_Vengeance_ -- a sequel to "Anasazi" by JulietttXF@aol.com ((My sincerest apologies that this thing took so long to post. As the title says, this is a follow-up to "Anasazi." Yeah, *that* "Anasazi." The second-season-finale one. I'm telling you up front so that if you don't want to read something so "old" you won't waste your time. At least I offer an explanation for the boxcar. . . ! --J3XF)) Like most X-Philes I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out how Chris Carter and the gang are going to begin the new season. This is one possible solution. Rate it PG; no explicit violence, no sex (sorry, all you relationshippers out there, but I wanted to write something that might actually serve as a season premiere -- in content if not in quality -- well, maybe. . . ;-) ). There is, however, some UST, some scullyangst, and lots of friendship. It fairly gushes with friendship. You guys know the drill by now, so sing along: Dana Scully and Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner and Margaret Scully, in fact, just about everybody you recognize here, along with the premise behind "The X- Files," belong to Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions and FOX Broadcasting, or some amalgamation of the three, and are used lovingly but without permission. I am a doctoral student, so suing me won't really get you anything except four or five bookcases full of English Literature. Jackie St. George and Martin Nantus (oh, yeah!) appear courtesy of Sheryl Martin and are borrowed lovingly and *with* her permission. The character of Bruce Cunningham is copyright 1995 by me, as is this story. I am very proprietary of Bruce; ask me first if you're interested in borrowing him, okay? This one is dedicated to The Troupe and the irrepressible IP's and one IF (you know who you are!), except for Chapter Eight, aka "the conspiracy chapter," which is dedicated to my fellow Lone Gunwomen. A note on authorial integrity: I began this story at the beginning of the summer (1995) and worked on it off and on in between work and studies. When it came time to post, however, lo and behold -- Phoebe the Fiend (my computer) suddenly and without provocation, I might add, decided *not* to let me post! Hence, having missed the September 22nd deadline ("The Blessing Way"), I decided to hang onto this for a little longer (okay, by now it's a *lot* longer, due to many circumstances, some of which were beyond my control) for more editing and revision. Although I *did* expand the story in some areas, Chris Carter's revelations in the the third season premiere effected no changes in the story. Hence those readers who live in the more deprived areas of the world (where they are still in the second season) can read this story, as it contains no third-season spoilers. Thus the characters, as always, belong to their creators, but this story, as always, belongs to *me*. And now, sit back, relax, suspend your disbelief and, hopefully, enjoy! ****************************************** _Vengeance_ Chapter One: "Grief" by JulietttXF@aol.com ****************************************** (1a/17) September 22, 1995 The funeral was at Arlington. Scully was almost surprised by how many were there in spite of the rain -- Mulder had thought he had no other friends in the Bureau, and perhaps this was strictly true, but he had also commandeered a lot of respect in surprising places. Some of their fellow agents had come out of a sense of that respect, others out of curiosity. He would have laughed to see them, she thought. The Lone Gunmen were there, the three of them scattered through the small crowd, more than half the time spent looking nervously over their shoulders. But then, most of the mourners did that. Only seven did not: the minister, Walter Skinner, and the four women and one man who stood huddled together at the front of the group under three umbrellas. With Dana were her mother and, on Margaret's right, her sister Melissa. Grasping Dana's left hand was Jackie St. George, with Marty's arm around her. Bruce Cunningham stood behind them, his eyes wide with pain. Melissa sniffled and Margaret wept openly, but Dana and Jackie were dry-eyed. Agents in the pack of mourners proper pointed and whispered at Spooky Mulder's redheaded partner, standing very straight and very pale and very beautiful in an immaculate navy blue suit. "She didn't even wear black." "Yeah, and look -- not a tear." "Thought they were close." "*I* heard they were sleeping together." Walter Skinner heard that last and glared at the indiscreet agent, who suddenly couldn't find a place to put his hands. Skinner sighed. He, too, had sometimes wondered at the pair's closeness. He had never seen anything like the bond they shared. Together they were better than any three agents in the field; apart they were brilliant and driven but no more effective than might be expected. He sighed again. In losing Fox Mulder he had also lost Dana Scully. He had been surprised at first that he had not received her resignation immediately. Fox Mulder may not have been her lover, but he *was* her partner -- and not just in the sense that he was the man with whom she worked. He was the other half of the team. And with him gone more than half that team was missing -- just as it had been during the long months of her abduction. Over the few years they had been working together Mulder and Scully had formed a partnership, a *friendship*, as deep as any he had ever seen. It was caring and supportive and fiercely protective, as he had discovered when Mulder approached him pleading for help in finding and bringing Cancerman to justice, or rather to vengeance, Mulder's own private justice for what he believed the obscure man who haunted Skinner's office had done to Scully. He had offered everything, even his badge and the X-files which, Skinner knew, translated to his search for his sister. It was not the last time he would make this choice. Skinner had been on that bridge the night of the second occasion. And when Mulder had actually tendered his resignation the A.D. had asked himself: had he done so because, as he said, he hated what he had become, hated the fact that he had been willing to take a life for a life in simple vengeance? Or was it deeper than that: did he hate himself for being so bound by his own honor that even in the midst of his comingled love for his comatose and dying partner and hatred for the man who had put her in that condition he could not break his oath to serve and protect? Walter Skinner knew that Mulder's and Scully's relationship was a loving one; he had loved his own longtime partner, too, in a way. It wasn't romantic or sexual or even physical. It was the complete and utter trust and dependence that two people who routinely place their lives and sanity in one another's hands gain over time. Some forged this relationship more deeply than others, and it often became so entire that it would admit no other, lesser, bonds. He had seen more than one marriage die because of the jealousy and separation such an emotional and mental connection between "work partners" could cause between "life partners." It had troubled his own marriage even though his partner had been a man. But Mulder and Scully, unlike Skinner and his partner, had had no-one else. For unmarried and unattached partners the relationship quickly became not only the most intense but often the *only* close relationship, simply because it was so utter and complete. So Mulder, in losing Scully, had lost not only his partner but his best friend and confidante and sister and wife, of sorts, as well. And for Scully it must be just as bad; unlike Mulder she had family, but their relationship was five months stronger than it had been during her disappearance. He looked at her, standing straight and silent by the casket, and remembered the phone call he had gotten five months earlier. . . . ***** His private line at home had rung. "Skinner," he said tersely. It had been a hard week for him, beginning when he had received a call from the man from whom he hated to hear on any subject, especially one this serious: Mulder was accused of having come into possession of some rather sensitive files. Then, his sometimes errant rogue agent had gone berserk and attacked him in the hallway. Despite Mulder's reputation in the Bureau this had surprised Skinner, who knew that, despite the younger man's penchant for the bizarre and unconventional, Mulder was brilliant and eminently sane. Next, Scully had been called in for questioning and had tiptoed around the issue of Mulder's abberation and had been very evasive about her knowledge of some DAT tape for which the board was looking. He could have, he felt, handled the interrogation much better on his own; the minute Carter had asked her whether she would lie for Agent Mulder he had groaned mentally. It had been the wrong tack to take and had forced her into a split-second decision as to on which side of the line she would fall this time. He could have gotten an answer from her by allowing her to speak without forcing such a decision and thus jeopardizing her career. For all their high position the board members were naive and impolitic and he hated being at their beck and call. Then word had come that William Mulder had been found shot to death in his bathroom on Martha's Vineyard. He later discovered that Scully herself had brought Mulder's gun in for testing, along with a bullet that she claimed she had pulled from Mulder's wall after it had narrowly missed her. By the time he was made aware of all these facts Mulder and Scully were gone. He had half-heartedly put out an APB on Scully's car and checked the airports, but he had had no real hope of finding them. Both Mulder and Scully were far too bright to make those simple kinds of slips. And, despite himself, he had been rather proud of their abilities in spite of his consternation. Deep down inside of him where the remnants of Marine Skinner still lived, he had rooted for them to find the answers and return triumphant. He wanted to