat all my peas, they'll let me come back." He flashed her the lazy grin she missed so badly. She was afraid to hope for that. Despite the recent elections of several sympathetic Congressmen and the fact that Richard Matheson had now been President for two years, she knew there were higher powers than the president and Congress--powers that had separated them and wouldn't gladly allow them back together again any time soon. A transfer back to D.C. wouldn't make them partners again, but anyone who knew them at all would know they would find a way to work with each other. Mulder had found ways to include her in his investigations the first time they were separated. The flukeman case, the sleep eradication case, the sniper in the college bell tower... Duane Barry... She sighed softly. "What is it?" Mulder asked. She shook her head. "Just thinking about how much we went through to find out what was going on, and there's still so much out there we don't know." He nodded. "I still keep looking, you know." "So do I." "We don't have to have the Bureau's support to seek the truth, Scully. It's not the property of the government." "Maybe you should let it go, Mulder." He seemed thrown by her statement. "Let it go?" "You've found Samantha. You can let go." "It wasn't all about Samantha, Scully. You know that." "Samantha's what started it, Mulder. So for you, it can finally be over." "But not for you." She wouldn't lie to him. "No. Not for me." "Sometimes I wonder if I'd done things differently--" She squeezed his hands. "No, Mulder, don't think that way. When I saw Samantha coming out of that warehouse--when I saw in your eyes that it really was her--" She took a deep breath. "It was worth all of it. All of it except--" Her voice faltered. "Melissa." She nodded. "And your father. My biggest regret is that we never caught Krycek." "I haven't stopped looking for him, either." Her smile was grim. "Neither have I." "I talked to your mom yesterday, did she tell you?" Scully shook her head. "Mom's protective of your private times." "You're lucky to have her, you know." "I know." "We got to talking about the old times, back when you were gone. We haven't done much of that, you know. I don't think either of us has been very anxious to relive all of that." She covered his hands with hers. He turned his hands palm up to return the pressure and continued. "Your mom and I were sharing memories about the time you were in the hospital in a coma, and we didn't think you were going to make it. You know, I never told you, and I don't know if Melissa did, but your sister helped me make it through a really dark time." Scully tensed, suddenly wondering what else she might have missed while she was in a coma. The way he talked about Melissa--the affection in his voice-- "She reminded me that I'd never really told you how important you were to me. To the work I was doing and what we were trying to accomplish. And there are other things I've never told you about Melissa and me. About the night she came to my apartment, the night before you regained consciousness." Scully blinked, both terrified and eager to hear what he was about to say. She'd gone over all her old memories of Melissa so many times, she could call them up and replay them at will. She was eager to learn something new, something she'd never known. And scared as hell to find out what part Mulder had played in it. "X had met me in the parking deck at the Bureau that night. He'd set it up so that the people who'd taken you would think I was going to be out of town. He'd planted something in my apartment, something he said they'd want. I was to wait in my apartment for them to arrive and then defend myself. With 'terminal intensity.'" Scully could tell by the tone of Mulder's voice that his last words were a direct quote from X. Her stomach curled into a knot of dread. "What happened?" "I was there. At my apartment. Waiting. They were supposed to be there at 8:17. Around 7:30, Melissa knocked on my door." That was so Melissa, Scully thought. Queen of bad timing. Or, in this case, maybe good timing. "She told me you were weakening. She wanted me to come to the hospital to see you. To tell you goodbye." He stumbled over the word, and his grip on her hands tightened momentarily. "I told her I couldn't come." "But--" He nodded. "I know. I came. Thanks to Melissa. She made me realize I was being a selfish, stupid ass for running around trying to avenge your death when you weren't even dead yet, when I should be there telling you how I felt. Even if you didn't come back to us, she said, at least you'd know how much you meant to me." He smiled suddenly. "What?" she asked when he didn't continue. "She also said that I'd know, too. How much you meant to me. She was right." Scully smiled, though her eyes burned with unshed tears. "So you came to see me." He nodded. I guess I have something else to thank Missy for when we meet again, Scully thought. * * * * * After they finished eating, Samantha and Scully went to play a game of pool. Preston and Mulder