*******************************************************
_Vengeance_ Chapter Thirteen: "Miles to Go"
by JulietttXF@aol.com
*******************************************************

     He was in the boxcar again, and there were bodies 
everywhere.  Not human bodies, just as he had told Scully.  At least, 
not *strictly* human.  He was rummaging through them, searching, 
searching for  . . . something.

     There were piles of teeth in one corner, watches in another,
glasses in a third.  In the fourth -- oh, horrible! -- were piles of toys,
piles and piles of toys. . . .

     It was to this pile that he walked, stifflegged.  Bent and
began pawing through, searching. . . .

     There.  He reached out for it, but before his fingers closed
on the object another hand grasped it.  He looked up into the face
of his father.  Bill Mulder held up the Stratego piece between his
thumb and forefinger.

     "Is this what you're looking for?"

     He nodded, silenced as always by his awe for this man, his
need for approval.

     He slowly shook his head and curled the piece into his
palm.  "You're no longer a boy, Fox.  Grow up.  Use your man's wits
to find her."

     "Where is she?"

     The long forefinger pointed and he turned his head.  One of
the EBE's was looking at him.

     And her eyes were hazel.

     <Please, please let me wake up.>

     "Where is she?"  This time it was another voice, not his own.
A cruel, hard, disbelieving voice.

     "I don't know."

     "You're lying!  You're trying to protect her.  It won't work, you
know," Hoffer mocked, his upper lip curling in a sneer.  "We took her
once before.  Next time we might take her right in front of you.  We
can, you know.  Just like we took Samantha."

     "No!"

     "Then give us the tape!"

     "I -- I can't!"

     "Your choice, Mr. Mulder.  The tape?  Or Scully. . . ."

     And then she was there, standing in front of him.  She
was dressed in a hospital gown, IV tubes running from her arms,
as if she had just arisen from her hospital bed when she was in 
the coma.

     "Mulder -- I need your help. . . ."

     "Choose, Mr. Mulder!"  The voice was Deep Throat's.

     "Scully -- but I can't remember. . . ."  He closed his eyes
and thought hard.  "Wait -- wait. . . ."

     "Too late, Mr. Mulder. . . ."  They were dragging her away,
and her eyes reproached him.

     "No, *wait*!  I remember!  I know where it is!"

     Hoffer turned to him with an evil smile.  "So do we."  The
door slammed shut and its echo nearly drowned his scream. . . .

*****

     He sat up with a gasp, his chest heaving.  Cold sweat dripped
into his eyes and he blinked, for the moment not recognizing his
surroundings.

     "Mulder?"  A soft, concerned voice cut through the darkness
of the room, the even bleaker darkness of his soul, and he sighed in
relief.

     <Scully.>

     She sat up beside him, her hand on his shoulder.  "Are you
okay?"

     He nodded, still breathing heavily.

     "Bad dream?"

     He nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut.  "Yeah," he
whispered hoarsely.  "They were injecting me -- wanted to know
where the DAT tape was."  He panted for a moment, remembering
the jumbled images from this and others in his series of dreams
that night, dreams that escalated in nightmarish intensity until
sheer terror shocked him back into blissful reality.

     He began to speak quietly, his voice shaking, telling her
what he remembered of the small cubicle in which they had held
him, furnished only with a narrow, lumpy cot and a single straight-
backed chair.  In the corner was a toilet and sink.  For a wonder, 
both of them worked.

     He told her about the two men who had visited him 
repeatedly, towering over him where he sat, bound, in the chair,
their presence making the tiny cell seem claustrophobically small.
He wouldn't tell her everything, but he needed to share what he
remembered, to create a backup of sorts for his memory, for when
they returned to D.C. and he was called upon for answers.

*****

     *Where is the tape?*

     He pressed his lips together in a firm line and stared
stubbornly at the opposite wall.  They had been asking him the
same question for approximately twenty minutes now.  He wondered
whether they really thought he would finally become convinced or
whether they were trying to drive him slowly insane with the
redundancy of it.  After the first half-dozen times he had begun
keeping count of the number of times they asked it, then counting
his heartbeats between repetitions, then calculating, knowing his
own resting heart rate, the delay.  It seemed to him that the pauses
were growing shorter.