put his Morley- smoking shadow in his place once and for all. Wanted to believe that the Mulder he knew could never have turned his gun on his father and pulled the trigger. Wanted to believe that the Scully he knew would not have helped him had it been true -- after all, she trusted him, and the bullet later pulled from Bill Mulder's body had proven to have been fired from the same gun, the gun that she sent him from somewhere on the road west, along with the dialysis filter which, she insisted in her accompanying note, had been pulled from Mulder's water supply and would prove to contain a powerful hallucinogen. Above all, he wanted the good guys to win one for once. Heaven only knew the number of times he had had to rein the two agents working on the X-Files in at the last minute when they were just inches away from closing a case one way or another. Their frustration was his own. He was made to feel, as they were, like a yo-yo sent out to the end of its tether only to be reeled back in once more. He had begun to ask why -- why were they even sent out if they were going to be reeled back in each time? And ultimately he had come to the same conclusion Mulder had drawn: they were pawns, all of them, tools and toys in the hands of an unseen manipulator. And he hated being a plaything. But he had seen to it that on each successive case Mulder and Scully had stretched that tether nearly to the breaking point before being reeled back in. And one day soon, he had been certain, the twine would snap and they would escape the tyranny of the unseen hands and arrive at the truth. But now it seemed that Mulder himself had snapped. And so, when he answered the phone and heard Dana Scully's voice on the other end of the line, he did not know what to expect. "Skinner." "Sir? This is Dana Scully." He sat up in bed and clutched the phone to his ear. "Scully? Where are you?" "I'm in New Mexico, Sir." Immediately, even without processing the lost sound in her voice, he had known something was terribly wrong. She never would have given him her location otherwise; it had been merely habit that had made him ask it. "Is Mulder. . . ?" "He's gone, Sir," she said quietly. Gone? Gone how? "Agent Scully?" "I don't know, Sir. He -- we came out here to -- investigate a lead. . . ." "Would this have something to do with the DAT tape that you denied his having, Scully?" he asked sternly. He could almost hear her body stiffen. "I never responded one way or the other to that question, Sir," she said firmly. Score one for Dana Scully. He sighed. "What happened?" "We -- were staying in a hotel," she said quietly, calmly, although he could sense it was a false calm. "He -- I sent him off on his own to follow a lead -- I was going to come back for our meeting. . . . He called me on the phone and then -- we were cut off. And I went to -- the site from where he called me, and -- he was gone." She paused, then went on in a near-whisper. "There had been a fire. . . ." He closed his eyes. Fire. And Mulder was pyrophobic, and Scully knew that. She had played by the book -- well, as close to the book as she had at any point in this mess -- and had planned to come back and face him and the board. Had broken the rule of sending her partner off on his own to avoid breaking the rule of obedience to a superior officer. Out of a deeper sense of loyalty to Mulder, he knew. "Agent Scully?" It took him several tries before he got her to answer. "Agent Scully." "Yes, Sir?" "When does your flight arrive?" "My -- flight, Sir?" "Your plane, Scully. When does it arrive?" "I've -- missed it," she confessed. She had planned to fly home yesterday, leaving the rental car with Mulder. And the more she talked the more lost she sounded. He closed his eyes again and made a decision. "Give me your telephone number and I'll call you back with your flight information, Scully." She did so, in a daze, and he hung up. First he called the airline and found the first flight out and booked her on it. And then, before calling her back, he made two more telephone calls . . . . . . one to Jackie St. George, and one to Margaret Scully. He had wanted to meet her at the airport himself but had left it up to the two women to decide what to do on that count. There had been no warrant issued for Scully's arrest as of yet, and he trusted her to make her full report to him upon her return. Her report, when she gave it the next day, added little to what she had already told him, what he had already surmised. He had taken action to protect himself and, hopefully, to curtail the punishment the board, in its anger and impotence, might have wanted to visit upon her, and took her gun and badge. And he had hinted that she might want to "take some time to think about" what she had done. He had hoped she would take St. George with her on her "meditative" journey, but she hadn't. For some reason the Canadian agent had not even requested personal leave. He had seen agents broken in the past over lesser matters: rejected promotions, relocations, injuries, forced retirements. Had seen Scully's absence and then her reappearance in a comatose state begin to break Fox Mulder. As the days and weeks stretched into months with no further word of Mulder, he watched Dana Scully and wondered how long it would take for the same process to begin its work on her. ***** If Skinner had been surprised by the depth of Mulder's anguish over Scully, he was stunned now. Dana Scully, cool, methodical, by-the-book, stood as calmly as she ever did when presenting a report or performing an autopsy. But then he got a glimpse of her eyes as the funeral ended and he filed past the casket and he was truly frightened. They were dry and hot and seemed to burn as if with the very fire that had killed her partner. And he knew exactly why she had not yet tendered her resignation. It was for the very same reason he had not forced her to take a leave of absence until she had requested one to begin after the funeral, the reason he had assisted Jackie St. George in getting some personal time off from the embassy, knowing that Scully would need the Canadian agent at her side for the search she was about to undertake to find Mulder's killers. And then to exact vengeance. ***** End 1a/17 (continued in 1b) ****************************************** _Vengeance_ Chapter One: "Grief" by JulietttXF@aol.com ****************************************** (1b/17; continued from 1a) Jackie sat slumped against Marty in the back seat of Margaret Scully's car. He held her firmly yet tenderly, stroking her hair with his free hand. Dana sat on her left, her face turned toward the window. She was straight, almost rigid, her back barely brushing the seat. Jackie's gaze dropped to Dana's lap where she held the envelope one of the three men known as The Lone Gunmen had given her. Scully had hesitated, almost afraid to touch it. It was an ordinary long white envelope with her name written on the outside in Mulder's strong script. But she knew it held perhaps the last message she would ever receive from him. So she had taken the envelope, thanked Frohicke gravely, and turned away from his sad smile. Now the tips of her fingers just brushed the edge of the envelope, over and over, as though she were at once drawn to and repelled by it. Jackie thought back to the conversation she and Dana had had several days before. She had burst into the basement office that housed the X-Files and told Scully of her arrangement for a two-week personal leave from the embassy. She wasn't certain but she thought Skinner had pulled strings. She remembered again the look in his eyes as he handed her the memo that had come in over his personal fax line. Pain in his eyes, and perhaps a little guilt -- over his harsh treatment of Mulder? -- and understanding. He had not said a word but she knew that he knew. And so she had descended to the basement, leave-of-absence voucher in hand, and had been calmly congratulated by Dana Scully, who suggested that she and Marty take the time to visit some of the nicer spots in New England. Jackie had stared at Dana. "Huh-unnh, Dana Scully. I'm going with *you.*" "With me?" "Yes, with you! You think I'm gonna let you do this alone?" "I don't know what you're talking about." "The hell you don't! Special Agent Scully," she had hissed, "you may fool everyone else around here with that smooth, cold-as- ice exterior of yours, but *I* know you. I knew Mulder. I know what you two had." Her voice had softened. "He was my friend, too. I loved him, too." She had held her breath for a moment on that last one. But then Dana had lifted her head and gazed at her for a moment, her eyes unfathomable. Turned away. "And besides, you're gonna need backup." Scully nodded. "Okay." That night, the night before the funeral, she and Dana had sat up late in the porch swing at Margaret Scully's house. They were both sleeping there, as were Melissa and Marty. Margaret had wanted them all there, wanted the house full again, the bedrooms of her sons and daughters filled. That the son she had more or less adopted was absent only made her the more eager to welcome Marty. Melissa had Brian's old room since hers had been made into a den when she had left for college. Marty and Jackie were staying in Bill's room just across the hall, the room Mulder had occupied the past Christmas -- had hoped to occupy again come December. After Margaret and Melissa went to bed Dana and Jackie swept the rest of the house for bugs. They had already cleared the upstairs earlier. They found none, and Scully breathed a sigh of relief. If they had found even one they could be certain there were more and despite a thorough search might have missed some, but it was unlikely they would have missed *all* of them. Nonetheless they sat out on the porch watching the night sky and sipping tea. Marty had gone to bed after kissing Jackie on the lips and Dana on the cheek, watching them both, the two women he loved, with eyes full of sadness. Wishing he could help, knowing he could not. He had liked Mulder, had especially appreciated the help the other man had given to Jackie, but he had neither the training nor the innate ability to help them, except by staying out of the way and giving Jackie something to come home to after it -- whatever *it* was -- was all over. They sat in silence for a long time under the stars. Dana watched the sky. Jackie watched Dana. She remembered again the three phone calls she had received, the latter two just a week ago, that had ultimately led her to this house and this night. She had been sitting at her desk in the embassy when her phone rang the first time. "St. George." "Jackie, this is Walter Skinner." "Walter." She stiffened. No. . . . He had a tone in his voice that reminded her of the way he had sounded when he called her after Mulder had first gone missing, to tell her that Scully was coming home and that Scully needed her. "Jackie. . . ." He stopped short. "Just tell me," she whispered hoarsely, closing her eyes and drawing on an inner reservoir of strength. "Tell me quickly." "They found -- a body. . . ." She remembered slumping in her chair, fighting the tears that threatened to overwhelm her as no marauding psychopath could. "No. I don't believe it." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Neither does Scully. For once . . ." he trailed off, then cleared his throat. "For once I hope you both prove the government wrong." And then the second and third phone calls, just a week ago. "St. George." "Jackie." "Walter?" A brief silence. "Tell me." "It's bad. . . . His . . . the body arrived this morning." Her heart froze. "Dana. . . ." He sighed and she could envision him removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "She -- insisted on doing a second autopsy." "And you *LET* her?" "Jackie. . . ." "Forget it," she snapped. "Where is she?" "Autopsy bay six." "I'm on my way." "Jackie. . . ." "Yeah?" Another, longer pause. "I'm sorry." She dashed to her car. When she opened the door she realized that her cellular phone -- a gift from Mulder, she remembered with a pang -- was ringing. "St. George." "Agent St. George -- this is Bruce Cunningham. We've never met, but. . . ." Cunningham? Oh, yes. "Dana's assistant." "Yes, ma'am. She -- performed the autopsy on Agent M-- on the body this morning, and. . . ." *No.* "What happened?" "She's -- in pretty bad shape." She closed her eyes momentarily. Her last bastion of hope was gone. So long as Dana Scully believed her partner was alive she, Jackie St. George, could make herself believe it, too. But if *Dana* had given up. . . . "Bay six. I'm on my way. Oh, and Bruce?" "Yes, ma'am?" She grimaced. Under any other circumstances she would have given him strict instructions *not* to call her "ma'am." "Could you do me a big favor?" "For Dr. Scully? Anything." She smiled sadly. It seemed those two had actually found an ally in the FBI. "Could you call her mother? Tell her . . . I think I'd better bring Dana there tonight." She gave him the number and hung up. Ruthlessly squashing her own emotions, Jackie concentrated on driving. She made it there in record time, her sidearm and identification at the ready on the passenger seat next to her. If some quota-happy traffic cop had some notion of making an example of her, he was sadly mistaken. She would claim diplomatic immunity and if *that* didn't work she was certain her 38-calibre companion would be . . . persuasive. But for once all the police seemed to be otherwise occupied. She made it across town in record time and screeched to a halt across two spaces in the parking garage. She only hoped one of them belonged to Cancerman. She ran into the building in search of her friend and found Bruce Cunningham waiting for her in the doorway of bay six. He looked very pale and slightly sick. He gestured over toward the wall and Jackie hurried over to the limp heap that was Dana Scully and squatted down on the floor next to her. Scully was staring at the opposite wall, her face so white it was almost gray. "Dana." There was no response. She leaned closer and tried again. "Dana. Look at me," she commanded gently. Slowly Scully swung her gaze to meet her friend's. Her eyes were blank and bewildered and very, very tired. "He's gone, Jackie." "I know, Dana," she said, patting the smaller woman on the shoulder. Funny -- crouched down like this she and Scully were almost the same size. "I didn't believe it, Jackie. I thought. . . ." She bit her lip. "I was sure I would know. . . ." Her face crumpled but she did not cry. Jackie's own eyes filled with tears. She understood -- she felt the same way about Marty. "Come on, Dana," she said gently. She stood up and helped her friend to her feet. Scully followed her silently to the car. On the way to Dana's apartment St. George told her matter-of-factly that they were going to Mrs. Scully's house for the night. When they arrived Dana got out of the car and walked woodenly up the path. She automatically unlocked the door and began throwing clothes into a suitcase. Halfway through she stopped cold with a panicked look on her face and dashed into the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. The door slammed and seconds later Jackie heard the shower come on full force. She listened carefully but that was the only sound that emanated from the bathroom. She sighed and addressed herself to the task of packing up Dana's things. Now she sat here on Margaret Scully's front porch, remembering, and thinking that nothing had really changed since that day. Certainly not for the better; Dana still showed no emotion over Mulder's death, wouldn't even talk about it -- or him -- at all. Finally Dana turned to Jackie and looked into her eyes. The Canadian almost recoiled from the blankness there. "Jackie, you don't have to do this." "Dana, I *am* doing this." Scully took this at face value and nodded. "Okay." "So when do we start?" Scully just looked at her. "I already have." "What?!" She nodded. "I know who did it, Jackie." "Who--" "Cancerman." Her eyes narrowed and Jackie could feel her hatred. "He got too close -- again. And Cancerman had him killed." Suddenly St. George realized that Scully had not said Mulder's name in her hearing once since the body had been found in the burnt-out shell of a house in New Mexico. "How do you know?" "Eric Hosteen remembered his ordering the boxcar burned." "But I thought. . . ." She nodded. "But at least part of it was true -- he was in that boxcar." "How do you know?" Scully had never told her any of this before. "I was on the phone with him," she said calmly. "You were on the cellular with Mul-- when -- it happened?" "Yes." She turned to face her friend. "It was all a lie, Jackie. Always a lie. He killed him. And then he lied about how he died. . . ." "Well, I knew the official reports were. . . ." Scully snorted, her lovely face contorted in disgust. "Of course not. He didn't kill himself. And it wasn't an accident. *And* he didn't die in that house, either." "Tell me." Scully told her. The "official" story was that Mulder, moody and unpredictable as always and rendered more so by the drugs found in his water supply, had finally snapped and gone off on his own to search for his father's killer, and that he had died in an abandoned house when it burned to the ground. The unofficial rumors were even more devastating. They suggested that Mulder had killed his father, escaped to New Mexico, and then killed himself out of remorse. Lies, all lies. Made the more damning in that they contained a kernel of truth. Mulder *had* gone psychotic, punching Skinner in the face in front of a dozen witnesses. A strong hallucinogen *had* been found in his water. His father *was* dead and he *had* been there when it happened. He *had* -- with Scully's help -- escaped to New Mexico. And -- the final, damnable truth -- *he was dead.* Burned to death. But Scully knew it could not have been either suicide or accident. Mulder hated fire. He would never have taken a chance like that. And, after much thought, she realized that this was just exactly what they had intended for her to deduce. Their way of scaring her off -- of warning her that they could reach her at any time. As they had him. But in this they did not know her. In her years of working on the X-Files -- of working with Mulder -- she had come to thirst after the truth as much as he did. True, at times she had lectured him for risking too much, even his own life, for the answers that always seemed to evade them in the end. But this was one truth for which she herself was going to risk everything. They had taken his sister and, in doing so, his childhood. They had taken his father and, with that, his only chance of reconciling with his parents and absolving himself of the guilt he had always felt. They had taken her from him, possibly twice, depending on whether Duane Barry had been working for the government or. . . . She shook her head. Before that they had taken the X-Files, although those had been given back, as had she. Then they had taken his life. And now, finally, his reputation. And now it was her turn to take. Jackie had heard most of this from Dana's lips, had read the rest in her eyes. Dana finished speaking and turned to her. "Are you still determined to do this?" The Canadian was struck yet again by the strength of this petite, seemingly fragile woman. The Truth burned in her heart, clear and strong. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes." Dana Scully could not weep for Fox Mulder, so Jackie St. George did it for her. That night Jackie had wept in her bed as Marty held her, gently rocking her until she fell asleep. But from Dana's room there was only silence. ***** St. George remembered all this as she gazed at her friend on the way back from Arlington. She caught a movement from the front seat and glanced up. Margaret Scully was watching them in the rear-view mirror, pain and fear both in her eyes as she gazed at her daughter. Melissa was twisted around in her seat. Jackie looked at her and Dana's sister slowly shook her head. She had a reputation for being spiritually "sensitive," but Dana was blocking her out. A tear dripped down her cheek. She had liked Fox, too -- would have been willing to love him as a brother, had he and Dana ever worked out for themselves what had been clear to her since her sister's return. She and Fox had begun a wary friendship during that time and had become closer during the long weeks of Dana's illness afterwards. He loved to tease her about her crystals and auras, although she sensed that he had gained a healthy respect for her "instincts" when her assessment of Scully's mental state during her coma had proven true. And then, last Christmas, he had joined in the family celebration and she had welcomed him with her whole heart, seeing how much his friendship meant to Dana and how much they depended on one another. She hurt for herself, hurt for her mother, hurt most of all for the younger sister who sat in a blank silence in the back seat, staring out at the rain. *End Chapter One* ******************************************* _Vengeance_ Chapter Two: "Rain" by JulietttXF@aol.com ******************************************* (2a/17) The ride back to the house was conducted in silence, any communication among the passengers in the car -- and there was very little -- conducted nonverbally. At last they pulled up in front of the Scully house and began to get out of the car but stopped when they that noticed Dana was still staring out the window, unmoving. Jackie climbed out past Marty and walked around to look in the window at her friend. Her deep blue eyes gazed at nothing, focused either at some point beyond St. George or inward, inside her own mind instead of out the window. Jackie shuddered: Dana looked as though she were in a trance or a waking coma. She gently opened the door and tried to take Scully in her arms, but the smaller woman brushed off her embrace -- too gently to hurt the Canadian's feelings -- and stepped out of the car, walking silently and stiffly up the stairs to the front door. The rain fell on her hair and shoulders, beading and rolling off the material of her suit, dripping off the ends of her hair and nose, but she never felt it. She let herself in with her key and disappeared inside. The other four watched her go and then exchanged glances. Jackie and Marty joined the Scullys on the walk to the house. "I'm worried about her," Mrs. Scully said softly. Jackie reached out to reassure the other woman. "She has something to live for, Margaret--she won't hurt herself." Dana's mother shook her head, tears sliding down her cheeks. "That's not what I meant. Not entirely." She took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm worried about her mind -- her soul." Melissa slid an arm around her mother, wishing she could comfort her but knowing she could not. She, too, was worried. She and Dana had suffered some misunderstandings and alienations through the years, but she had never felt so completely shut out before. If there was a crack in her sister's facade, she had not found it yet. "I've never seen her like this, Jaclyn. Not even when her father. . . . Has she -- cried at all?" St. George shook her head. "No. Not with me." Melissa spoke up quietly. "She can't cry. Not yet. It's the only thing holding her together." The others swung to look at her. "Don't push her to let it out. It may be healthy for most people but I don't know if she could take it right now. Give her time. Her mind, her spirit will know when to begin grieving." she begged. She was reminded of Fox's despair during Dana's coma, of the "dark place" she had told him he was inhabiting. What frightened her was that she could not see exactly *where* Dana's spirit was. She only knew that it was not *here*. Her mother smiled faintly. "She's always been the strongest one. She was always strong for us. Who will be strong for her? Now that Fox. . . ." She trailed off. "I will." Margaret turned to face the Canadian. Her eyes were blazing. "And I will help her get the bastards who did this." She felt the fierceness of her anger stream through her body like fire, like wine potent and pure. She had never felt this much hatred and righteous anger, even when her own blood was shed. She shoved the feelings down. "And I will make them pay." The other three stared at her for a moment, then turned away almost in embarrassment from the fierceness in her eyes. Then they walked up the steps and into the house. Scully was standing at the window, still staring out at the rain as her mother came up behind her and placed her hands on the younger woman's shoulders. They were tight, the tension boiling beneath the surface. Margaret was terribly afraid for her daughter. She was so very like her father; the other children were quick-tempered like their maternal grandfather, but Dana and Bill, Sr. tended to hold in all their emotions until they reached critical mass, and then Heaven help the one who set them off and took the brunt of all that pent-up anger. She would have welcomed one of her daughter's rare rages at this moment, however; anything but the blank, bleak silence that had been her only emotion for the past week or so. Or the complete and utter breakdown that she was beginning to be certain would be the ultimate release of all her tensions. "Sweetheart." She steadied her voice and went on. "You're soaked. Run upstairs and change into something warm while I make lunch, okay?" Unconsciously she had slipped into the language she had used when Dana was a little girl. It seemed to comfort the cool young woman standing in front of her slightly. She turned with the ghost of a smile and walked upstairs, the heaviness of her steps belying her slight weight which had dropped even more over the past few months of worry and, more recently, of anguish. Margaret walked to the kitchen with a sigh. Soup. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches -- Dana's favorites growing up. She opened the cabinets and began pulling down the ingredients. Melissa came up behind her. "Soup and grilled cheese, Mom?" The mother turned with a smile which her daughter mirrored. "I'll put on the kettle for tea." End 2a/17 (continued in 2b) ******************************************* _Vengeance_ Chapter Two: "Rain" by JulietttXF@aol.com ******************************************* (2b/17) Margaret allowed her mind to wander as she stirred the soup. Her children were all so independent. They were each different, individualistic. And yet each integrally a part of her and her husband. Dana was next to the youngest. As the child of some of Bill's more flush years in the military she had had some material advantages the older two had not. Had they spoiled their younger daughter? Margaret smiled. No -- Dana could never have been spoiled. She had always seemed to have a different nature than the others -- as if she were made of a finer material. Dana was her wonder-child in so many ways. Where the others' laughter was warm and golden, hers was pure silver. She was quiet where they were loud and boisterous, despite her love of tomboyish activities, and she was just as capable of amusing herself with her books and daydreams as she was of joining in her siblings' games. Her features seemed to have been carved with finer tools. Their eyes were a dark blue-grey, but hers, even as a child, had always been twin wells of deep, bright blue, clear and serene as the summer sky when she was tranquil, burning steel when she was angry. She had always been fair, a faint sprinkling of golden freckles across her nose and shoulders the only coloring besides the pale roses in her cheeks. Dana blushed more than the others, too -- sometimes they would tease her just to watch her face go crimson to match her hair, a shade deeper red than their sandy orange. A beautiful child. Sensitive and brilliant. And with an incredible strength that surprised those who found it impossible to reconcile the face and voice of the angel with the will of iron. She was willful, even stubborn. Definitely stubborn. Part of that was due to her innate intelligence -- she could *see* how a thing was and could not understand why others did not. In high school she loved algebra and calculus and hated geometry because her quick mind could reach the solution in two or three steps instead of six or eight. "But *why* do I have to write down all those extra steps?" she had complained more than once. "They're not necessary." That was the key to her personality, Margaret thought. Economy of thought and action. Her movements, whether in solving a jigsaw puzzle or performing an autopsy, were quick and precise. She hated to wait for a thing to be done -- grew impatient waiting for her slower classmates to catch up to her. All through school she took the responsibility for group projects on herself because she could never rely on her teammates to do the quality of work she herself would do. She hated for anything with which she was involved to be done haphazardly. Margaret remembered when Dana had first discovered Biology, in ninth grade. She had come home excited about their new studies and laughed at Melissa, who had made a face in memory of the dissections. Every day for weeks she had come home smelling of formaldehyde, and it was only after a long talk with her father that she reluctantly refrained from telling her family of her experiments at the dinner table. She had quickly determined that medicine was to be her destiny. Most mothers would have sighed in relief. But then many mothers would have assumed that their daughters would become nurses or, at the most, OBGYNs or general practicioners. Pediatricians. But Dana had wanted to be a surgeon, had loved the feel of the scalpel in her hand. Her parents had accepted this, Ahab in particular proud of his little "Starbuck," as he always called her in reference to the fact that as a child she had promised that one day she would sail with him as his first mate. But then she had come home one Spring Break during medical school -- uncharacteristically, for she usually used the time to catch up with -- for Dana Scully this meant "keep ahead in" -- her studies -- and with a deep breath had told them she wanted to go into pathology. Margaret had been shocked even while a part of her understood her youngest daughter's attraction to pathology. She could work alone without having to rely on others. And every autopsy was an investigation, an attempt to solve a mystery. Dana had always loved mysteries, practically inhaling every detective novel she could get her hands on. But then Dana read everything. It disturbed her mother, though -- this deliberate move toward a career she would spend in veritable isolation was merely the latest in a series of alienating moves on her daughter's part. She was beautiful, brilliant, and witty. And for some reason this combination, instead of driving the men in her class insane, frightened them away. Deep down Margaret wondered whether her youngest daughter were not choosing pathology *because* of the lack of competition. Not that she could not hold her own; she could have been a brilliant surgeon, but forensics was a field unto itself and as such would allow her to shine without casting a shadow over any potential mate. Dana had always been fiercely competitive; had something happened to make her decide that being alone professionally might prevent her from having to be alone personally? Ahab had been less understanding. What was Starbuck doing, turning down a chance to work with live patients to work with dead ones? By the time she was called in to figure out what went wrong it was too late, wasn't it? And even if by some miracle she did discover something that would save other lives, she wouldn't be the one saving them. Once again she managed to put herself under a spotlight to the left of center stage. She had been his pride and joy -- his beautiful genius, the child he had always known would make him proud. Would succeed in everything she did. And now here she was, hidden in a back room surrounded by dead bodies. Margaret had tried to console her husband in his disappointment while still supporting her daughter's decision, much as she disliked it herself. But he had been angry, and Dana had been angry, and the first wedge had been driven between the father and the daughter who, though he would never admit it, was his favorite child. Eventually Dana had compounded her parents' concern by determining to work for the FBI. Now she was Special Agent Dr. Scully and she carried both a scalpel and a gun. That she was very good with both was little consolation. What the hell was their feminine daughter doing cutting up dead people and chasing down bad guys? Something had gone very wrong in the scheme of things as Captain Scully saw it. Oddly enough, it was Melissa who understood her little sister best -- Melissa the freak, who liked spirits more than studies and boys more than anything. She was Dana's confidante, the understanding ear into which the brilliant scientific mind unburdened itself of her hopes and fears. And she was the one who had first asked Dana about Fox Mulder. Margaret remembered the day she had found out about her daughter's new assignment -- and her new partner. The three women had met for lunch in Georgetown. Dana, of course, had planned the whole thing as yet another attempt to reconcile her beloved sister and mother. The years had softened the misunderstandings somewhat, but the deep hurt was still there. This lunch was a start, although it still did not make Melissa feel comfortable enough to attend her father's funeral some months later. Over her perusal of the menu that day Melissa had made it abundantly clear -- yet again -- what topics regarding her life were "allowed" and what were off-limits. Margaret had bitten her tongue and accepted her daughter's boundaries, albeit reluctantly. Melissa had always shut herself out of the family's life more than the others. Dana, as usual, had skilfully stepped in and diverted the conversation to ease the rising tensions. "Mom, they've assigned me to a department," Scully had said over her salad. Margaret had sighed, glancing at the Sig Sauer tucked under Dana's jacket, and said a quick prayer that it wasn't to Violent Crimes. "Oh? Tell us about it, dear." "It's called the 'X-Files.'" Dana caught Melissa's eye and grinned mischievously. "And it's right up your alley, Mel." Margaret watched as Dana sat back and eyed her older sister. Unlike Dana, Melissa could not hide her interest. "Well?" Margaret laughed. In a battle of wit between these two, her baby would win hands down every time. "The paranormal." Melissa's eyes grew wide. Dana nodded. "Thought you'd like that. ESP, alien abductions, crop circles, the whole shebang." Melissa's eyes fairly glowed. "Actually, I'm supposed to keep an eye on the guy who's doing the investigating." "What's his name, dear?" "Agent Mulder." "Does he have a first name?" Scully took a deep breath. "Yeah, but he never uses it. It's Fox -- Fox Mulder." Melissa was watching her sister's face, her eyes narrowed. "And *is* he?" To Margaret's surprise Dana blushed. "Melissa -- he's my *partner." She emphasized the word. "So -- is he?" Margaret watched, fascinated, as Dana blushed even more deeply, biting her lip. The last time she had seen her daughter blush over a man had been in high school. . . . "He is!" Margaret flashed a warning look at Melissa. Had the two of them been fifteen years younger her eldest daughter's tone would have led her to expect Melissa to break out into sing- song about Dana and Fox sitting in a tree. . . . Some things never changed. "He is a man I work with. That's all. I don't really think about what he looks like. I'm only concerned with making sure he follows the rules." Margaret shook her head mentally. That was cold, even considering that Dana was attempting to derail Melissa's questions. This man must really be something. . . . It had always bothered her that Dana might have sacrificed her professional life for a chance at a personal one, although she desperately wanted to see her little girl happy. The more so because the man for whom she was certain her daughter was looking had never materialized. Oh, she had dated, Margaret knew, and there had been that bastard, Jack Willis, who had resurfaced so many years later only to hurt her daughter again. . . . But nobody ever seemed to stick around long enough for Dana to bring them home for Thanksgiving dinner. Except Fox Mulder. But then, Mulder was Scully's partner and friend. Whether he was more than that only Dana herself could answer. If even she could. Margaret had gathered from little things Dana had said and *not* said that their relationship was confusing at best. Early on in their partnership all contact Margaret had had with Mulder had been on the telephone; they had spoken several times at the office when she called for Dana, a couple more at Scully's place. She knew he and her daughter were friends as well as partners. But nothing could have prepared her for what she found when she arrived at Dana's house to find it surrounded by red and blue lights and shouting men armed with guns and cameras and searchlights. And inside, Fox Mulder standing forlornly by Dana's abandoned sofa. During the months of Dana's absence she had come to appreciate Mulder. She had a soft spot in her heart for him, at first because he had meant so much to her daughter and thus served as a link to Dana. As time wore on through their increasingly frequent meetings at the park bench and, once or twice, over coffee, she grew to like Mulder for himself, for the lostness she saw in his eyes every time one of them spoke her daughter's name. And then, finally, she began to love him as a son, could even see him as a son-in-law, although she would never tell either of *them* that. If they were going to figure it out on their own, well and good; she simply knew that *no-one* had ever felt about Dana as Fox did, and she knew that no-one would look out for her daughter like he did. She wished Bill could have known Mulder; she was certain he would have felt much better about Starbuck's being in such a dangerous occupation had he known that she had somebody like Fox Mulder to watch her back. When she had met Fox for the first time it had shocked and concerned her that he seemed more broken and despondent over Dana's absence than she herself did. At first she had told herself that this was because Fox believed Dana had been kidnapped by aliens and that he was terrified of the things they might be doing to her; he had never said so, but she had read the account of Duane Barry's capture in the paper and was smart enough to put two and two together. But as the weeks passed she knew that there was more to it than that. And then Dana had been returned and she had watched the joy burn in his eyes as though he were on fire inside. But then that joy had turned to an even deeper despair when Scully's condition dropped below the guidelines in her living will and she had, over Fox's vociferous objections, followed Dana's instructions and had given the permission for the doctors to turned off the machines keeping her body alive. That had been a very bleak time in her life; she had lost her husband so recently, her sons lived out of state, and she and Melissa had been estranged for years. Dana had been the shoulder she had leaned on for so long, and she had felt disloyal to her little girl in seemingly giving up on her recovery. But then she had warred with her heart and her conscience and come to this decision based on her respect for her daughter's strong will and formidable intellect. She had truly believed she had made the right decision, despite Fox Mulder's protests. That awful time had had several positive side effects, the most immediate being the beginnings of her reunion with Melissa. Old wounds seemed dull in light of the newer, sharper pain of losing daughter and sister, and after that first shocked meeting in Dana's hospital room they had clung to one another, united first in their love for Dana and then by the bond of years and blood that even the most bitter of misunderstandings