TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION No. 5: January Untold Stories by Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com At the ripe old age of 37, Fox Mulder was experiencing a bout of very childish self-pity. If Scully were here, he thought, she'd punch my arm and tell me to get over it. But Scully wasn't there, so Mulder indulged the urge to feel sorry for himself. After all, the sister he'd sacrificed the greater part of his life to find had just told him he wasn't going to walk her down the aisle at her upcoming wedding. "Fox, I'm sorry." She lay her hand on his arm, her hazel eyes apologetic. "But Ray Chandler has been my father since I was twelve. He's been good to me, and I owe him this much." The anguish in his sister's eyes pulled him out of the worst of his hurt. "I understand, Samantha. I really do. I just--" She hugged him fiercely. "I know. And I want you to be a groomsman. Preston does, too." She looked up at him, smiling slightly. "You know, the groomsmen will be escorting the bridesmaids down the aisle. If you're really nice to me, I can arrange your pick of the bridesmaids." Mulder smiled. "Well, when you put it that way...." "So, you going to sit out here in the cold all night?" She released him and pulled her jacket more tightly around her. "Just a few more minutes." He managed a smile. "Go on back in; I'll be there soon." She left him alone on the veranda of his mother's Greenwich cottage. Mulder slouched a little deeper into the Adirondack chair, propping his feet up on the cedar railing that circled the porch. The mid-January night was icy cold, but he felt better out here than he did inside that warm room, watching his sister laugh and talk with the Chandlers, the people who spent all those years with his sister while he was going out of his mind trying to find out where she was. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. They'd had her all along. It was his turn. The door opened and shut behind him, and he heard light, limping footsteps approach. The soft, floral scent of his mother's perfume filled his nostrils, and he felt her hand in his hair. "It's cold out here, Fox." "I'm okay." She continued to stroke his hair, reminding him of so many times so long ago when her hands had been able to wipe away the tears and the hurts. "I feel terrible for being jealous, Fox. I can see what good care the Chandlers took of Samantha. But I should have been the one--" He leaned his head back against his mother's stomach. "I know." "I thought if we ever found her again, we would just pick up from where we left off. I never really thought about her having another life, another family." The wistfulness in his mother's voice made him unutterably sad. He sighed. "I thought that when I found her, everything would be like it was before. I guess I convinced myself that finding her would bring my family back together again." "I'm so sorry, son." She shifted behind him, and he felt her lips against his temple. "I have been such a bad mother to you, haven't I?' He stood and hugged her tightly. "No. I haven't been a good son." "You have. I'm so proud of you, Fox. I've never told you that enough, but I want to start now." She looked up at him, her hazel eyes like mirrors of his own. "Maggie Scully told me about the time when Dana was missing. How you helped her cope with the fear, with not knowing. I never let you do that for me. My anger and grief shut me off from you when you needed me--and when I needed you. But I won't do that anymore. I love you, Fox. I want you to know that you've always been in my heart since the day I found out that I was expecting, and that you will be in my heart until the day I die." He hugged her again, fighting the urge to cry like a baby. "I love you, too, Mom." Caroline stepped back after a moment, laughing softly through her tears. "Look at us, Fox. This isn't a typical Mulder family moment, is it?" He threw back his head and laughed, feeling a lot better. When their laughter subsided, Caroline put her hand on his arm. "Coming back inside?" "In a minute. I'm going to make a phone call, then I'll be right in. I need to check on some unfinished business I left in Boston." "All right." Caroline squeezed his arm and went back into the house. Mulder pulled out his cellular phone and dialled Kelvin Thacker's home phone. Thacker's wife Virginia answered. "Hi, Ginny, it's Mulder. Is Kelvin around?" "Sure, just a minute." A moment later, Thacker's velvety voice greeted him. "How's Connecticut?" "Cold. Did the report from Concord ever get there?" "Yeah. It was a false alarm. Cause of death was anaphylactic shock from a spider bite." Mulder frowned, unconvinced. The body found that morning in Concord, New Hampshire, had shown all the signs of the retrovirus. "Who was the M.E.?" "They called in an FBI pathologist, Mulder. Somebody you might know--a Dr. Dana Scully?" Thacker's voice rippled with laughter. Mulder relaxed. "Then it was a spider bite. Did you get to talk to her?" "No. Apparently they just flew her in for the post mortem-- she'd sent out an advisory to all the field offices on the East Coast, asking for a consult when bodies showed symptoms like the ones that turned up here back in November. I think she was supposed to be heading back to D.C. tonight." Damn, Mulder thought. Concord was less than two hours drive from Boston. If he were home, she might have been tempted to visit. But Scully knew this was the weekend he and his mother were meeting Samantha's adoptive family. "Well, okay, Thacker. I guess I'll see you Monday." He hung up the phone and tucked it in his jacket pocket. The night sky was clear and sprinkled with stars; he leaned over the railing to get a better look. He'd always been fascinated by space, by the utter infinity of it. Though the past few years had made him aware that extraterrestrial lifeforms were not responsible for a great many of the activities he'd always thought, he remained convinced that life existed beyond this small planet in the vast universe. He'd seen far too much to go back now. The truth was out there. He missed the X-Files more than he expected. Having Samantha back hadn't quenched his thirst for answers, only whetted his appetite to know more. He wanted to know exactly who had taken her from him in the first place--that question had never been answered fully. He wanted to know what had happened to Scully. What they had done to her. Whether she was really all right or if there was some time bomb ticking away inside of her, waiting... waiting. He shivered. God, what would he do if something happened to Scully? The telephone in his pocket burred softly. He answered. "Mulder." "Hi, it's me." "Scully." Her voice, tired and soft, warmed him nevertheless. "I was just thinking about you." "Good thoughts or bad thoughts?" "Depends on how you define 'bad,'" he answered, leering with his voice. He could almost hear her eyes rolling. "How are things in Greenwich?" "Um, interesting. I'll tell you about it later. Are you still in Concord?" "How'd you know I was in Concord?" "I talked to Thacker. We heard about the body in Concord and thought the indications were--interesting. But just a spider bite?" "Well, it was no ordinary spider, Mulder. It was a glass viper spider--extremely rare and not indiginous to the Northern Hemisphere, so I wouldn't rule out murder." "How'd you figure it out?" "The glass viper burrows into its victim, lays eggs and dies. Then the larvae feed off the dead flesh after the poison kills the victim." "Mmm, nice." "I found the spider still there under the victim's arm. I've passed things along to the Concord P.D. and it's up to them to figure out who'd import a rare spider just to kill a pickpocket." Mulder sat in the Adirondack chair again, frowning. Something was wrong. "Are you okay, Scully? You sound strange." "Just tired. I'm fine, Mulder." Scully's three favorite words, he thought. "Are you about to fly back to D.C.?" "Actually, I'm about twenty minutes out of Boston. I thought I'd catch a plane out of Logan tomorrow. That's why I'm calling--would you mind if I stayed at your place tonight? I could get a motel, but--" "Sure, Scully, mi casa es su casa. But are you sure everything's okay?" "I just--" She sighed softly. The sound made Mulder's stomach curl into a knot. "I met Mark Lacey today." Mulder searched his memory. "The guy who sent the Christmas card to Melissa last month?" "I wrote him back after Christmas to tell him what happened to Melissa. He called me a couple of days ago. He said if I ever got up to New Hampshire to give him a call. The Concord consult seemed almost like an omen--if I believed in such things, of course." Her self-deprecating tone of voice calmed him a little. At least she was feeling well enough to make fun of herself. "So you saw him." "Yeah. We had a good visit." So why didn't it sound that way? Mulder wondered. "Scully, you want me to drive back to Boston tonight and meet you there?" "No, Mulder. I'm fine. I'll tell you all about our visit later, okay? Stay. Have a good time at your mom's. I'll even clean up your place when I get there. Call it my rental fee." "Ha ha. It's in halfway decent shape, lucky for you. Don't shave your legs with my razor or anything." She chuckled softly. "Thanks, Mulder. I owe you." Not in a million years, he thought. He was so far ahead of her in the favor-owing game that she'd never catch up. "Make yourself at home. And call me if you need anything." "I'm fine, Mulder." He rolled his eyes. "You always are, Scully." He hung up the phone and went back inside his mother's house. Samantha sat on the couch, sandwiched between her adoptive parents. Their animated conversation made him feel like an interloper. He caught his mother's worried glance and wiped the grim expression from his face as he retreated into the kitchen. Caroline followed him, her eyes still concerned. "Is something wrong, Fox?" He shook his head. "No. I just