     Soon they would turn to a more physical form of 
persuasion, he was sure.  Physical torture he could probably handle --
at least for awhile -- if he could only keep himself centred properly.  
But eventually they would turn to chemicals, and there was nothing he
could do to fight them then.  In fact, he was somewhat surprised they
had not yet resorted to drugs.

     He wondered, when they finally did, what they would 
discover.

     Part of his refusal -- the majority of it -- was due to his
stubbornness.  He would not divulge the location of the MJ files to
these criminals.

     Even if he knew where they were.

     The truth was, he simply could not remember.  Everything
after his phone call to Scully after his father's death was a blur, with 
only a few details poking their way through the drug-induced and 
feverish haze in which he had evidently been at the time.  He did not
remember the drive from Martha's Vineyard back to Scully's, although
he *did* recall arriving there and nearly collapsing on her in the door-
way.  He vaguely remembered her taking care of him, bathing his face
and body with cool, damp cloths, feeding him acetominaphin to 
reduce his temperature.  And he remembered waking up alone and
finding his gun missing.  The next thing of which he was aware was
Scully's strident tones cutting through his feverish delirium, telling
him not to kill Krycek.  With a jolt he had come to himself and 
realized that he held the young ex-agent at gunpoint.  He could not
remember how he had cornered Krycek, but that didn't matter --
because he *did* know that somehow the traitor was responsible for
his father's death -- and for what had happened to Scully.  He
remembered again the sickening lurch as the cable car froze high 
over the gorge below and swung uselessly, suspended between the
safety of the mountain's base and his goal at the summit where he was
certain Scully had been taken.

     *He killed my father!*  <And kept me from saving you from
Barry,> he thought but did not say, then or now, recounting the
story to Scully.

     And then the sharp flare of pain that spread like fire through
his shoulder and seared its way to his brain, and then nothing at all.

     He thought he remembered a little of the drive to New 
Mexico.  Not much -- just vague, dreamlike images of rapidly 
changing scenery, of gas station after gas station, of Scully bending
over him several times with a syringe in her hand, of her soft voice
talking to him, reassuring him that she was there, that he was safe,
of that same voice rising in frustration as she altered her speed to
remain within the acceptable limits despite her urgency to get to
their destination as quickly as possible.  After all, he now reasoned,
she could not risk being stopped by the highway patrol; the DC police
probably had a warrant out for his arrest by now.  He even thought he
remembered bits of songs on the radio -- he was almost certain
that one of them had been "Against All Odds," and that he had
moaned something that had made her change the station.  

     Then waking up in the hotel.  After that his memories
became clear again.  Albert Hosteen.  The World War II code
talker had been translating the MJ files, but he had been given a
printed copy of the originals rather than the source tape.  

     And for the life of him he could not remember where he had
put that tape.

     Scully had had the printed copy and Hosteen's translation,
but. . . .

     *Scully.*

     *NO!*

     The smaller of the two men leaned over him.  Mulder strained 
at his bonds slightly, knowing that even in his weakened state he 
could easily take this one, at least.

     "Does your partner have the tape, Mr. Mulder?"

     His mind whirled.  Should he answer?  After his previous
unwillingness to respond to them, would this convince them that
Scully *did* have the files?

     On the other hand, would his continued silence put her in
even more danger?

     What to say?

     In the end he settled for nothing.  

     "Does she have the *tape*, Mister Mulder?!"

     Silence.

     "Would you lie to protect her?"

     <Of course I would.>  Still, his mind whirled.  If he answered
"no". . . .

     The larger man, evidently more comfortable in his role as
enforcer and quite obviously not the brains of the outfit, sneered at
him.  "You *are* lying to protect her.  Do you really think *she* would 
lie to protect *you*?"

     Suddenly Mulder's mind was calm once more.  Of course 
she would -- had, on occasion, done that very thing, he knew.  But
he knew that even had he never had proof of this extent of her loyalty
from her actions in the past, that she would, undoubtedly, do 
anything short of a serious crime she could not justify to herself to
protect him.  Actually, she already had -- she had helped him, in the
eyes of the law at least, to escape the state.  His accomplice in so
many ways in the past, she was now an accessory after the fact.
Unless he could prove his innocence and, in doing so, clear her. . . .