and disagreements could not sever. She gave thanks again for that reunion; by the night of Dana's crisis her relationship with Melissa had healed enough that she had bitten her tongue when it seemed her daughter had abandoned Dana's bedside and had instead been willing to listen when she returned from what, it turned out, had been a daring and essential mission. Melissa had risked missing saying goodbye to her sister to go in search of Fox, whom she had not been able to reach despite numerous phone calls. Margaret had sat in sorrowful silence while Melissa described Fox opening the door to reveal a dark apartment. When her daughter haltingly described her image of Mulder's mental state as being even darker she had simply nodded; perhaps Melissa's "psychic" abilities were simply another form of observation, she thought: she, too, knew that Fox Mulder was in "a very dark place" and that he was in just as grave danger as his partner, albeit from a different source. Melissa had told her of the sense of impending violence she had read in Fox's demeanor -- she was very careful not to call it an "aura" -- and had shuddered. She wasn't certain that he intended -- what she thought perhaps he intended. But murder, even the execution of those whose actions were killing her baby girl, was barely less incomprehensible than suicide. And she knew that Fox's revenge would be another form of suicide, whether he held the gun to his own head or somebody else did it for him. She guessed that perhaps he knew that, too, and that he no longer cared. Thus she had been pleased -- more than pleased -- when he had shown up in ICU shortly thereafter and had offered to sit with Dana while she got some much-needed rest. She had balked at first, willing to let him stay but reluctant to leave, herself. Finally Melissa had practically dragged her away and she had slept, surprisingly, through the rest of the night, and had, upon awakening, hurried back to discover Fox Mulder asleep in a chair pulled up next to the bed, his head close to Dana's and her hand clasped in his own. She had sat for awhile, watching and waiting, before finally awakening him and sending him home. He had sat with his partner for more than twelve hours. He had left with much the same reluctance she had shown the night before, his eyes bleak and without hope as he dragged wearily from the room. It was then she knew that this man was the one for whom she had been waiting all of Dana's life. And as she sat there where he had sat, the chair still warm from the long hours his body had occupied it, she had a sudden presentiment that more than one life was at stake that morning. Fox's life, and perhaps his soul as well, was in danger. In her mind's eye she saw him sitting on his sofa with Dana's abduction picture in one hand and his gun in the other, waiting for the phone to ring. Fox Mulder was willing to die for her daughter, she was certain of it. Somehow, she had to convince him to live for her. She rose from her seat, taking a last glance back at her little girl's too-still form, and headed down the hallway to the parking lot, knowing that when she got back it might be too late, knowing also that Dana would want this, that she cared so much for him that it would have hurt her deeply for him to take a life -- his own or another's -- in recompense for her own. She would do as Dana would have done -- beg him to wait, promise him that if he would only wait to see what happened he could still do this tomorrow or the next day or the next if he had to, telling him anything to prevent this man who loved her daughter so much from blanking out his own life. And then, reluctantly, because she was terrified of Dana's dying alone, she had awakened her elder daughter and hurriedly explained her intentions. In that moment something approximating spiritual kinship passed between this rebellious daughter and herself, and the last bit of distrust and wariness crumbled away. Melissa, she knew, had always feared that their parents loved Dana more because she was "the obedient one," but here her mother was giving the prodigal charge of the faithful, and they reached for one another in their grief and need, and as they held one another in that timeless instant, Melissa Scully finally, truly came home after long absence. The long-overdue embrace was broken by the sound of running feet and shouts along the corridor. They had both blanched and stared at one another, frozen, and had taken off at a run back down the hallway. Nurse Owens, who throughout Dana's ordeal had seemed always to be on the perimeter of things although Margaret had caught her more than once hanging over her daughter's bed, holding her hand and speaking softly and lovingly to her, had met them halfway and informed them with a glowing smile that Dana was awake and would recover. As they collapsed against one another Margaret's next thoughts had been of Fox -- she had to tell him, and yet she was so concerned; she knew, had she been in his position, what her first thoughts would have been in that horrible, suspenseful eternity between the moment she answered the phone and the moment the caller's intent became clear. Before she could say a word, however, the nurse had smiled again and calmly promised her that she would call Fox Mulder and give him the good news. Later, Fox had thanked her for delivering the message in the way that she had; he could not remember her words, he said, but he had known the moment he heard her voice on the telephone that everything would be all right. And he had insisted that it had been she on the phone until she had begun to doubt her own memories of the incident. Perhaps the nurse had forgotten; perhaps she had, indeed, called Fox herself. Against all expectations Scully had lived, and the doctors were shocked, the attending physician shaken to the core of his confidence in living wills. No-one could imagine what had brought her back from the brink it had seemed she had already crossed over. But Margaret knew that Fox Mulder had had a lot to do with it. And she had seen her daughter's face when he removed the cross from his pocket -- Dana's cross that he had worn all the time she was gone -- and returned it to her. What had she said? "I had the strength of your beliefs"? What could she find to give her strength now? It had always hurt her that her baby was so independent. Even as a child she had relied on herself, never even seeming to need her own mother. But now that child had grown into a strong, self- reliant woman, and that woman had finally found someone on whom to depend. And now that someone was gone. And what would she do now? Margaret thought of Mulder on the couch and thanked God again that she had hidden the clip for Dana's gun. Jackie had said there was no danger, but she wasn't taking any chances. She couldn't keep all dangers away from her daughter, but she could protect her as much as possible. And with Melissa's help and Jackie's and Marty's it might just be enough. She sighed again. Physically Dana would survive. But she doubted her mind and spirit would ever be fully whole again. . . . "Mom!" She shook her head to clear the thoughts still clouding her mind. "Soup's boiling over." She automatically reached for the knob and turned the heat back under the bubbling pot. Melissa was flipping the sandwiches on the griddle and the tea had already been poured. She hadn't noticed the lunch preparations going on around her. Now she saw that Jackie and Marty were setting the table. She smiled. Dana may not have many *close* friends, but she certainly knew how to pick 'em. "Pour the soup, would you, Melissa? I'll run up and get Dana." Her daughter nodded and Margaret reached out to pat her hair in passing. She didn't know what she would do without her children. The loss of Ahab had been enough -- what must Mrs. Mulder be feeling right now? To lose her daughter, husband, and son, all tragically, all violently. . . . She knew the other woman had had a minor breakdown after Fox's death. She would have to see about going to visit her tomorrow. Margaret's steps grew heavy on the way up the stairs. It could so easily have been both of them, she thought -- if Dana had gone with him. . . . She didn't fully understand the official reports, but she could tell from her daughter's reaction that they were, at the very least, incomplete. She shivered. Dana had accompanied Fox out to New Mexico -- had taken him there. If she had gone with him they would both be gone. . . . And then the thought crossed her mind that Dana wished that she *had* been with him, and she grabbed the banister to steady herself. She knew what it was to love and to lose. But Dana and Fox had never had their chance. She knew from seeing them together that her daughter loved him, knew from watching his eyes on her and from the time of Dana's abduction that he loved her -- not romantically, but rather selflessly, sacrificially. Their bond had been formed in the fires of battle, of confrontation and danger and circumstances that required -- and created -- absolute trust. The resulting partnership was like blue steel, heated at extreme temperatures to remove all the impurities. Likewise, their relationship went far beyond the physical, the sexual involvement that might have weakened it, especially in its earlier stages. She also knew that they had both been afraid of another separation like that they had suffered when the X-Files were closed. At that time she had never met her daughter's partner and so was blind to the depth of the pain Scully had felt when she was reassigned to Quantico. Her father would have been been thrilled -- the instructorship was quite a plum, especially for a young agent like Dana Scully. But Margaret had sensed her daughter's unhappiness and had bitten her tongue whenever she was tempted to say anything about the promotion. She wondered -- she truly wondered just how far things had progressed between them. She would never ask, of course. But it hurt -- it hurt very much to see Dana in this much pain. She was behaving