talked to Scully and--" He shook his head again. "She had to go to Concord today for an autopsy consult, and she's staying at my place tonight and catching a plane out of Logan in the morning." "And you wish you were there instead of here?" Mulder looked at his mother, expecting a guilt-trip, only to find gentle understanding and acceptance in her expression. Where is my real mother, he thought with a hidden smile, and who is this alien taking her place? "I guess--yeah. I wish I were there." "Why don't you drive back to Boston? You're not comfortable here--" "Mom, it's not you--" She nodded. "I know. It's hard for me to see Samantha and her--her parents, too." "I feel like a selfish ass. The Chandlers are good people, and half of me feels like kissing their feet for taking such good care of her." "And the other half wants to ask why they didn't try harder to find out who she was and where she really belonged." He nodded. "I know that's not fair. I assume they tried." "She wasn't supposed to be found, Fox. THEY made sure of that." Caroline's voice took on a hard edge that surprised him. For a second, she sounded like Scully at her toughest. "We're lucky that she found us." "We can thank Scully for that," Mulder murmured, remembering his partner's fierce race to save Samantha from the burning warehouse in Baltimore once she'd figured out who the mystery woman really was. "I think I have a lot to thank Dana for." Caroline smiled. "You know, she's not what I expected. When I found out you had given up the woman we thought was Samantha for your partner--" Caroline's eyes clouded. "I didn't know how you could have done that. What could make you choose your partner over your sister." "It wasn't supposed to be a choice. I thought I could save them both." Caroline put her hand on his arm. "I know that. And now that I know Dana, I can understand why you took such risks. She's special." He nodded. "She kept me going, Mom, all those years. When things were so bad--I was so alone, but Scully was there for me when I had no one else--" He stopped, seeing the stricken look in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean--" She blinked back tears. "No, Fox. We've all hidden from the truth for too long. Maybe it's time we stopped. I know I wasn't there for you when you needed me. But I'm here for you now. I hope you know that." He hugged her fiercely. "I do." "So forgive me for a little motherly meddling, but why are you still here? Shouldn't you be on the road back to Boston?" He looked down at her. "Think Samantha will be upset?" "I'll tell her Dana's waiting for you," Caroline said. Yeah, knowing Samantha, she'd fetch his coat and start the car for him. "Are you sure? This weekend will be hard enough without me ditching you." "Do you think Dana needs you?" Not as much as I need her, he thought. "She sounded upset." "Then go to her." He kissed his mother's cheek and went to pack. * * * * * The journal was small, bound with floral print muslin, and smelled like cedar. Mark must have stored it in a chest. Scully ran her fingers down the spine of the book, trying to find the courage to open it and read the darkest secrets of her sister's soul. "I wouldn't give you this if I didn't think she'd want you to read it," Mark had told her. At first glance, he'd been exactly what Scully expected--tall, lean, long hair the color of wheat, honey-gold eyes, tanned and weathered by outdoor work. He was a laborer by day, a painter by night, and the shimmery white crystal around his neck indicated his spiritual leanings. But he was more than that, she'd found out. He was a kind man, an intelligent man. And a lost man. Lost without Melissa. He was grieving her death as if she'd walked out of his life yesterday instead of six years ago. Knowing now what had driven the wedge between them, Scully could understand why they had had no contact in that time. But being apart from Melissa had done nothing to quench his love for her. The strength of his devotion made Scully's breath catch in her throat. For it was familiar. Achingly familiar. "What we lost is what lay between us, in the end. It ripped a hole in the middle of us, and in the end, Mel and I couldn't build a bridge across it." Mark's eyes were old and tired, even though he wasn't too much older than Scully. Something about the look reminded her of Mulder, who'd seen too much pain in his life, too. Mark had gestured at the journal. "She'd want you to have that." Scully had protested. "She didn't even tell us--" "She was going to wait until afterwards. And then afterwards--" Mark shook his head. "Then she couldn't talk about it. But she'd want you to know." Scully tucked her legs under her, settling deeper into the leather cushions of Mulder's sofa. She could almost feel his presence here, giving her courage, as she took a deep breath and opened the journal. * * * * * Mulder glanced as his watch as he neared the I-395 interchange south of Worchester. Almost ten o'clock and he was still well over an hour out of Boston. He thought about calling Scully to let her know he was on the way, but he knew she'd try to talk him into turning around and heading back to Greenwich. Better to just present her with a fait accompli and deal with the fall out in person. He didn't like the way she'd sounded on the phone. Sad and tired. She hadn't sounded so discouraged since-- Since Melissa's death. She'd gone to see Melissa's friend in New Hampshire. She'd said the visit was a good one, but he didn't really believe her. Something was wrong. He'd known Scully too long for her to be able to fool him. Of course, the flip side of that was that he couldn't fool her, either. Before the night was over, he'd have to spill his own sad story, admit his feelings of jealousy and listen to her calm refutation of his irrationality. He couldn't wait to get home. * * * * * Tears slipped down Scully's cheeks as she read her sister's journal. All Missy's hopes and dreams for the future, she'd put in this book as a keepsake for the child she was carrying. The child Scully had never known about. August 6th, 1992 "I saw you today, little spirit. So tiny, just a little seed growing inside me. But I know you will be beautiful and strong and good. Scully women are like tigresses, you know. And you will be another, the doctors say. Another Scully woman. Will you have red hair, too? September 15, 1992 "Your daddy and I have such plans for you, my love. And we laugh about them as we speak, for we know that you'll have to make your own way, just as we did. I suspect that like our parents before us, we'll want to shape you to fit ourselves, but I promise, little spirit, that I will let you follow your own path. Your daddy calls you Daisy because he knows that daisies are my favorite flowers. But I think I want to name you after two people who will come to love you as I do. I think I want to call you Dana Margaret, after your aunt and your grandmother. They are formidable women, sweet spirit. From your grandmother may you inherit her passion and love, and from your Aunt Dana, her strength and intelligence. And from me, my love, may you learn to always embrace the light." December 24, 1992 "I talked to your grandmother Margaret and your Aunt Dana today. I haven't told them about you yet. I almost did, but I want to wait, to present you to them whole and beautiful. On your birthday I'll call and tell them. The doctors say February. Maybe you'll share your birthday with your Aunt Dana." January 29th, 1993 "Soon, my love. The doctor tells me that you will be here soon. I can hardly wait. I think I will call your Aunt Dana when I go into labor with you. She's a doctor, and I think she'd want to be here. She'd tell everyone what to do and make them all crazy, but I know she would take good care of you, and that's all I care about." That was the last entry. Scully closed the journal and tucked her knees up to her chin, tears streaming down her cheeks. Two days after that entry, Mark Lacey told her, Melissa had begun to bleed profusely, and the doctors had induced labor. The baby was full term but fatally flawed; a hole in her aorta and a perforated colon proved too much for even the best doctors. After two emergency surgeries and a valiant two week struggle, Dana Margaret Scully-Lacey had exhausted all her strength. The doctors could do nothing more. And Melissa had taken her baby home to die. "After that," Mark had told Scully, "things between Mel and me fell apart. She couldn't bear to talk to me, to touch me. She had locked up so much grief that I feared for her. Then one day, she left. I never heard from her again." Somehow, Missy had been able to pull herself back together. When she'd told Scully to stop running from her fears and grief after she'd thought that Mulder had been killed, Missy had been speaking from her own experience. She'd found the strength to fight her own demons and reclaim herself. That was what she'd wanted Scully to do, too. The tea pot on the stove whistled, and Scully unfolded herself from the couch and poured herself a cup. She carried the tea over to Mulder's couch and curled up against one arm, listening to the soft strains of the song on the CD, one of several Mark had given her. Melissa's favorites, he'd told her. "All those untold stories All those silent lies We'll never know each other Keeping them deep inside Let's wash away the troubles Keeping us apart Tell those untold stories Let the healing start It's been so long ago that We went our separate ways Now maybe time has changed us And worn the hurt away You look the same as ever I'm glad you're here with me Take a look into my eyes and Tell me what you see. Mark must've held onto this CD in the hopes that one day, Melissa would return to him. Thinking about her sister, about the sadness she'd sometimes seen in the depths of Missy's eyes, Scully wondered if Missy might have found her way back to him in time--if she'd only had more time? Guilt filled her heart with a bitter ache. Scully curled into a tighter ball, enveloped in the softness of Mulder's Patriots jersey. Though it was clean, she imagined she could smell his warm, unique essence clinging to the fibers. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel his strong arms around her, reminding her that she wasn't alone. A soft, furtive sound danced at the edge of her consciousness. For a second, she considered ignoring it. Then her training kicked in and she snapped her eyes open and listened. Someone was outside the door. She heard the softest of footfalls, saw a shadow break the faint thread of light coming from under the door. Heart racing, Scully reached for her gun. She pulled the Sig Sauer from the holster and held it steady in front of her. The door knob rattled, and she cocked the gun. * * * * * Mulder turned the door key as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Scully if she was already asleep. It was almost 11:00 pm, and Scully's day had probably been tiring. But as he cracked the door, he heard the soft click of a gun cocking. He froze. "It's me, Scully. Don't shoot!" He heard the faint bumping noise that told him she'd put her gun on the coffee table. "Mulder, what are you doing here?" Her soft voice was tense. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Scully stood in front of the sofa, her hands on her hips, curvy form outlined by light from the lamp on the table behind her. Mulder's breath caught in his throat as he saw what she was wearing. His Pats jersey. His black silk boxers. They'd never looked better. "Over the phone you sounded like you could use some company." He tore his gaze away from her and turned to lock the door behind him. "I told you to stay at your mom's." "I needed some company." "You had company." "Not your company." She sighed, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She sat down on the sofa and tucked her feet up under her. Mulder had seen Scully emerge from an elevator like a Valkyrie, sweeping to his rescue when he was inches from certain death. He'd seen her face down Army generals and gun-wielding crazies without batting an eye. He'd known for a long time just what a formidable woman Dana Scully was. But looking at her now, curled up on his couch, wearing his clothes--his underwear!--her heart-shaped face soft and vulnerable, he knew he'd never before known just how dangerous she really was. And, in a Mulderesque display of recklessness, he ignored the warning bells in his head and crossed to sit next to her. Her solid warmth next to him felt so good. So right. Her gaze moved over his face as if trying to read his expression. Though her own pain was starkly evident in her sea-mist eyes, she wouldn't tell him what was wrong until he told her his own troubles. Scully had always been the "show me yours and I'll show you mine," type, he thought with a wry twist of his mouth. "Tough day at the old homestead?" she murmured. He sighed. "Nothing like meeting the people who had your sister all those years you spent tearing your gut out looking for her." She touched his arm. "You didn't like them?" "No, I did like them. That's the problem. I can't properly resent them because they're such nice people and they were so good to Samantha." He grimaced. "Hell, considering what a whacked-out family I came from, she was much better off being raised as Sarah Chandler." "You don't mean that, Mulder." He raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't. Not really. No matter how nice they were to her, it doesn't change the fact that somebody took her from us. She should've been with us." Her fingers played lightly at the base of his skull, sliding through his hair. He knew she meant the gesture to be soothing, but it was quickly becoming--not soothing. Downright inflaming. Resisting wayward feelings about Scully seemed so much harder these days. Was it the separation? Or was it the memory of her sweet Christmas kiss? He could still remember the buzz of electricity that had shot through him when her soft lips moved slowly, sweetly over his. Maybe it had just been the mistletoe. Or a potent combination of too much emotion and eggnog. He could think of a dozen perfectly plausible reasons why she'd kissed him--and why it had been nothing more than an aberration, never to be repeated. After all, Mulder wasn't a romantic man--on the contrary, his cynicism toward the idea of true love had served him quite well in the past. But when he looked at Scully, he suddenly found he wanted to believe. Now, more than ever before. * * * * * Scully took the cup of coffee Mulder offered her, knowing that neither of them was likely to sleep. With their emotions so bruised, they would both have nightmares anyway. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I know you wanted to walk Samantha down the aisle." "It makes more sense for Ray Chandler to do it." She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling at his words. He sounded like a little boy trying very hard to be brave even though his heart was breaking. She'd always had a soft spot for little boys. "We're not talking about what makes sense, Mulder. We're talking about how you feel." He grimaced. "You know what they say, Scully." "What?" "The best way to paralyze a roomful of men is to start talking about how you feel." She chuckled. "I'll admit, I'm a lot better talking about other people's feelings than I am my own." "Speaking of your own feelings, are you ever going to tell me about meeting your sister's friend?" She looked down at her hands. She didn't want to talk about this, not even with Mulder. The pain was so raw, so new. She feared losing control in front of him, feared that he would lose respect for her. "I need to know, Scully." His voice was low and caressing. She closed her eyes and let its rough warmth wash over her. "Tell me." She took a deep breath to gather her strength. "Mark and Missy were in love. They were living together in Billings, Montana, six years ago when Missy discovered she was going to have a baby." Once she started, the whole story spilled like floodwaters through a broken dam. She bit back the tears at first, trying to relate the details as if she were reciting the contents of a casefile. But when Mulder took her hands in his, stroking her palms with his long fingers, she felt her control slip. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she choked out the last sad details of Melissa's secret life. "They buried the baby in a plot in the back of their cabin." She gently tugged her hands out of Mulder's grip and wiped the tears streaking down her cheeks. "She never told any of us about it." He touched her cheekbone, brushing away a stray tear. "I'm sorry, Scully. I'm sorry she never told you." "Was it my fault? Did I make her think that she couldn't tell me about her baby? Did she think I would be harsh or unforgiving? Is that how she saw me?" He shook his head. "Missy knew you better than that, Dana." His use of her first name caught her by surprise. Even though Mulder was her closest and dearest friend, he seldom called her by her given name. The unexpectedness was enough to make her catch her breath. He smiled, as if recognizing his slip. "Maybe the pain was too much for her to talk about. It wasn't that she couldn't trust you with it. Maybe she just didn't think she could trust herself." Scully understood. She had kept things from Mulder over the years, not because she didn't trust him but because she didn't want to add to his own emotional burdens. Missy had come back to them at a vulnerable time for the family. Ahab had been gone for such a short time, and Scully herself was in the hospital, one breath from death's door. "We WERE going through one crisis after another," she said aloud. "Dad's death, my brush with death, all the danger you and I were in--" She sipped her coffee, grimacing as she realized it had grown tepid. Mulder took the cup from her and put it on the coffee table. He turned back to her and opened his arms. "Come here." She crawled forward, curling up in the shelter of his arms. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was loud and steady, reassuring her. "Maybe there was just never a good time to tell us. You and I were gone so much that year, on one horrible case after another. And then there was the digital tape and New Mexico--" She shuddered, and his arms tightened around her. "Maybe Mark's Christmas card wasn't a coincidence," he murmured. She lifted her head to look up at him, arching her eyebrows. He smiled. "Maybe this was Missy trying to finally tell you." She looked into his warm hazel-gray eyes, glad she'd told him everything. Instead of pitying her weakness, he merely lent her his strength, just as she'd done for him time and time again. Partners through thick and thin. The bastards may have separated us, she thought, but they haven't destroyed the bond we have. She was beginning to wonder if there were any force on earth that could. End of #5 TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION No. 6: February Something So Right by Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com Dana Scully glanced at her watch as the plane circled J.F.K., waiting for the next available runway. A stewardess had calmly answered her testy question about the delay with a half-smile. "It's Valentine's Day Eve and it's New York City. Can't fight romance." Scully subsided against her seat and closed her eyes, trying to ease the tension knotting in her shoulders. Think pleasant thoughts, Scully. Breathe slowly. In. Out. Pleasant thoughts led to Fox Mulder. Most thoughts seemed to lead to Fox Mulder these days. She missed him like she'd miss an arm or a leg. Her work wasn't nearly as interesting, her evenings and weekends were downright lonely. The funny thing about that was, she and Mulder never had spent all that much downtime together while they were partners. Maybe because of spending sixty-hour weeks with each other, they respected each other's need for some time alone. But now, Scully'd had just about all the time alone she could stand. She needed some excitement. She needed a good dose of Mulder. She glanced at her watch again. Already 6:56. She was supposed to meet Mulder and his family at Milano's at 8:30 for an engagement dinner for Samantha and Preston. They'd been engaged since Christmas, but Samantha the romantic wanted to wait until Valentine's Day to celebrate. Since Valentine's Day was on Sunday that year, they decided to celebrate on Saturday, which meant that Scully could get away from D.C. to join them. She just should've flown out earlier in the day instead of hanging around to catch up on paper work. The announcement that the plane was preparing to land pulled her out of her reverie. She buckled her seat belt and looked at her watch again. 