     The shorter man scowled at this change in tactic.  *Fool!*

     But Mulder had regained his center.  *Scully.*

     Now if only he could remember where he had put that tape. . . .
Frantically he wracked his mind, searching.  Where . . . where . . .
where?  He had several hidey-holes: one with The Lone Gunmen, who
had the letter he had left for Scully. . . . Temporarily his mind wandered.
He was certain she thought he was dead.  *Oh, Scully . . . I'm so
sorry. . . .*  Then he shook his head to clear it and tried again.  
Definitely *not* the safe-deposit at the bank; that was not even secure
enough for Scully's letter, although he had left a key for her.  Where,
then?

     "Mr. Mulder.  If you do not tell us where the tape is we will 
be forced to assume that your partner has it.  Ask yourself: what is
the truth worth to you?

     His eyes blazed and the smaller man laughed mirthlessly.
"Your devotion is very touching."

     "She doesn't have it," he said through clenched teeth.

     "Ah.  Now we're getting somewhere.  Either you are telling
the truth, in which case you *will* tell us where it is, or you are lying
to protect her, in which case we have at last discovered your
weakness.  Which is it, I wonder?"  He shook his head.  "No matter."

     Mulder eyed him warily, then barely stifled a grin.  For some
reason the man's reasoning reminded him of the poisoning scene
from _The Princess Bride_.  He and Scully had rented that one
afternoon over Christmas and watched it with her neices and 
nephews. . . .

     "So tell me, Mr. Mulder -- *where is the tape*?"

     He set his mouth into a grim line again.  <Better not let
them know that *you* don't know. . . .>

     The other man sighed in disappointment.  "It's a shame you
won't cooperate, Mr. Mulder.  I did so want to avoid using drugs on
you.  It will slow down our progress with the other -- subject.  And, of
course, there can be those nasty side-effects. . . ."  He turned to a
tray laid on the bed and picked up a shining needle.

     Mulder swallowed hard, his stomach churning, and then had
a thought.  He allowed his eyes to roll back in his head and slumped to 
the side, slipping off the chair to the floor before they could catch him,
his hands bound tightly behind his back preventing him from catching
himself.  His last thought before his head hit the concrete floor was
that an unconscious man under the influence of sodium pentathol or
whatever had been in that syringe was of no use to them at all. . . .

     He awoke slowly, the merciless light drilling into his eyes
increasing the throbbing in his head.  <If Jackie's headaches are
anything like these, no wonder she takes those Tylenol 3's.>  He 
moaned before he could stop himself and heard a chair scrape.  He 
was still in his cell, now lying on the cot.  He had no sense of how 
much time had passed.

     "Ah, Mr. Mulder.  Welcome back.  No, please, don't bother
 to get up," his tormentor sneered, bending over him.  "We wouldn't
want you to have a -- relapse -- now, would we?"

     "Never could stand needles," he murmured groggily.

     "Hmm.  Rather convenient for you, though.  No matter.  We
have time on *our* side, you see."  <Yeah, right.>  "I can see you
don't believe me.  Our sources tell us that you were unable to have
the files fully unencrypted."

     <Yeah, but by now Albert will have had -- how much time? --
to finish them.>

     The smaller man shook his head in amusement.  "And don't 
count on the Navajo man.  We have his grandson, you see. . . ."

     This, despite the raging pain and nausea in his skull, sent
Mulder bolt upright.  "You bastard!"

     "Tch, tch, Mr. Mulder. . . ."

     "You bastard," he whispered, collapsing once more onto the
cot.

     "Rest now, Mr. Mulder.  I *will* be back."  The other man swept
out of the room, leaving Mulder to contemplate his words.

     *Eric.*  He had seen Cancerman's goons injecting him with 
something.  But why keep the boy?  Did they really think that would
prevent Scully from finding the truth?

     <She thinks you're dead, Mulder.  And who knows what they've
done to her after the stunt she pulled, aiding and abetting a fugitive?
You might even be a convicted felon by now -- Scully reprimanded . . .
or suspended . . . or even fired . . . Or. . . .>

     <No.  Don't even think like that. . . .>

     He groaned and pulled himself to a sitting position once more.
Somehow, he *had* to find a way out of here. . . .