stayed at the table for a while, watching the women from a distance. "I like your Scully." Preston took a sip from his mug, his green eyes on Mulder's face. Mulder smiled into his glass of tea. My Scully, he thought. "Yeah, Scully's a hell of a woman." "I didn't know what to expect. Samantha thinks the world of her, of course, but I've heard stories from others--" "From whom?" Mulder lowered his glass of tea. "Well, an old college acquaintance I ran into a few weeks ago, for one. A fellow agent of yours. Tom Colton." Mulder grimaced. "Colton's an ass." The little jerk had royally screwed up an X-Files investigation and almost cost Scully her life, all because of his obsession with climbing the F.B.I. ladder. "Lydia Chamberlain said the same basic thing about Dana," Preston added. He could guess what that was. "What basic thing?" "That she's a cold fish. Hard as nails, cold as ice. I can see it's not true, of course." Preston looked uncomfortable. "I just wonder--" "How they could get such an impression?" Mulder stirred the ice cubes in his tea with his straw. "Scully's a true professional. If she were a man, she'd be called tough and no-nonsense. But because she's a woman, she's called cold. Hard." He clenched his jaw. "Well, if you have any doubts, Powell, let me relieve them for you. Dana Scully has a big, soft heart, a mind that's probably better honed than yours and mine combined, and she's got the touch of an angel or a linebacker, depending on the demands of the circumstances. Those hands--" He waved toward the pool table, where Scully was lining up a shot. "Those hands have bound my wounds, brought me back from death, comforted me, compelled me, restrained me, and once, even shot me." Preston's eyebrows rose, and Mulder grinned. "For my own good," he added. "In the beginning, Scully was sent to put an end to my work. Even she knows that, though I doubt she'll admit it. But in the end, Scully was all that stood between me and failure. Between me and death. I owe her everything." He looked down at the rich red-brown liquid in his glass, suddenly embarrassed by how much he'd just revealed to this man who was systematically taking his sister away from him all over again. He wondered when he had stopped being so tight-lipped, so paranoid. Preston took another sip of Labatt. "I've heard that law enforcement partners can be closer than family. Closer than spouses." Mulder didn't dare answer. "Hmm, looks like Dana's winning." Preston nodded toward the pool table. Mulder looked where he indicated. Samantha stood at one end, arms folded, watching Scully shoot. A little frown creased his sister's face. Mulder recognized the look-- Samantha had always taken games so seriously. Of course, so had he--and taken huge glee in beating her. "Shall we go take sides?" Preston slipped out of the booth and headed for the pool table. Mulder followed. Samantha walked over to stand between them. "I thought she was the queen of logic," she murmured to Mulder. Mulder glanced at his sister, then back at Scully, who was on the other side of the pool table, facing them. She was bent at the waist, her face almost level with the cue ball. Her blue eyes darted back and forth from the white ball to the purple ball at the other end of the table. To put that ball in the corner pocket, Mulder saw, she'd have to make a hell of a bank shot. Eyes still tracing the angles from the cue ball to the purple ball, Scully eased back and positioned her cue stick. She began to move the tip of the stick across her index finger, setting a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm. Then, she did something unexpected. She closed her eyes. Mulder watched, fascinated, as she continued to weave the cue stick back and forth in front of the ball, her eyes closed, her face tight with concentration. Then, like a snake striking, she jabbed the cue stick forward. The cue ball spun and banked, rebounding in a straight line for the purple ball. They struck with a "crack" and the purple ball rolled into the corner pocket. "I'll be damned," Preston murmured. Scully opened her eyes slowly. A little smile flitted across her face as she saw Mulder watching her. Her next shot was more complicated. She followed the same strange ritual, but this time she missed--though not by much. Samantha breathed a little sigh of relief. "Thought I'd never get to shoot again." She approached the table, and Scully crossed to greet Mulder and Preston. "Nice shootin', Tex," Preston said. He went around to stand near Samantha. Mulder just looked at her, not saying anything. She looked back, a little twinkle of amusement in her eye. "What?" "That was downright--" "Spooky?" She leaned toward him. "Do you think I'm spooky?" Touche, Mulder thought. "I assume, if you're still you, that there's some sort of logical, scientific explanation for what I just saw." "Of course." "Care to share?" he asked when she didn't explain further. "I'll do better. I'll show you. After this game is over." Samantha had just missed a shot, so Scully returned to the