7:08. No way she was going to be able to get to her hotel, change into her dress, and meet the Mulders by 8:30. She picked up a rental car at the airport and pulled out into the Saturday evening traffic jam. Another glance at her watch made her cringe. 8:03 and counting. She pulled out her cellular phone and dialled Mulder's cell phone number. "Mulder." "Hi, it's me. I'm just now leaving the airport. I have to go check in at the hotel and change, so there's no way I'm going to make it by 8:30. I'm in a traffic jam that would make your hair stand on end--" She glanced at the rear view mirror. "Which is what mine is doing right now." Mulder's chuckle warmed her. "I'd pay money to see that!" "Please, tell everyone how sorry I am and that I'll get there as soon as possible." "I will," Mulder promised. "I'm heading out the door." "Are you sure that my green velvet dress is appropriate for Milano's?" She'd never been to the restaurant, but a colleague from Quantico had told her it was one of the finest in the city. She'd agonized over what to wear for almost a week before deciding on a simple velvet dress with long, fitted sleeves and a flaring skirt. "I've never seen your green velvet dress, Scully." Of course he hadn't. Suits and jeans, yes, but green velvet dresses, no. "Then I guess you don't know." "Frankly, I'm dying of anticipation. Am I going to recognize you without your sensible shoes?" "Mulder, my shoes have never been sensible." She had painful memories of running through the woods in heels. What she'd put up with to add a couple of inches of height! "Why don't I call Mom and tell her we'll both be late?" Mulder suggested. "I'll wait here at the hotel for you. I can even check you in, okay? So all you'll have to do is change and we can go. Or we could even skip the thing altogether." The thought was very tempting, but Scully put it aside. "No, Mulder, you shouldn't miss any of your sister's engagement dinner just because my plane was late. Go ahead. I'll meet you there. Talk to you soon." She hung up the phone. Flicking her right turn signal, she angled over in traffic and headed for the hotel. * * * * * Mulder nibbled his Chicken Divan and checked his watch. Almost nine. Scully should've been here by now. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing Preston Powell's family had a little less money and a little lower expectation in dining experiences. Like the Powell men, he had donned a tuxedo in keeping with the atmosphere of the five star restaurant. He'd warned Scully that an evening dress was warranted, but he hoped he'd properly stressed just how dressy an event this damned dinner was. Scully wasn't exactly a party animal, and he wondered if even this fabled green velvet dress would stand up to the competition. Then he shook his head and smiled at the silly thought. Dana Scully could walk into this place wearing a barley sack and outclass any woman here. He just wished she'd hurry up and get here. A soft burring sound interrupted his thoughts. He reached in his pocket for his phone. "Mulder." "It's me. I've been in the car for twenty minutes and I'm still only a mile away from the hotel. Why was I so stupid as to think renting a car in New York City would be a GOOD idea? The traffic is horrible and I don't know any of the shortcuts. I think I'm going to turn around and head back to the hotel, park the car and see if a cab will have any better luck." "Scully, why don't you just wait there at the hotel?" He lowered his voice, glancing around the table to make sure the others were safely involved in their own conversations. "Honestly, Scully, it's pretty dull here. Samantha and Thurston Howell the Third are making kissy face, my mom and Mrs. Powell are haggling over china patterns, and Papa Bear is drinking himself under the table. Stay there and I'll make an excuse to leave early." "Mulder, I didn't fly all the way to New York City to sit in my hotel room, even with you." "I think I'm insulted," he murmured. "Wait. I see a break in traffic. Hold your breath as I make my move--" He held his breath. "Ahh! I think I'm in luck. If all goes well, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Bye." He shut off his phone and returned it to his pocket. "Was that Dana?" Samantha asked. He nodded. "Who is this Dana?" Preston Powell Sr. asked, his words slurred by the good bourbon he'd been putting away. "Dana is Fox's, um, friend." Samantha darted a sly look his way. "GOOD friend." Mulder's mother's eyes met his. The speculation he saw gleaming there made him squirm a little. Great, Samantha, get Mom all excited again. He'd confided in his mother a few months ago when he'd been contemplating taking his friendship with Scully to the next level. When things hadn't developed in that direction, she'd been deeply disappointed. He knew his mother had long despaired of his ever finding a nice woman and settling down-- with good reason. A wife and family had never been on his list of priorities. By the time he'd been old enough to think of such things, he'd known that kind of life was far, far beyond his reach. Never, even in his most foolishly romantic moments with Phoebe Green, had he given thought to marriage or babies. At least, he hadn't. Not until this past Christmas, when Dana Scully kissed him underneath the mistletoe. God, that had been a epiphany. A soft brush of her lips against his, the slightest puff of her warm breath into his mouth--he'd often tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss Scully, but his imaginings had always leaned toward an explosion of passion, where the tension that had always existed between them became too much to resist. Never in a million years would he have imagined that a sweet, chaste brush of lips could have sent him into such a reckless fantasy of endless passion and devotion. He'd already picked out their bathroom colors before he plummeted back to reality. A reality in which Dana Scully was his best friend and his loyal supporter, but nothing more. They'd had their chance to change things between them--and failed. So back into the dark recesses of his mind went the fantasy, and he made himself be happy with the reality that had somehow been enough for him before. His mother's voice stepped into the dangerous path of his thoughts. "Is she going to be able to make it?" "She's trying. She's stuck in traffic, but she thinks she just got an opening." "She's a very nice woman," Mrs. Mulder murmured to Mrs. Powell. "She and Fox worked together at the F.B.I. for several years. She's quite lovely and very smart--a doctor, as a matter of fact." Mulder could hardly stifle a smile. Every mother wants her child to marry a doctor, he thought. "What's the matter, Fox?" Samantha leaned forward. He shook his head. "Nothing." "Are you mad because I got Mom to speculating again?" He glanced at her, surprised by how she always seemed to read his mind. "I don't want her to say or do something to make Scully uncomfortable." "It'll be okay. Mom's not much of a meddler." "Scully and I don't think about each other that way." Samantha cocked one eyebrow in a Scullyesque display of skepticism. He stifled a grin. "Promise me you won't say anything, either, Samantha." "Not a word. But maybe you should." He shook his head. "I've been doing this for a long time. I see no reason to change things now." "What if Dana's just waiting for a word from you? What if she feels the same things but she's afraid to tell you?" "Scully's not afraid of anything, Samantha. If she had feelings for me, she'd tell me. We had our chance and nothing came of it." He sighed and glanced at his watch again. Where was she? * * * * * Damn, damn, damn! Traffic closed up within a quarter mile, trapping Scully in the wrong lane. She had to turn right and circle the block to catch the light a block up before she could make her way back to the correct lane. A glance at her watch made her stomach burn. 9:43. They had to be well into dessert by now. Mulder had probably given up on her and picked up some tall brunette in a slinky black dress. Somebody with a British accent and a bad habit of stomping on men's hearts. Damn it, Mulder, if I get there to find you cosied up to a Phoebe-wannabe, there's not a court in this land that would convict me for your murder. For such a smart man, he could be so incredibly stupid. She'd taken one look at Phoebe Green and summed her up. Vampire. She sucked every ounce of joy and self-esteem from her lovers, leaving the empty husks like so much detritus in her wake. Mulder himself admitted that it had taken ten years to get her out of his system. And speaking of vampires, he'd really made a huge blunder with Kristin Kilar. Protecting a suspect--SLEEPING with a suspect, for God's sake! It broke every rule of conduct, every ethic--Scully shook her head, her stomach tightening even more. It had broken her heart. Knowing that while she was missing, held by God knows who for God knows what purpose, he'd been in another woman's arms. His body buried in a stranger's flesh, his mouth probing hers, his voice calling another