     Surprisingly, it had been a long time before his inquisitor had
returned.  Again, however, he had no sense for how many days had
passed; he began to suspect they were tampering with his sense of
time.  Sometimes it seemed that an unreasonably long amount of time
passed before his next meal; at other times he was not even hungry 
when they brought it.  They had taken his watch, and his room had no
window, no door save the one through which his meals and questioners
came, and that opened on a hallway.

     As nearly as he could guess it was more than a week before
the man returned.  He had begun to think -- to hope -- that they had
given up.  <Given up?  That would mean they had found the files.  And
Scully. . . ?>

     At first he was surprised they did not use her against him 
more readily -- or St. George.  But then, he rationalized, that would be
to relinquish that hold they had upon him; so long as Scully remained
alive he might be willing to bargain -- for her life if not for his own.

     This time the man was smiling.  

     Mulder sneered at him.  "Gee, you were gone so long I was
beginning to worry -- why didn't you write?"

     The man laughed lightly, mirthlessly.  "Why, Mr. Mulder, *I*
knew we would be seeing one another again shortly.  Did you really
believe I had forgotten?"  He shook his head with apparent 
amusement, then motioned behind him and another man, this one
dressed in a white lab coat, came in behind him carrying another of
those trays that he knew from experience held needles or probes or
other equally distasteful objects.  "Dr. Coreggi here has some tests
to perform on you.  He has to get clear readings.  And then I'll be
back."

     <With drugs.  Great.>  This time Mulder held his groan until
the inquisitor had left.

     That was his first meeting with Coreggi, who eventually gave
him the information that led him to connect Scully's abduction with
his own.

     That time the doctor merely took blood and tissue samples
before knocking on the door, which was quickly opened.  He left and
the first man, whom Mulder eventually learned was named Hoffer,
returned.  This time he held only one needle.

     And this time he did not waste his time with questions, but
simply crossed the room and plunged the needle into Mulder's arm.

     He felt the darkness swirling around him and fought it, but
it was too strong.  As unconsciousness swept over him like a 
merciless tidal wave his last thought was, "Scully, I'm so sorry. . . ."

*****

     Slowly he came back to himself and realized that he was 
half-sitting in the bed in the darkness, his head on Scully's shoulder,
and that she was stroking his hair.  He must have fallen silent some
time ago, his mind alone racing through the memories of his ordeal.

     Suddenly she shifted and he realized she was reaching for
the lamp on the bedside table.  His hand grabbed hers before she 
could switch it on.

     "No -- don't.  You'll never get back to sleep."

     <I'm not going back to sleep in any case.  Not until. . . .>

     He sighed again.  "They kept asking me for the tape.  
Scully -- I couldn't remember."

     She smiled.  "And this is a bad thing?"

     He took a deep breath.  "Scully -- I was afraid . . . I was so
afraid I had given it to you."  His voice was a whisper and he shuddered.

     She patted his shoulder.  "It's okay, Mulder."

     "No."  His voice was hoarse again.  "Later, they told me they
had it.  I thought . . . I didn't know if they had gotten it from you -- if
maybe I had. . . ."

     <If maybe you had sent them to me.  Oh, Mulder. . . .>

     She tentatively reached for his face, cupped his chin, and 
turned him toward her.  "They didn't hurt me, Mulder.  And if you *had*
told them I had it -- which I didn't -- it wouldn't have been your fault,
anyway."

     He turned slightly away from her and she sighed, this time in
exasperation.  "Fox Mulder -- you think you're supposed to be some 
kind of superhero or something.  Half the time I believe you think you
really *are*.  Well, you're not."  He twitched his shoulders.  "And you
don't have to be.  All I need you to be is yourself, Fox Mulder, my
best friend and my partner and the guy who watches my back on 
those rare occasions when I get into trouble before he does."

     He couldn't help it.  He laughed.  She smiled.  <Good.>

     "Now lie back down and get some sleep."  He nodded and
slid back down under the covers, but his mind was racing.  No *way*
was he going to get back to sleep.  And from the tension in Scully's
body where her arm just touched his, she knew it as well.