table. She made quick work of the last three shots, dispatching the eight ball with amazing ease, considering the tricky angle. Samantha sighed and handed her cue stick to Mulder. "See if you can do any better." She and Preston headed back toward the table. "Okay, so spill, Scully. What's with the little trance?" Scully chuckled. "Actually, it's a Melissa thing. Sort of." She took his hand and drew him over to the table. "We grew up playing pool. It's a military base rec hall tradition. And, well, you know Missy. One day she came up with this--thing she did. I guess some people would call it visualization. In her mind, she saw the ball go into the pocket--then made it happen for real. Sometimes it didn't work, but mostly it did. Making her very unpopular with my brothers--and me." Scully racked up the balls and removed the triangular rack. "But she couldn't keep a secret worth a damn, especially if I gave her one of my pitiful little sister looks." "I know the one you're talking about." Mulder smiled. She chuckled. "She told me what she was doing. How she looked at the balls, how they lay on the table, and then how she'd close her eyes and see herself hitting the ball into the pocket. Then, with her eyes still closed, she'd do it for real. With amazing success." "So you tried this visualization? You? My favorite little skeptic?" "Mulder, try it." She took the first shot, scattering the tight triangular cluster of pool balls across the green felt table top. "There's your shot--not too hard. Four ball in the side pocket." Mulder bent over the cue stick and gauged the shot. "What am I supposed to do?" "You see the cue ball. You see the four ball. You see the side pocket, and you see the angle needed to propel the ball into the pocket. This should be easy for a guy with a memory like yours." "Okay, I've got it. Now what?" She moved in behind him, resting her hands lightly on his hips. "Now, relax." Impossible, Mulder thought, deeply aware of the pressure of her fingers. "Line up your shot the way you think you should make it based on what you see." He shifted the pool cue and readied himself for the shot. "Now, close your eyes, and visualize the scene in front of you. Remember what it looked like, what the angles were, what the distances were. Can you see it?" He nodded. "Make any adjustments you think are necessary in the position of your stick." There was a double entendre waiting to be made there somewhere, but Mulder was too mesmerized to do it. He shifted the stick a fraction of an inch to the right. "Okay." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "Now, shoot." He obeyed, keeping his eyes shut. There was a satisfying "crack." He opened his eyes in time to see the four ball skitter into the side pocket. He felt a surge of excitement, and turned to stare at Scully. Her blue eyes danced with suppressed laughter. "Oh, Mulder, there's nothing paranormal about it. All you're doing by shutting your eyes is allowing your cognitive mind to take over, without any external distractions to alter the concrete laws of physics. You set the distances and angles in your mind, almost like feeding data into a computer. Then, you sit back and let your mind do its work." "And Melissa taught you this?" "She gave me the idea. I was the one who figured out the physics tie-in. Which is how I became the terror of the Annapolis Recreation Center." She smiled. "I paid for my first car with my pool winnings. To this day my mother thinks I earned it by mopping the rec center floors after school." He grinned. "Your secret's safe with me." "It's still your shot." He shook his head and handed her the pool cue. "You're the physics undergrad. I'm a psychologist. I can't figure out angles as well as you, although I can probably help you work through performance anxiety should the need arise." She propped the pool cues against the table. "Chicken." He held out his hand. "Let's blow this honky-tonk, Scully. Looks like it might snow, and you know how I love a little stroll in the snow." "Yeah. Right." She tossed him another "cut the crap, Mulder," look, just as he'd hoped. They made their goodbyes to Samantha and Preston and walked out into the brisk November air. The clouds were low and thick over the horizon, and the first few snowflakes had begun to float down, melting when they hit the pavement. But the temperature was below freezing, and Mulder knew the snow would start sticking soon. Maybe we'll get snowed in, he thought. It wouldn't be the first time. Still, it was scary what a tempting thought that was, even after all these years. He'd always found Scully attractive, even in the very early days when she had tried so hard to be the consummate professional, and he'd been sure she was a spy sent to ensure his downfall and the demise of the X-Files. Then, as she proved her loyalty and honor time and again, he'd been unable to hide behind his distrust. As recently as eight months ago, he'd come close to pursuing a very unprofessional relationship with his partner. But circumstances had