woman's name when he came-- Stop it, Dana. Stop it now. He had beaten himself up enough for that when he'd finally been forced to tell her what had happened. The shame, the guilt, the self-loathing had been horrible to see, and she had to pretend that it was okay, that she understood, because she sure as hell couldn't let him or anyone else see that she was dying inside. Whoever had sent her the photographs of his liaison with Kristen had WANTED her to be hurt, be angry. The anonymous packet of photos had come during a tense case, timed perfectly by men who were consummate manipulators. And it had almost worked, because she HAD been hurt. And angry. And jealous. She stared at the stalled traffic in front of her, her mind still in a cold, dark mansion in Los Angeles, watching Mulder making love to a shadow woman. There was nothing prurient in her imaginings, only sick horror at the dark desperation she saw in his face as he took his cold comfort. She realized that tears were seeping down her cheeks, no doubt smearing her careful make-up. She checked her rear view mirror, repaired the slight damage with a tissue from her hand bag. Cool blue eyes stared back at her, remarkably calm considering the turbulence she felt inside. Is this how I look to him? Like a porcelain doll, cold and untouchable? She'd always hated emotion, hated what it did to her, the way it tried to rob her of control. She fought to tamp down tears and terrors in some deep, hidden place inside her where they could do no harm. But what else had she hidden away in the process? Something precious that she should have shown to Mulder a long time ago? In the car in front of Tooms' house all those years ago, she'd had a chance to test the waters between her and Mulder. He'd given her that chance with soft, teasing words. "If there's an iced tea in that bag, could be love..." She cringed now when she thought of her response. "Must be fate, Mulder...Rootbeer." Damn it, she had almost gotten tea. She'd actually made them change the order at the sandwich shop, thinking he'd prefer the carbonation to wake him up after so many hours without sleep. If only she'd stuck with the tea... And what if you had, Dana Katherine Scully? What if you'd pulled a cup of tea from that bag? What if he'd-- Her cellular phone burred quietly. She picked it up and connected. "Scully." "Chocolate cheesecake with cherry liqueur, Scully. Mmm..." His voice rippled down her spine. "Do they let you take out doggie bags?" "I told you we should've stayed at the hotel." "You're about to leave the restaurant, aren't you?" She squeezed her cell phone, disappointed. "I'm afraid so. It's past the old folks' bedtime." In the background, she heard Mrs. Mulder. "Fox!" Scully chuckled. "Still know how to make friends and influence people, I see, Mulder." "Yeah..wait...no--" There was a scuffling sound, then Samantha's voice on the line. "Dana?" "Hi, Samantha. I'm sorry about this. I'm stuck in traffic." "Where are you?" "About two blocks past Times Square, best I can tell. On..." She squinted at a street sign. "I'm on Broadway at West 42nd Street, heading in the general direction of the Empire State Building." "Perfect! Fox will be there at the top, waiting for you." "Oh, no you don't, Samantha! I've seen AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER, and I have no intention of being run over by a taxi just so Cary Grant can cry over me!" "Actually, I was thinking of SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE, and that ended just fine--" After another soft scuffling sound over the phone, Mulder spoke. "Forget the Empire State Building. Every SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE fan in America will be there. There's a little diner near Madison Square Gardens. Called the Knick. It's between W. 30th and Seventh. It's only a half-mile from here, so I may beat you there. I'm the guy in the tuxedo, eating a Dodger Dog." She chuckled again. "Okay. W. 30th and Seventh. The Knick. Got it." She hung up the phone and flicked on her right indicator, hoping somebody would let her over. Mulder was waiting for her. * * * * * "You should've stuck with the Empire State Building, Fox." Samantha hooked her arm through Mulder's as her fiance settled his parents into their car. "Much more romantic than a diner." Somehow, he didn't think so. He happened to know that the Knick had an old style jukebox and the best seafood pasta in the city. He made a regular pilgramage to New York City at least once a year to watch a Knicks game at the Gardens. About four years ago, Langley, Byers and Frohike had come along. As annoying as it was to have them constantly scanning the crowd for CIA operatives, distracting him from the game, Byers' suggested after-game trip to the Knick had made up for the irritation. The diner was the kind of 1950's tacky chrome place that Scully loved to hate. It made him think of her immediately, and he'd made the mistake of mentioning her name, sending Frohike into paroxysms of passion. Even Langley and Byers had finally told the little gnome to shut up. Mulder smiled at the thought. Scully would expect no less of him than to spend Valentine's Day eve at a tacky diner. And she was going to love the seafood pasta. * * * * * She was in sight of Madison Square Gardens when her car died. It simply chug-chugged twice and stopped. She had just enough momentum to slide it into an illegal parking place in front of a quick copy shop. After several minutes of quiet cursing which called on her memory of every sailor she'd ever met in her life-long acquaintance with sailors, she put on her emergency blinkers and pulled out her cellular phone. It burred in her ear once before Mulder answered. "Let me guess--" "My car just gave up the ghost." "Where are you? She looked up at the sign. "I'm on Seventh at West 35th. I swear, Mulder, I'd just get out and walk except these shoes are torture devices and I wouldn't make it past West 34th. Can it get any worse?" Then, of course, it did. The first splat of rain hit the windshield. "Damn it, Mulder, it's raining!" His chuckle did nothing to improve her mood. "Don't suppose you have an umbrella?" "I can't just leave the car here. I'm going to have to call AAA and at least get a tow." She glanced at her watch. 10:45. She closed her eyes. "Want me to come pick you up?" "No! Stay right where you are. Your sense of direction is worse than mine, and if you get out in this traffic, I'll have to open an X-File on you myself. Are you at the diner yet?" "Yeah. I got here about five minutes ago." A knock on her window startled Scully. A scruffy looking man leered at her through the glass, and her rigid control snapped. She jerked her Sig Sauer from her handbag, cocked it into readiness, and pressed the muzzle against the glass. "Go to hell, freak!" "Scully?" Mulder's voice over the phone sounded tense. The man backpedalled furiously, almost running into traffic. Within seconds, he was out of sight. "Scully?" "Sorry, Mulder. I just shared my joy with some poor panhandler. Listen, I'm going to call for a wrecker, then catch a cab. Are you sure you don't just want to go back to the hotel? It could be after midnight before I get away, at this rate." "This is an all night diner, Scully. I'll wait. Oh, and I've gotten six dollars in quarters for the jukebox. Any requests?" "A normal life, Mulder." "I don't think they have that here." "No, I don't suppose they do. See you in a bit." She hung up, then reconnected and called the number on her AAA card. * * * * * It was almost midnight. Fitting, really, Mulder thought as he glanced at his watch. At midnight, it would be Valentine's Day for real. He sat in the corner booth of the all-night diner, ignoring the stares of the handful of customers, and watched through the picture window for Scully to arrive. A battered cab drew up to the corner, and Mulder knew with certainty that it was her. After the rest of tonight's disaster, it made perfect sense that her chariot would be a twenty-year-old taxi. She emerged from the cab, looking like a refugee from the Titanic. Her rain-damp hair was wild and windblown; her make-up had long since vanished. Her trench coat covered only the top two-thirds of her dress, leaving the bottom part of the green velvet gown to the mercy of the rain and road grime. She caught sight of him staring at her through the picture window and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A self-deprecating smile curved her lips, and she took a little bow. He slid out of the booth and met her at the door. "I know, I look like hell." She sighed. He shook his head. "You look great. Just perfect." She favored him with one of her rare toothy smiles, and he felt his heart ooze down into his stomach. "Nice tie." She flicked the colorful bow-tie hanging unknotted around his neck. "Well, it matched the cummerbund." He waved toward that offending piece of satin lying on the table of his booth. "So, ready to admit we should've just stayed at the hotel?" She sighed. "Mulder, we should've just stayed at the hotel." He brushed her damp hair out of her eyes. "Come on, I've already ordered for you. The best seafood pasta you've ever tasted. I told them to bring it out when a gorgeous, muddy redhead walked in." He helped her out of her damp coat. Underneath, her green velvet dress was--well--disturbing. To his equilibrium, anyway. It hugged her curves in a way that he himself had only dreamed about in his more careless moments. Though long-sleeved and high-necked, the dark green velvet was a shimmery second skin, leaving him hot and cold at the same time. "So, would this dress have been okay for Milano's?" "Yeah." That dress would've been okay any time, any place, any how, he thought. He forced his mind away from that sweet treachery and took his place across from her. She looked around the diner. He followed her gaze, trying to read her mind. He knew that classy little Georgetown pubs were