     Suddenly he felt her shift next to him.  She pushed on his
shoulder so that he rolled on his side facing away from her.  And then
her body pressed behind his, her arms around him, her face at his
neck just below his ear.

     "Close your eyes."  He complied.

     And then her voice, very low and very soft. . . .

     "Way out in the West, in the town of Mercedd. . . ."

     By the time she got to the Moose and the Goose he was 
sound asleep.

*****

     After the previous morning, even before they had headed up 
to bed that night, Margaret Scully had known that her early morning
coffees with Fox were over -- at least for the time being.  Mulder, she 
knew, would be upstairs in the double bed with her daughter.  And,
given their openness about it the prior night, Mulder and Scully knew
that she knew.  And she figured they knew that in some way she 
approved of their strange new relationship.  They had no idea what 
Captain Scully would have thought of it, though.

     What they could not know was that that night when she went 
to bed Mrs. Scully had smiled in the darkness at the thought of them 
together.  Ahab would have approved of Fox Mulder, she thought.  And 
contrary to what Dana thought of her father, he would even have 
approved of their sleeping arrangements.  She had always set higher 
standards and stricter limitations on herself than her parents had; and 
Margaret Scully knew that she and Fox were too emotionally needy right 
now to forgo the physical and emotional comforts of holding each other.  
Once things were back to normal -- well, as normal as they would ever 
be for those two -- they would have to reassess the situation.  But for 
now the warmth and companionship they gave one another in the 
darkness, combined with the TLC Margaret and Jackie and Melissa gave 
them both during the day, was the best medicine.

     Now, headed up the stairs with a cup of coffee in either hand,
she smiled again.  It was good to have Fox back.  And it was good --
good -- good to have *Dana* back, really back, instead of the shadow
that had haunted her house for the past week.

     She tapped lightly and eased the door open.  This morning 
they were spooned together again but with Dana holding Fox tightly, 
her tiny body curled around his larger one in an obvious attempt to 
enfold him.  Last night, it seemed, it was Mulder who had had the 
nightmares. . . . 

     Margaret shook her head.  They only had this week.  What
would they do when they had to go back to Washington, back to the
Bureau, back to being Agents Scully and Mulder, partners and best
friends instead of the very light and air that sustained them both?  It
would take more than just these few days for them to heal, even
physically, she knew, and the emotional healing could take months
or even longer.  But how could they hope to explain things to Walter 
Skinner, even if they did have the courage to admit in the light of day 
what was an unspoken agreement even in the dark?  "Oh, no sir, we're 
not *sleeping together*, we're just *sleeping* together."  And who 
would believe them?  

     The separation was going to be very, very hard.

     She sighed and closed the door and headed back downstairs,
the two mugs of coffee still in her hands.

*End Chapter Thirteen*

**************************************************
_Vengeance_ Chapter Fourteen "Healing"
by JulietttXF@aol.com
**************************************************

     The rest of the days of that week slipped by like so many 
pearls on a string, each unique in its particular qualities and with 
beauties and imperfections of its own, but each connected to the next, 
inextricably linked, altogether forming a flawless and gorgeous whole.  
The gradations were several: each new dawn found both Mulder and 
Scully somewhat more healed, somewhat closer to one another, and, 
unfortunately, somewhat closer to their imminent return to Washington 
D.C. and the X-files.

     It wasn't that they didn't want to go back, exactly, but they 
both felt they had come so far in that week of closeness and 
interdependence, and both were afraid of losing that when the real 
world beckoned them "home," back to rules and regulations and 
professionalism and away from the homey Scully kitchen and living 
room and the narrow double bed that had become for them a haven 
of sorts.  And what if, as a result of their admittedly unauthorized
activities in New Mexico, they were separated again?

     Several times Scully opened her mouth to ask him questions 
that, immediately realizing she could not -- or *should* not -- ask, 
she discarded.  She wanted to ask him more about his experiences 
during his absence, hoping to receive some answers regarding her 
own.  She wanted to ask him what, if any, implications all of this had 
on his search for the Truth and for Sam.  Most of all, the least 
askable question: how did he feel about her as he held her in the 
darkness night after night?  Was he afraid, as she was, of crossing 
that invisible line they had walked for so long?  Of overstepping some 
unknown boundary in the physical and mental haze of the night and 
being unable to find their way back?