intervened, and the time had passed. Maybe that was for the best. As it stood, his friendship with Scully was the most personally satisfying relationship he'd ever had--ever hoped to have. He would always find her attractive, always wonder what might have been if circumstances were different, but he would never again risk losing her. Not to appease his curiosity--or his hormones. * * * * * Scully awoke Saturday morning to impossibly bright light pouring in the windows of her bedroom. Wait. Not her bedroom. She was in Boston. At Mulder's. She rolled up to a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. Her travel alarm clock sat on the small walnut bedside table, but she'd failed to set it. The glowing red numbers showed 8:30 a.m. She'd slept in--for her, at least. She stretched and got out of bed, padding barefoot across the cold hardwood floor to the window. Outside, snow covered everything but the road, which was speckled by grayish slush where the snow had been marred by traffic. Though clouds still obscured the sun, the snow was blinding, making her squint. She shivered and pulled on her terrycloth robe. Through her closed door she could hear soft sounds. A radio or a television? She opened the door and walked down the hall to the living room. Mulder sat on the couch, eating cold cereal and watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon, his sock-clad feet propped up on the nicked coffee table in front of the sofa. He flashed her a grin and took another bite of cereal. She couldn't resist the urge to ruffle his already unkempt hair. "Captain Crunch?" "Sugar Bombs." He held up the bowl. "Wanna bite?" "Pass. Got anything else?" "Bagels. No promises about how fresh they are--" "I'll take my chances." She found a bag of blueberry bagels in the refrigerator and took one out. She toasted it in the small toaster oven on the counter and took it back to the living room along with a glass of milk. Mulder patted the sofa cushion next to him, and she sat down. A new cartoon was coming on. "Mmm, Pepe LePew!" She took a bite of the bagel. On screen, the animated skunk had cornered a chihuahua wearing a black and white striped fur coat. "You are the aroma of spring flowers that bloom in the spring!" he declared in his Charles Boyer accent. "Oh, check this out..." She waved toward the television. The panting chihuahua lurked behind a tree, carrying a large stick, waiting to waylay Pepe. Then, boom! She whacked him and ran. Pepe lingered, animated stars swirling around his head. He looked into the camera--well, where the camera would have been had there been a camera--and murmured, "Coquette!" Scully laughed aloud. "I love that line!" "I've used that one myself." Mulder scooped up another spoonful of cereal. "You have had more than your share of conks on the head." "I'm on the Aetna Life and Casualty hit list." She smiled. "Been there. Done that. So, do you have to work today?" "Nope." "We're just going to sit here and watch cartoons?" "We could go outside and have a snowball fight." She shivered. "No, thank you." "We could make out here on the couch like teenagers." She gave him her patented Scully look. He grinned. "Or not." She should have called him on that, she thought. Now that they weren't partners, she could afford to relax some of the barriers. Not that she really thought he'd try anything with her. Not now. Still...her curiosity nagged her. What would have happened if she said okay? Would he have blushed and stammered? Or would he have started groping her like a kid on the prom date of his life? And, perhaps the more important question was, what would she have done if he'd taken the dare? The answer hovered in the back of her mind, daring her to bring it out to the open. But she didn't, quickly slamming the door on the thought. Not all that long ago she'd come to the conclusion that what she and Mulder had was too special to risk. They were two halves of a whole, and they'd gotten there without falling into bed or declaring undying love or all those things people had been assuming about them for six years. It wasn't that she didn't find Mulder attractive. She did. God knows she did. Sometimes all her inner resources had to go toward keeping her mind off Mulder's lean body, sensuous mouth and sexy bedroom eyes. But in the end, the thing that existed between them, the thing that she cherished most, transcended anything physical or mental. She and Mulder shared an almost spiritual connection, one that she'd protect against any foe, including the weakness of her own body. * * * * * After cartoons, they watched football. One game after the other. Mulder usually couldn't stand keeping still that long, but somehow with Scully there on the couch with him, he was loath to move. She was such a steadying influence in his life, almost like some sort of drug that kept him from plunging into madness. Even when she wasn't here with him, he heard her voice in his head, warning him of dangers, quietly questioning his more off the wall theories, helping him stay focused and