more her style, but to his delight, she granted him another one of her breathtaking smiles. "So much better than the Empire State Building, Mulder." He grinned like an idiot. "Thought you'd like it. While we're waiting for your food, wanna go pick something from the jukebox?" He pushed a quarter across the table to her. She waggled one eyebrow. "I get to choose?" "Well, there's a limited selection--and no Michael Bolton. I checked." She took the quarter and crossed to the jukebox. He couldn't keep his eyes off her, studying the supple curve of her spine as she bent and pondered her selection. Her face was in profile to him; he saw a slight smile curve her lips as she inserted the quarter in the slot and pushed some buttons. A moment later, the mellow strains of an old Paul Simon song began, and Scully turned to look at him, smiling her enigmatic little smile that always made him squirm inside. "You got cool water when the fever runs high You got the look of love light in your eyes I was in crazy motion until you calmed me down It took a little time to calm me down." She crossed and took her seat without speaking. The song filled his ears and his mind. "When something goes wrong I'm the first to admit it I'm the first to admit it, the last one to know When something goes right it's likely to lose me It's apt to confuse me because its such an unusual sight I swear, I can't get used to something so right, Something so right." He reached across the table and caught her hands. He didn't know if she was trying to tell him something with the song, and he wasn't sure either of them was really ready to hear it if she was, but for the moment, he felt happier than he had in his whole life. "They got a wall in China, it's a thousand miles long To keep out the foreigners they made it strong And I've got a wall around me That you can't even see It took a little time to get next to me." Her fingers tightened on his, forcing him to look up at her. But she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were on their hands. He followed her gaze and looked at the intertwined fingers, the rippling play of their tendons and muscles as they held on to each other. This is right, he thought. However you want to define it, whatever name you want to give it, Scully and I are right together. And everything's all wrong when we're apart. Cancerman knew that. That's why the bastard had taken Scully from him in the first place. Why he had finally given her back to him so that Mulder would suffer the torture of watching her die before his own eyes. But he didn't count on you, did he, Scully? My own personal, daily miracle. She'd come back to him, giving him courage not long after that to come back to her, to acknowledge the truth that bound them together in dangerous purpose. "Some people never say the words I love It's not their style to be so bold Some people never say those words, 'I love you.' But like a child they're longing to be told." Later, he thought. We'll put words to it later. For now, he and Scully were together, and all was finally right with the world. End of #6 TWELVE DEGREES OF SEPARATION No. 7: March Where Time Stands Still By Paula Graves GravesPA2@aol.com The tuxedo felt like a strait-jacket, and Fox Mulder, the psychologist, couldn't deny the obvious association. He found the world outside himself confining. Too many people making too many rules designed to keep too many other people helpless and voiceless. Like the tuxedo, with its impractical formality and utter lack of comfort, so many of the rules he was forced to live by in his work and life seemed useless and arbitrary. He'd bucked the "book" a long time ago. He'd even talked Scully into joining him in his anarchy from time to time. But just as he now donned the stiff white shirt and black tails despite the discomfort, Fox Mulder from time to time accepted the limits of his freedom. He'd taken the field position in Boston after the shut down of the X-Files because it was the best offer the Bureau would make him. He hadn't yet gone so far afield in his rebellion that he didn't understand that working within the system, however confining, also had some benefits he couldn't afford to forego. And being in the Bureau kept him connected to Dana Scully. Mulder knew that he and Scully would have stayed in touch no matter what. But as long as he stayed with the FBI, he could hang onto the idea of one day working with her again, clinging to the nugget of hope with the fervent faith of a true believer. His partnership with Dana Scully had been the most intense, powerful relationship in his thirty-seven years of life. He wanted it back. He wanted Scully back. He hadn't told her he was coming to Washington this weekend. He wanted to surprise her. His plan was to make an appearance at the President's 40th wedding anniversary party, kiss a few asses in the hopes of one day returning with Scully to the cold basement office at the J. Edgar Hoover building, and then drive straight to Scully's apartment. She'd let him sleep on her couch. Or maybe, tonight, she'd finally let him sleep in her arms. He couldn't kid himself anymore. He wanted Scully. He needed her. Over a year ago, sitting by Scully's bedside after she'd almost died of a gunshot wound, he'd come to the decision to explore all the possibilities that lay between him and his partner. Sidetracked by Samantha's return, he'd thought he'd lost his chance with Scully. But the last few months of enforced separation had ironically brought them closer together than ever. Stolen weekends, long phone conversations, endless ping-ponging games of e-mail tag had only intensified Mulder's longing for his former partner. Thoughts and feelings he'd never fully acknowledged during their time together haunted him now, emerging from the dark ether of his subconscious to stare him in the face deep in the night when he couldn't sleep. And ever since Scully had kissed him at Christmas, the longing had increased exponentially. Through January and the emotional weekend she'd spent at his apartment after she'd found out about Melissa's baby. Through Valentine's Day in New York City, where they'd greeted February 14th in a chrome and vinyl diner near Madison Square Gardens after traffic and car trouble had sabotaged their plans for the evening. That night, sitting in a booth listening to Paul Simon on the jukebox and holding Scully's hands, Mulder accepted a truth that had been staring him in the face for years. He was meant to spend the rest of his life with Dana Katherine Scully. Now all he had to do was make her see that it wasn't too late, after all. He smiled with secret happiness as he walked into the lobby at the Hotel St. Claire in Washington D.C. Secret Servicemen were everywhere, reminding Mulder that his "contact in Congress" had been sworn in as President of the United States over two years ago. Recently, rumors had been flying around the Boston field office concerning President Matheson's plans for the Bureau. There was talk of some major restructuring. Mulder was here to find out if Matheson had any plans of reopening the X-Files--and reinstating the Mulder/Scully partnership. Because if he was, then decisions had to be made. Decisions he and Scully needed to start thinking about now, while there was still time for rational thought. He showed his i.d. to the giant in the monkey suit guarding the entrance to the banquet hall. As the guard checked the guest manifest, Mulder glanced into the crowded room beyond. He saw Matheson right away, surrounded by sycophants and supplicants. The president looked a little weary and more than a bit tense. Mulder couldn't blame him. Tonight was supposed to be an anniversary party. The guest list was rather small for a presidential gathering, but toadies always found a way in. And being president, he supposed, meant that even people you called friend sometimes went a little nuts when they realized they were now hanging out with the prez. The guard returned his i.d. to him, nodding. "There you go, Agent Mulder." Mulder entered the fray. Most of the people in the room were strangers to him, congressmen and cabinet members who would have been shocked that they were rubbing elbows with a man who'd spent years chasing aliens and mutants for a living. But he saw a few faces that looked familiar. A couple of men who'd worked for his father at the State Department. A pretty Asian woman he and Scully had met when a case led them to the Smithsonian Institution--Dr. Amy Chan, his photographic memory supplied. Former section chief Blevins was in the corner, talking to a trim, well-dressed woman Mulder recognized as Matheson's press secretary Genevieve Nolan. Blevins was the guy who'd assigned Dana Scully to the X- Files in the hopes of discrediting the project and Mulder's career. Mulder made a mental note to shake the old man's hand before the night was over. Blevins' move had been the best thing that ever happened to Fox Mulder. Across the room, he made out the bald head of Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Mulder automatically began working his way through the crowd toward his former supervisor, glad to find an ally in the throng. As he got closer, he saw that Skinner was standing close to a woman in an almost backless black dress. Mulder couldn't see anything but occasional flashes of milk-white skin framed by folds of midnight velvet. A waiter stood between Mulder and the woman, his tray of canapes blocking Mulder's view of the woman's head and shoulders, but he saw very clearly when Skinner's hand lifted and pressed against the hollow between the woman's delicate shoulder blades. The small, stroking movement of dark fingers against pale skin spoke of affection. Or was it possession? Mulder increased his pace across the room, curious to see Skinner's mystery woman. After Sharon Skinner's death, the AD had closed himself off to almost everyone, burying his grief and his loneliness in