like a young widow bereft of her soulmate, yet Margaret felt there had never been any physical involvement between them. And somehow the thought that her daughter had lost the potential for that kind of happiness hurt her even more than had Dana lost a lover. She paused at the closed door to the Dana's bedroom and glanced across the hall and into Brian's room, the one she always thought of as *his* room because he stayed there whenever he came to spend the holidays. Last Christmas Brian and Karen had taken the hideabed downstairs, and Fox and Dana had laughed about "connecting rooms." Fox, she remembered, had gazed at her daughter and said something cryptic about that arrangement only working when they were on the clock, and Dana had blushed. Once again she wondered. . . . Margaret lifted her hand to knock but decided against it. She eased the door open and peeked around the edge. Dana was sprawled out on the bed face down, her shoes and suit jacket still on. Her body was limp in sleep. Margaret Scully slipped inside the room and carefully removed her daughter's shoes. She wanted to do something about that jacket but was afraid to wake Dana, who had barely slept since Fox -- since they'd discovered the body. And then she had insisted on doing a second autopsy. . . . Margaret shook her head. Dana was strong, but some things were too much even for her. She stood looking tenderly at her sleeping daughter for a few minutes, then walked out and gently closed the door behind her. End 2b/17 *End Chapter Two* ********************************************************** _Vengeance_ Chapter Three: "Fires of Memory" by JulietttXF@aol.com ********************************************************** Dana Scully slept -- fitfully -- through the rest of the afternoon. It was nearly dark when she awoke, the dim light from the setting sun turning the air in her bedroom gray. She pulled herself to a sitting position and stretched. Her hair was damp against her face and she ached all over. She slid off the bed and walked over to the window, raising the sash, and stood for a moment staring out at the sky awash with color. This was usually her favorite time of the day -- the border-time the Scots called the "gloaming," when it seemed as if the earth and sky were uncertain whether to continue to cling to the hem of the day or to turn and embrace the night. It always fascinated her that, try as she might, she could never quite identify the precise moment when the scales tipped and it became more night than day, when the colors deepened past the point of no return. She shook her head and purposefully turned her thoughts to her father, the only other man she had ever really -- trusted. She looked down at the platform of boards beneath her window and smiled softly. Scully remembered building the Nest. Each of the Scully children had his or her own special private place. Bill's was a hidden stream back in the woods where he liked to go fishing for bream and trout. Melissa's was a clearing in the middle of the blackberry thicket. Brian's was the loft of an empty barn two cross- lots over. She, Dana, had always been a tomboy. When she was younger she had been readily accepted into her brothers' and their friends' games, but as they grew older -- and taller -- she was left behind. Until much later when the little boys whom she had struck out in sandlot baseball came back looking for dates. . . . But during those confusing middle years she had taken refuge in the limbs of the great old king maple that grew just outside her window and had finally convinced her father to help her build the simple tree house that still remained there. Actually, Ahab had taken little convincing -- it had been Maggie who was concerned for her daughter's safety. Bill had placated her by promising to build it himself, the platform actually touching the flat part of the roof. It could serve, in a pinch, as an emergency fire exit from the second floor of the house. But at all other times it was Starbuck's Nest, and she revelled in her freedom. On rare occasions the boys or even Melissa were invited up into to her secluded aery, but they were not allowed to intrude without permission and, for the most part, they obeyed their parents' ground rules. Dana, in her turn, was sometimes taken fishing by Bill or kitten hunting in the loft by Brian or played in Melissa's bright vine-house and picked and ate living amethysts off the growing walls. As for the Nest, she and Ahab had built it sturdily and added a railing around the three free-standing sides, again as a concession to Maggie's maternal sensibilities. There was a rope ladder that could be lowered to the ground for emergencies -- such as the aforementioned fire or the occasional early schoolbus. The Nest was hidden in the dense foliage of the tree and was relatively invisible to the casual onlooker as well as very nearly inaccessible from the ground, as the lowest branches were six feet up. Dana had spent many of her wonder-moments here. When her father would leave on a tour of duty, on those occasions when the hour or some other factor prevented all four children from accompanying their mother to the dock to see him off, she would climb out onto the Nest and wave at him until even the cloud of dust had settled behind the retreating car. While he was gone she would creep out o'nights and sit in silence, watching the stars and knowing he was seeing the same constellations -- most of the time. And she would imagine, sometimes, that the Nest was actually the crow's nest of his ship, that he was standing on the deck far beneath her awaiting her report for good or for ill. Here, too, she studied and read, shedding her first tears over _Romeo and Juliet_ and unravelling the mysteries of algebra. It was in the Nest that she had finished reading _Jane Eyre_ for the first time in the tenth grade. She was so angry at Jane for returning to Rochester that she threw the book over the side and then leapt up to watch in horror as it fell heavily to the ground and split down the spine, sending pages flying in all directions. That was the first, last, and only time she ever mistreated a book so. She was only glad it had not been _The Odyssey_. And years later, when time and maturity and experience had given her a fellow-feeling for Jane, she remembered those days of innocence when things seemed so clearly delineated in black and white, and sighed. The Nest was also the perfect place for a young Dana to write in her diary, which she afterwards secured in a crook of a branch beneath the platform itself where she hoped it would be safe from Melissa's prying eyes. In later years she turned to journal- and letter-writing here as well, and on several trips home from college had even studied for term exams there, shaded from the hot sun that filtered through her leafy ceiling to illuminate the pages of her Shakespeare or Einstein or _Gray's Anatomy_. At the end of one board was a scarred area where she had once carved her initials with those of the boy's she liked, only to return the following week and viciously hack the letters out of the wood when she discovered he had turned his attentions to an older, more mature, ninth-grade girl, one whose knees were covered in nylons rather than Band-Aids. And one afternoon several years later she had even brought a guy out here to neck, secure in her own literalist mind that the caveat that forbade her from having boys in her *room* certainly did not apply to the Nest since it was, technically, outside the house. Unfortunately, Maggie had chosen to return from the store -- early -- just in time to see Doug MacKenzie swing one long, gangly leg over the windowsill from her daughter's room. That had been one of those other occasions the emergency rope exit had been used. Bill's sons had discovered the Nest on a previous visit to Grandma and Grandpa Scully's house and had begged to be allowed access to it, but their father, with a bittersweet wistfulness for days past and out of deference to Scully's memories of their father, had disallowed it. After that the boys had lurked around under Scully's window hoping to catch their Aunt Dana on the roof. The day before they had left she had taken pity on them and, laughing down into their excited faces from her lofty perch, had promised them that one day when they were older she would invite them up. She had gone there last night, too, to watch the stars and think about . . . things. She had wanted to show Mulder the Nest. . . . Scully snapped back to the present. The indefinable moment had once again passed unnoticed; the sky was now rapidly darkening from a deep rosy lavender to a velvety blue-purple, and soon it would be night. She shook her herself, wincing when her neck cracked. Perhaps a shower would help. Scully closed the window and crossed to the bathroom that connected her room to the den next door, which had been Melissa's room before she had left for college. She smiled, remembering how her father had always maintained that one of the smartest things he had ever done was to put an extra bathroom between his two girls' rooms. She turned up the water as hot as it would go, peeled the now-limp suit off her body, and climbed in. Ahhh. Bliss. She stood for a long time directly under the spray, allowing the water to beat the soreness out of her neck and shoulders. But then she began remembering again. She remembered the shower she had taken at the hotel in New Mexico although for the life of her she could not recall how she had gotten from the explosion site in the desert back to town. She remembered scrubbing at her skin until it was red and washing her hair four times to get the smell of smoke away from her, as if the water would wash down the drain all the anxiety and fear and anger that permeated her entire consciousness. She most vividly remembered breathing in deeply the shampoo-scented steam in an attempt to clear the stench from her nostrils. She had been worried -- very worried -- then, but still hopeful. The Navajo boy had not even been found yet, and