on track. He never liked to think about what his life would be like had she not walked into his office six years earlier. Truth was, he knew he wouldn't be alive today if it weren't for her. Around 1:00 he opened the can of Spaghetti-Os and they shared it for lunch while watching Florida State beat Florida on a last minute field goal. After that, they watched the Alabama vs. Auburn game. "Scully, did you know that many people in Alabama believe that Coach Paul 'Bear' Bryant's ghost haunts the end zones at Legion Field in Birmingham, where the so-called "Iron Bowl" used to be played between Alabama and Auburn every year?" He sounded like he was reciting another X-File, he realized. He couldn't stifle a grin. "Why yes, Mulder. Yes, I do." She quirked one eyebrow at him. "But you're not convinced?" he asked, anticipating her upcoming diatribe with barely hidden glee. She shook her head. "Mulder, Paul Bryant is widely held to be one of the top college football coaches ever to step on the field. He had an amazing record of wins that has never been equalled in Division I-A history. He won his last game before his retirement, and by all accounts, his death was a peaceful one. Even if I believed in the existence of ghosts, I doubt that Bryant had any sort of unfinished goal that would keep him from passing quietly into the afterlife." Mulder smiled, well pleased with her comeback. "Maybe he just comes back for the great barbecue." Her expression softened a little. "Maybe." He wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking-- remembering a little jaunt to beef country--specifically a barbecue joint where he and Scully had gotten down and dirty with some ribs. She'd looked so cute with that sauce dribbling down her chin that he'd forgotten his strict "hands-off" policy and wiped her mouth for her. He'd wondered then if Scully ever thought of him as something more than her partner and best friend. He'd thought she might, once. Just before they found Samantha, he and she both had contemplated the possibilities of deepening their friendship. Though they had never made that final move toward each other, Mulder still wondered if she ever watched him while he wasn't looking (the way he had watched her) and thought, what if? He thought about what ifs. Especially now that she was so far away. What if I'd kissed away the barbecue sauce like I really wanted to do? What if he turned and kissed her right now? She was so close. All he had to do was turn his head, bend a few inches, and-- A burring sound made him jump. "Yours or mine?" Scully asked, reaching into the pocket of her robe and pulling out her phone. "Mine." She turned it on and answered. Another burring sound came from the counter in the kitchen. Mulder went to answer his own cellular phone. "Mulder." "We've got another body, Mulder." Thacker's voice was tense. "Looks like the same thing as before. They're taking her to the morgue at Boston General. I'm at the office, pulling all our files on the previous case." "Damn. Okay, I'll meet you there." He turned off the phone and looked across at Scully. Her face was tense. "Guess you heard about the new body?" she asked. He nodded. While she showered, he dressed and straightened the mess they'd made in their couch potato mode, then dressed himself. Soon she emerged from the spare bedroom, neatly dressed in a black trouser suit, her hair towelled dry and shining like copper. She had packed her overnight bag and carried it out. "If things go like they have before, I'll be at the morgue all night. I'll probably have to catch a nap there at the hospital." Her eyes spoke her regrets. "And my flight back to D.C. leaves tomorrow at noon." "I'll probably be working late, too." He took the bag from her. "Come on, I'll walk you to your car." He put her bag in the trunk and went around to the driver's side of the car to give her the keys. She unlocked the door but didn't open it, turning to look at him. "Mulder, this weekend--" He touched his fingers to her lips, hushing her. "I know." "I'll call before I catch the plane back." "You'd better." She surprised him by hurling herself against him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. He felt her nose nuzzle his collarbone, and his insides melted into a puddle. He stroked her hair, not trusting himself to speak. Then she pulled away, looking down as she straightened her jacket. "I'll call," she repeated. She opened the door and slid behind the steering wheel. He watched her drive away, then walked to his car. As he cranked the engine, he ejected the tape in the player so he could check what the news reports might be saying about the new body. The radio was tuned to a soft rock station, surprising him until he remembered that the last time he'd listened to the radio, Samantha had been in the car, station surfing like a teenager. He was about to change the station when he heard the words of the song playing. "Please come to Boston for the Springtime..." He thought about Scully and smiled. Spring wasn't that far away. End of #3