his work. Sounds like another guy I used to know, he thought. But that was before Scully had saved him from himself. He was only fifteen feet away when the waiter finally moved, giving him full view of the petite woman by Walter Skinner's side. Mulder stopped in mid-step, swallowing convulsively. Above the pale skin of her bare back, above Skinner's possessive hand, red curls rested on a slender neck that Fox Mulder had once examined in a tiny claustrophobic room in Icy Cape, Alaska. Red curls spilling from a sleek chignon held in place by a garnet-studded hair comb that he'd bought for her just over a year ago. A light dusting of freckles on a heart-shaped face he'd seen in his nightmares every night for three long, lonely months almost five years ago as he wondered who had taken her from him, what they were doing to her and if they'd ever give her back. She lifted her head to look at Skinner, and he saw the blue- gray eyes that had seen beyond his prickly armor to find the real Fox Mulder, the one who ached and longed and loved. The same Fox Mulder who now stared at Dana Scully and Walter Skinner and wanted to shrivel up and die. * * * * * "Agent Scully is the head of the Forensics Department at the F.B.I. Academy," Skinner told the slim, gray-haired man in front of them. Scully tried to remember his name, wishing, not for the first time, that she had a photographic memory like Mulder. Thomas, she remembered. Senator Graham Thomas from Iowa. He was on the Intelligence Committee, and Skinner had wanted to make sure the good senator remembered Dana Scully. She didn't want to dwell on the Assistant Director's reason for bringing her to this party. She didn't want to get her hopes up too high. Even if there was more reason for hope now than she'd had in six long months. "I knew your father, Agent Scully," Sen. Thomas was saying. She looked up, a bittersweet smile crossing her face. "Really?" "Bill and I served together in the Navy during the Cuban Blockade. I remember, all he could talk about was getting back home to his Maggie." Her smile widened, then froze as Walter Skinner murmured, "I can understand why." She darted a glance toward the Assistant Director. His dark eyes met hers, expressionless, and she wondered if she'd heard him correctly. "I was sorry to hear he passed away. The good ones always go too soon." Sen. Thomas smiled, a hint of sadness in his dark eyes. "I also heard about your sister. You and your family had a rough couple of years." She nodded, regret piercing her heart. Two of the hardest, saddest years of her life, tempered only by the presence of Fox Mulder by her side and, increasingly, in her heart. The same day that Missy had been shot, Mulder had walked through the door of his apartment and back into her life, and they'd never really been apart since. Not even now, with four hundred miles separating them. He was still with her. Part of her. And soon, maybe, he'd be back here in Washington again, glaring at her over his wire-rimmed glasses, trying to convince her of the validity of one outlandish theory or another as they shivered in the cold, dark basement office she'd come to think of as her own little piece of heaven. Don't go there yet, Scully, she admonished herself. It's too soon. Nothing is settled yet. "Please tell your mother I said hello, Agent Scully." Sen. Thomas smiled again and took his leave. "That's a good omen if I ever saw one," Skinner commented. "I didn't know he knew your father. I'll bet we can count on his support." "Maybe." Scully took a quick sip of champagne before she set the mostly full crystal flute on a table for the waiter to retrieve. "How much more of this do I have to do? Ass kissing isn't one of my talents." "No! Really?" She looked up, surprised by Skinner's dry sarcasm. Despite the tension coiling like snakes in her belly, she chuckled. "Well, it's not a talent I had much chance to cultivate while working with Mulder." "Have you seen him yet?" She frowned slightly, confused. "Mulder?" Skinner nodded. "His name's on the guest manifest." Scully looked around her. But she was too short to see beyond the wall of tuxedos and evening gowns hemming her in like palisades around a fort. "Do you see him?" she asked Skinner, trying not to betray the eagerness shooting through her like bolts of electricity. Skinner's head swivelled, his eyes narrowing as he peered through his glasses at the crowd around him. Scully watched the A.D.'s face, looking for a flash of recognition, trying not to get too excited. Surely if Mulder had been coming to Washington, he'd have called and let her know. Wouldn't he? After Valentine's Day, she'd been certain that she and Mulder were heading for a new level in their relationship. Neither of them had said anything, but the touch of his hands on hers in the New York diner, the look in his eyes when Paul Simon sang about "something so right"--she hadn't imagined that, had she? She hadn't imagined the added warmth in his voice every time he'd called since February. Or the increased cyber-warmth of his e-mail messages, she thought with an inward smile. Then she saw the small downward twitch of Skinner's mouth. She tried to follow Skinner's eyes, but the crowd around them blocked her view. "What is it?" she asked. "Is it Mulder?" Skinner nodded. He looked down at her, his dark eyes full of something Scully didn't recognize. But whatever it was, she didn't think it was good. "What's wrong, sir?" "Did you tell Agent Mulder you were coming to this party?" "No." She didn't like the turn of this conversation, didn't like the somber tone of Skinner's voice, evident even through the ambient buzz of conversation and the soft, sparkling strains of music coming from the dance floor area. "Why do you ask?" Skinner sighed. "Because Agent Mulder...is not alone." Scully's heart plummeted. She pressed her lips together and pushed her way through the crowd, following the path she'd seen Skinner's gaze take. She emerged, finally, at the edge of the parquet dance floor, where a handful of couples swayed to the soft strains of "Someone to Watch Over Me." She spotted Mulder immediately, a lean, breathtaking vision in a black tuxedo, his long arms wrapped around the waist of a dark-haired woman Scully knew from Quantico. A handwriting analyst--Elaine Henderson. Way back in the first year of her partnership with Mulder, she'd heard--and dismissed--rumors about Mulder and the quick-witted Agent Henderson. Now, watching their bodies swaying as one to the music, seeing Mulder's hands pressed against the small of Henderson's back, she wondered how many other rumors she had dismissed might yet come back to haunt her. She took a couple of steps back, letting the crowd swallow her. Mulder never saw her. But Henderson did. * * * * * "Ah, the plot thickens." Elaine Henderson's voice was low and dry in Mulder's ear. He pulled his head back and looked down at her. "What?" "I knew your sudden passion for a romantic dance was too good to be true. So, Mulder, wanna tell your old pal Henderson what you're really doing pressing your long, lean, beautiful body against mine after all these years?" "I've missed you, Henderson. Are you accusing me of a less noble motive?" He kept his voice intentionally light. He'd had years of experience pretending to feel one thing when deep down he was feeling something entirely different. "You and your little red head have a tiff?" He blinked. "My little what?" "The Ice Queen. The Freezer Frau. Dr. Antartica." Rage shot through Mulder and he tightened his grip on Henderson until she gasped. "Always wondered what it would take to make your shell crack, Mulder." Elaine's voice was a little rueful. "Should've figured out a long time ago that it was Dana Scully." He relaxed his grip and pulled her with him off the dance floor. He grabbed a flute of champagne on his way to a secluded corner, downing the fizzy drink in two gulps. Joining the three glasses of champagne he'd already drunk on an empty stomach, the alcohol jerked through him like an earthquake. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself. "She saw us dancing, Mulder." He looked at Henderson, trying to keep his expression neutral. He wondered if he was failing as badly as he thought. "So?" He'd seen her before cosied up to Skinner. Maybe now they were even. "So she didn't look happy." He laughed. "That's funny. She looked very happy when I saw her earlier." Immediately he regretted his words, knowing what they had revealed. Henderson's smile widened. "Aha. And let me guess--the lovely Agent Scully wasn't alone earlier?" He didn't want to talk about Scully. He wanted to drink a few more glasses of champagne until he stopped aching. Then he wanted to take Elaine Henderson back to her apartment and get laid. Maybe then he would forget what a damned fool he'd been for ever thinking he had a chance with Scully. His luck with women was abysmal at best--and Scully had been his brightest hope for a real shot at happiness. Should've stopped with Phoebe. It had taken him ten years to get her out of his system. He suspected with Dana Scully, it would take the rest of his life. * * * * * Scully found Skinner near the doorway, talking to a man who looked vaguely familiar. Skinner waved her over. "Agent Scully, I want you to meet George Callahan, President Matheson's chief of staff. George, this is Special Agent Dana Scully. You might remember her work on the Wellington case last year. Best forensic work the Bureau has ever seen." Scully's head pounded as she listened to the A.D. sucking up on her behalf. She felt like he was talking about a stranger. Callahan held out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Agent Scully." His blue eyes were warm with very masculine appreciation, and his hand held hers longer than she liked. She shot Skinner a glare, barely resisting the urge to wipe her hand on the skirt of her dress. Skinner's expression froze in a half smile, but he quickly