they couldn't be *certain* Mulder had been in that boxcar. . . . And then the next shower that she remembered vividly, back at her own apartment, a scant week ago. The one she had taken to get the feeling of death off of her. The one she had taken to scrub the feeling of sickness out of her mouth. Strange. She couldn't remember the drive with Jackie from the lab to her apartment or the one from the apartment to her mother's house, but she could remember that shower. Scully had insisted on doing a second autopsy herself, arguing calmly and quietly with Skinner until he threw up his hands in despair and let her. And she had done well, really well, approaching this post- mortem as she would any other, snapping her rubber goves on with precision, recording her findings in a flat, controlled voice. Noting the extensive damage to the skin and upper layers of flesh. The numerous older injuries that had left their identifying marks -- a pin in his left leg, healed fractures in both arms. The extensive scarring in his left shoulder and thigh which were consistent with bullet wounds. She had been totally, utterly in control of herself until, finished, she had cut off the tape recorder and removed her gloves, throwing them into the waste container in the corner. And then reached out her finger to touch that one patch of unburnt flesh on the inside of his right forearm. It was soft and smooth. And terribly, terribly cold. It had seemed to her that his death had somehow not truly touched her until that moment, but the coldness of that fleeing contact with his skin had crept into her own body, into the very marrow of her bones, taking with it the deadly and sick creeping sensation of death and decay. *His* death and decay -- and, in a sense, her own. . . . And then she had burst out of the examining room, lurching to the bathroom, and was horribly, violently ill. She had heaved again and again although there was very little in her stomach. She hadn't eaten for days. Had collapsed weakly against the wall of the bathroom. Her assistant had returned and found her there. His eyes were compassionate and he was very young. "Dr. Scully?" "Bruce, could you . . . ?" "Yes, ma'am." He tried to smile at her but the result was ghastly. He turned without another word to replace the body in storage. Her partner -- her friend. How could she even. . . ? He shook his head. Dr. Dana Scully was somewhat of a legend at Quantico. Her brilliance, her uncanny ability to distance herself from even the most gruesome of autopsies, was infamous. From all he had been told of her he had expected that the Ice Maiden would live up to her p.r. He had been unprepared for -- but impressed by -- the firm gentleness with which she handled the bodies they had autopsied together. From her manner it was obvious that she revered life and was determined to give the bodies the respect she would have given the living people. Her stitches as she closed the horrible wounds they routinely gave the cadavers were small and careful, although no-one else would ever see them, the final gift she could give to the dead. And so when, after making a brief telephone call to the one person he believed could truly help, he began to re-stitch the incisions on the body of Fox Mulder, Bruce Cunningham used small, careful stitches. It was the least he could do for him -- and for her. ***** Dana climbed out of the shower, dried herself, and dressed quickly. If only she could stop thinking -- even for a little while. Just turn off her mind for a few minutes so she could rest. Even her fitful sleep was filled with nightmarish images of the things she had seen -- *they* had seen -- and experienced. And the fear. Whom to trust? The government who employed her but who had lied to and about her? Walter Skinner, who obviously sympathized with her but who was, in the long run, answerable to that same government? The Lone Gunmen -- paranoid and obsessed with conspiracy theories, but full of sympathy when they had finally -- reluctantly -- called her with the results of the DNA tests? Her mother and sister, who loved her but could not possibly understand? Jackie. She could trust Jackie. But she couldn't tell her everything -- couldn't put the Canadian agent's life at risk. Mulder. She could have trusted him -- always. She rushed downstairs blindly, fleeing the voices in her mind. They were all seated around the fireplace, their voices hushed. So they would not wake her, she instinctively knew. She took a deep breath and sank to an empty chair. "Dana!" Her mother smiled at her. "Sleep well?" She gave her an approximation of a smile in return and said nothing. She hadn't. Melissa jumped up. "We saved you some soup and I can make more sandwiches. . . ." "No." Four pairs of eyes swung to look at her in concern. "Just -- a cup of tea, if you wouldn't mind." "'Course not, Cat." Dana did smile at this. Mel hadn't called her "Cat" since high school. A wave of fondness for her family and beloved friends swept over her. They were trying to make her comfortable, but they were trying too hard. . . . She accepted the mug of spiced tea her sister handed her and sipped slowly, allowing the hot liquid to warm her all the way to her toes. This was one of her very favorite things to do at her mother's house -- just sit companionably by the fire sipping tea. Except that this particular flavor -- her mother called it "Russian tea," made with tea and Tang and cloves and other spices -- reminded her of Mulder and last Christmas, which he had spent here. She remembered the presents they had given one another, carefully chosen as always to keep that distance between them that would allow them to continue working together, and yet so charged with significance in their own way. And the fireplace. She had called her mother the afternoon she had finally wheedled Mulder into joining them for Christmas and had carefully explained his phobia. She had related to Margaret the story he had told her about his friend's house burning down and had added a rather sketchy description of the L'Ively case which had made the extent of his fear so evident to her. She had not been able to help just touching on Phoebe Greene's involvement; she was still bitter about the woman's manipulation of Mulder's angst to prove she still retained her old power over him. At least, she had convinced herself that that was the source of her anger. That first cold night, though, Mulder had approached Margaret and carefully, determinedly asked her why she had not built a fire in the fireplace. He must have noticed the looks exchanged at his question but had not mentioned it. After that they had had a fire every night. At one point she had approached him about it and he had shrugged and tried to convince her that contained fires did not affect him. But he could not hide the way he jumped when the sparks crackled against the screen, and he had noticed her noticing and had joked about his "pyrotherapy." All in all he had seemed determined to fit in, to take Maggie at her word and make himself "one of the family." A log broke in the fireplace and she jumped, a momentary panic coursing through her body. Fire. Dear God, why fire of all things? Why not a nice quick bullet or -- or anything but that. . . . Anything but the fire that had taken his body and burned out of him everything that had made him Mulder and turned him into that twisted mass of burnt flesh and ash and bone that had been the best partner and friend she had ever had. . . . Suddenly her tea was very bitter and the fire could not seem to chase the chill from her bones. She looked at the floor. She dreaded going up to bed alone. The dreams would undoubtedly come again . . . but she was even more afraid to stay awake. All at once she wished for a husband or a lover, someone to hold her in the night and keep her from being afraid. And suddenly, inexplicably, she thought of Mulder again. No! I will *not* do this! a small voice inside asked. Because he's my *partner*, my best friend, that's why. No -- but. . . . And then the walls crumbled and for an instant -- just an instant -- she allowed herself to remember the light in his eyes when he teased her, the half-smile that curled his lips, that one shock of dark hair that always fell over his forehead and that she had given into temptation to brush back too few times, his full lower lip with the crease that divided it in the middle, the feel of his arms as he held her after he had rescued her from Pfaster. . . . Unabashedly she admitted to herself -- finally -- that she had wanted him. Okay. Yes. I did. And I didn't do anything about it because I couldn't stand to risk losing him as my partner and friend, not even -- Now? She thought about that for a moment. Nothing. I would change nothing. Except to tell him more often how much I appreciated him. To admit with less reticence the times that I believed him -- believed *in* him, which was more important. And to go with him into that boxcar. They were a *team*. What had she said? "I'm afraid you're on your own with this, Mulder"? Because she had missed a meeting with Skinner and was concerned for her *JOB*? It didn't work. Okay. Yes. I tried. I did. I tried but I failed. And now he's gone and I've lost or *will* lose everything anyway. . .. "Sweetheart." She jumped. Her mother was standing over her, concern in her eyes. "We're all going up to bed now. You want to stay down here for a while? I'll stay with you. . . ." "No. No -- I should go to bed, too. . . big day tomorrow." Her mother raised her eyebrows and looked across at Jackie, who looked away. Yes. A big day. Tomorrow they would go after Cancerman and Krycek. "Okay, hon." Dana rose wearily. Her mother took the mug from her and watched her slowly climb the stairs. "You know where the extra blankets are -- " Yes. She knew. "Good night." She nodded and continued up the stairs to her room and closed the door. Downstairs Marty doused the fire and stood in silence in the near darkness with the other three women, listening to the stillness. *End Chapter Three*