     Then she comforted herself with the thought that what really 
frightened her was losing *him* somehow.  If they got lost in the dark, 
so be it.  At least they were together.

     And so she held her peace and simply rested in the safety 
of that twilight time when they, if they did not exactly belong 
precisely to themselves alone, did not belong to the outside world
either.

     They fell into a routine.  The whole household slept well into 
the midmorning, then there was a rush for the showers before all the 
hot water was gone.  After the third day Mulder and Scully and 
Maggie began taking showers at night and found that they slept better 
for it -- and the two agents revelled in the extra precious moments of 
slumber in the mornings as well.  Then everyone trooped downstairs 
for a substantial, hot breakfast of Mrs. Scully's preparation.  After the 
first few days she stopped looking at her daughter and Fox with such a 
disapproving expression over their smaller-than-normal appetites and 
slyly began slipping extra portions onto their plates.  They would 
bicker good-naturedly over whose turn it was to read what section of 
the paper first.  Mulder had made it a habit of years to read the entire
paper every morning before work; who knew what brief article might
generate the proof for which he had spent years searching?  At one
time he would have circumvented the debate by simply reading the 
paper before anyone else arose, but now he went at it hammer and 
tongs with the rest of them.  He was sleeping well -- too well, he 
realized, wondering vaguely what would happen when he returned 
home to his empty apartment.  It wasn't only Scully's presence beside 
him at night -- well, not entirely.  Even deep in his dreams he 
somehow felt the presence of the others in the house, and felt safe, for 
the first time in years.  Not safe from attack, precisely -- safe from 
loneliness, from fear.  Safe from the dark aspect of himself that 
especially in the long hours before dawn taunted and tormented him.
And so he slept through the night and awakened refreshed in the
morning and then, over breakfast, purposefully annoyed whoever 
had the section he wanted next by by reading the back page facing 
him and sometimes rising from his seat to read over a shoulder.   

     They would go for long walks after doing up the breakfast 
dishes, with which they all took turns.  Usually this involved a 
circuit of the Scully property but sometimes they traipsed through 
the woods and once even found some early apples ready for picking.  
Mulder and the two Scully sisters made a game of pretending not to 
notice when Jackie and Marty slipped off together, although they
could be certain their absences would be fodder for plenty of light-
hearted teasing upon their return.  Light-hearted.  That was exactly
what Mulder and Scully felt these days, unburdened from the
anxieties and responsibilities that weighed them down so often in
everyday life.  The relief was almost giddying.

     Sometimes Melissa, too, would vanish without notice and 
leave the two of them wading in streams cold enough to redden their 
toes or sitting quietly in a clearing, talking or just listening to the wind.
 
Sometimes the wanderers would return in time to help Margaret 
prepare lunch; when they did not there was always the bosun's 
whistle that hung next to the kitchen door, and they would turn back 
from wherever they were for hot soup and sandwiches or chicken pot 
pie or whatever homemade delicacy she had prepared.  Within a few 
days Mulder's and Scully's appetites returned and before long he
was joking that he was going to have to go on a diet when they got 
back to D.C. because he was eating more than he ever did and 
exercising far less.  Margaret's eyes told him he was far too thin, and 
not just from his time away, and he said nothing more.

     Besides, he knew she was right.  He watched Scully's thin 
cheeks fill out again, her wanness replaced with the healthy glow of 
a woman eating and sleeping and simply *living* right for the first
time in a long time, and rejoiced.  Almost as he watched, it seemed,
she blossomed, becoming once again the Dana Scully they all knew
instead of the pale wraith she had been for so long.  Her sparkle and
energy came back quickly and by the middle of the week she was
beginning to look almost -- though not quite -- normal.

     He knew his own appearance must have progressed similarly;
the approval and deep happiness in the others' eyes -- particularly
Maggie's eyes -- apprised him of his improvement, and he felt better 
than he had since well before the episode with his water supply.  He
accepted this as a gift and as the natural by-product of Mrs. Scully's 
doting.