steered her away from Callahan. "Sorry," he murmured when they were out of earshot. She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. I'm about to call a cab, sir. I have a bit of a headache, and I think I'd just like to go home." His raised eyebrow told her that he wasn't buying that story. But he had the decency not to comment. "I'll take you home." "It's not necessary--" He shook his head. "I think maybe it is." She inclined her head in silent consent and waited while he went to get their coats. He returned in a moment and helped her wrap the black velvet cape around her. He put his hand against the small of her back as he led her through the door into the lobby. The small gesture reminded her of Mulder, the way he'd always touched her, small caresses that had made her feel special and protected. Damn him for doing this to her now, when they were just beginning to get close again... She and Skinner waited just inside the door while the valet went to get Skinner's car. Scully studied the patterns of the Oriental rug beneath their feet, wanting to be anywhere but here. Behind her, through the open door to the ballroom, the buzz of the crowd hummed in her throbbing skull. Then, one voice a little louder than the others. Closer. A little slurred. Achingly familiar. "Come on, Henderson, you've always wondered, haven't you?" Scully closed her eyes. "I was hoping you'd be in a little bit better working condition when I finally found out." Henderson's dry, amused voice, even closer. "Well, well, well. Look here, Henderson. It's like old home week." Scully opened her eyes and turned to look at them. Mulder stood with his arm around Henderson's shoulder, his face flushed and his eyes too bright. He was drunk, Scully realized. Not quite messy drunk, but not completely in control, either. The Mulder she knew rarely drank and NEVER got drunk. It reminded him too much of what his father had become at the end. What the hell was going on with him? What had set him off this time? "Agent Mulder, Agent Henderson." Skinner spoke quietly. But Scully sensed a deep thread of anger beneath his words. She glanced up at him and saw the grim line of his mouth. And realized, with a little start of surprise, that he was angry for her sake. Because he knew that Mulder was hurting her. Skinner had always seen too damned much. Knew too much and told them too little. But right now, she was glad he was there by her side, an unexpected but welcome source of comfort and support. Almost unconsciously she leaned in closer to his solid bulk. "Henderson and I were about to blow this place and look for some excitement." Mulder looked at Scully, his expression hard and distant but his gaze fierce and intense. "Be careful, Henderson," Scully said softly, pleased her voice even bothered to work at all. "Mulder's dangerous when he's in a reckless mood." Mulder stepped closer to Scully, half-dragging Henderson with him. "How would you know what I'm like when I'm really reckless?" She flinched as if he'd slapped her. The contempt in his low, quiet voice certainly hurt as much. She felt Skinner's hand close over her shoulder, pulling her into the protective curve of his arm. Henderson tugged Mulder toward the door. "Come on, Mulder. I think Scully's tired of playing now." She muscled him through the door into the chilly March night. Scully bit her lower lip, angry with Mulder for being such a complete ass and with herself for letting him get to her. She knew how he was. One big quivering mass of angst and insecurity. Always had been, as long as she'd known him. Something had set him off tonight. Maybe something as simple as seeing her here with Skinner, as harmless a situation as that was. Despite Skinner's surprising show of support just now, Scully knew the older man didn't think of her as anything more than a friend and valued colleague. In fact, Scully had heard rumors that the A.D. was finally seeing someone again. And, she hoped, Mulder would figure that out, too. Probably was already figuring it out right now. He'd get Henderson to drive him to a hotel, and when Scully got home, she'd probably find his voice on her answering machine, apologizing for being such a bastard and asking her if he could see her tomorrow. After all, she knew he trusted her, if nothing else. He would surely trust her enough to know that she would never lead him on. But when she got home, there was no message waiting on her machine. And the phone didn't ring all night. She slept very little, debating what she should do. Try to find Mulder in the morning and talk through what had happened? Or just let things pass, pretend nothing had happened, and go on from there? Finally, at six o'clock Saturday morning, she picked up the phone and started calling hotels in the greater Washington D.C. area. * * * * * A noise like a jackhammer greeted Mulder, carried on a cloud of noxious air that triggered his gagging reflex. He rolled off the bed--bed? whose bed?--and stumbled toward a door-- where am I? whose room is this?--that he sincerely hoped led to a bathroom. It did, and he managed to push up the toilet seat before he lost the contents of his stomach and what he was convinced were a few pieces of his liver as well. "Good morning to you, too, lover boy." "God!" Mulder held his head in his hands and pressed himself into a knot between the toilet and the tub. "Stop shouting!" Elaine Henderson grimaced and flushed the toilet. "This is a side of you the girls in the secretarial pool never mentioned." "What am I doing here?" "Puking, from the looks of it." "No, I mean HERE." He had vague, fuzzy memories that gave him another sick feeling in his gut. "The party--" "You got your boxers in a wad because Dana Scully was there with Assistant Director Skinner. Then you got drunk and propositioned me, and I brought you here." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, shutting out the piercing sunlight that was slicing his brain into bleeding strips. "You're not saying we--" "Not in the condition you were in, Mulder. I'm not quite that desperate." God, he was an idiot. A sorry, slobbering, puking excuse for a human being. "I'm sorry, Henderson." He braced his hand on the bath tub and pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little. The bathroom was very cold, he thought. Then he realized he was wearing nothing but his black silk boxers. He felt incredibly naked. Because it was Henderson looking back at him instead of Scully. Scully--ah, God, he thought, Scully. Scully and Skinner. In the painfully sober light of dawn, Mulder realized that what had happened last night was inevitable. If it hadn't been Skinner, it would've been somebody else. Because Scully didn't need somebody like him. She needed a man free of scars and ghosts, somebody who'd love her the way she deserved. A guy who wasn't afraid to love her. A guy she wasn't always having to scrape up and dust off. Somebody who didn't fly off the handle and fly off on tangents. Somebody sane and dependable. Somebody who WASN'T Fox Mulder. It wasn't her fault. It was his. It was always his. A loud metallic ringing noise echoed in his head and ratcheted down his spine. He dropped his head in his hands and groaned. "Doorbell," Henderson said. She left the bathroom. Mulder groped for the bathroom cabinet, looking for aspirin or acetaminaphin or anything that would quiet the buzz saws in his brain. All he found was a bottle of Midol and some Sucrets throat lozenges. He seriously considered the Midol. Except that the muscle relaxer would serve only to muddy his already addled brain. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall. Before he realized it, the hall ended and he was stepping into what must be Henderson's living room. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a television and an open door. And in the doorway, standing next to Elaine Henderson, was Dana Scully. For a long, shattering moment, the whole scene seemed to freeze. Mulder heard nothing, felt nothing, smelled and tasted nothing. He only saw. Saw her blue eyes, wide with shock and something else. Something dark and haunting. Pain. And then he knew just how bad a mistake he'd made. * * * * * Scully dragged into her apartment, feeling as if she'd just been run over by a truck. Her eyes stung with tears she couldn't--wouldn't--allow to fall. She dropped her purse on the sofa and went to the kitchen. The coffee pot was on automatic timer and now sat full and still warming. She poured herself a cup and stirred in a teaspoon of creamer, concentrating on the strong, slightly bitter smell. She took a swallow, focusing on the hot stream of liquid burning down her throat. She pushed the play button on the small portable CD player on the kitchen counter just to hear some noise, not sure what was in the player. Mary Chapin Carpenter, it turned out. The CD Samantha Mulder had given her for her birthday. God, she thought. Samantha. Losing Mulder was more than just losing a maybe--hopefully-- someday lover. Losing him was losing a huge, irreplaceable part of herself. Like ripping off an arm or a leg or a head or a heart. It was losing Samantha and Caroline Mulder. Losing her best friend, her fondest hope for the future. Her partner. She had just lost her partner. The bastard. On the CD player, soft piano chords caressed the velvet over steel beauty of Mary Chapin Carpenter's voice. Baby, where's that place where time stands still? I remember like a lover can, I forget it like a leaver will, It's no place you can get to by yourself, You've got to love someone and they love you, Time will stop for nothing else. And memory plays tricks on us, The more we cling, the less we trust. And the less we trust, the more we hurt, And as time goes on it just gets worse, So, baby, where's that place where time stood still? Is it under glass inside a frame? Was it over when you had your fill? Scully's icy reserve crumbled and tears began to fall. End of #7