     It was during one of the times they had purposefully -- and
not very subtly -- been left alone in the woods that Mulder tentatively 
approached a subject that had been preying on his mind, and soon 
they were both hot with anger.  He and Scully had been talking 
about what awaited them in D.C. and she had made some 
suggestions regarding his defense should the state decide to bring 
charges against him.  He was more concerned about what the 
investigation might do to her and said so.

     Their raised voices led Jackie to them.  She had been 
searching for them  to tell them it was time for lunch, for they had 
evidently missed the signal.  She set out with a grin on her face, 
intent on teasing them, but quickly grew perplexed at the 
unmistakeable sounds of a Scully-Mulder fight.

     She burst upon them in a small clearing.  Mulder was seated 
with his back against a tree, his long legs clad in an old pair of Brian
Scully's jeans stretched out before him and crossed at the ankle.  
Scully stood nearby with her arms crossed over her chest.  They were 
turned slightly away from one another, and both were clearly fuming.  
It was a textbook example of two very stubborn people evidently at 
that stage in a fight when each has realized that there is nothing they 
can do to convince the other but neither has reached the point of 
giving in or proposing a truce.  Her grin returned.

     It was a beautiful sight.

     "So . . . what's going on here?"

     Mulder looked up at her, hands clasped in his lap.  He 
regarded her with a too-innocent expression that confirmed what she 
already knew: he was wrong and he knew it, but he still thought he 
had his reasons that outweighed the irrationality of his opinion.  Scully 
simply glared at him.

     "Dana?"

     Scully tilted her chin and responded.  "Mulder here was 
just telling me he wished he could have gotten back sooner -- so he 
could have convinced me to lie and tell Skinner that he *forced* me 
to drive him to New Mexico."  It was a topic that had continued to
haunt him despite their prior conversations on the subject, and he 
had made the mistake of opening his big mouth.  It wasn't that she 
particularly disliked his concern, although it bordered on hovering
at times, but this was ridiculous, and she had told him so.

     St. George regarded the stubborn man before her with a 
mixture of amusement, affection, and exasperation.  "Mulder. . . ."

     "I just don't see why she should have to suffer because of me," 
he said firmly.

     <That's why you're a fool despite your fancy Oxford 
education,> she thought but did not say.

     "We're *partners*, Mulder."

     "That's no reason for you to take the blame.  You've lied to 
them before," he reminded her.

     <For *you*.  Not for *myself*.  Those are two totally different 
things.  One is selfish.  The other is . . . not.>  "Like they *really* 
would have believed that you could have forced me across the 
country against my will."  

     "I was psychotic, Scully -- you said so yourself."

     "And they knew it was because of the water.  Your psychosis 
would have weakened as it cleared your system, Mulder -- and it did."  
She paused.  "Besides, what kind of FBI agent does that make me if 
I can't hold my own against a feverish, delusional, and *unarmed* 
man?"

     Pride he could understand.  But. . . .

     "Okay, kids," Jackie stepped in.  "It's great fun watching you 
two argue again, but is this really accomplishing anything?  Dana, 
you've already told them your story, and they've taken action based 
on that.  Mulder," she turned to him, "what's important now is to figure 
out what kind of response they're likely to have to the fact that you're 
alive and have your memory intact.  Seems to me -- assuming that the 
guys doing the investigating are the same ones who took you -- that 
that's their weakest link."

     "Okay," Mulder sighed.  "You're right."

     "Of course," she said smugly.  He rolled his eyes but 
chuckled reluctantly.  "Besides, Margaret's been blowing that whistle 
for fifteen minutes and lunch is getting cold."

     Scully pushed away from the tree and walked slowly over to 
where he sat, and held out her hand.

     <Friends?>

     <Always.>  He smiled and pulled just hard enough to 
unbalance her but not to make her fall as he stood, and caught her
forearms in his hands.  They began walking back to the house but he 
placed a hand on her shoulder and stopped her, using the other to 
brush her back lightly.  "Bark," he said simply when she looked back 
over her shoulder, and headed for the house again, but she knew he 
had offered her his apology and she smiled and nodded to show she 
had understood and accepted it.

     Behind them, Jackie St. George shook her head and gave 
thanks that Marty was able to express himself in words like a normal
man.

*****

     In the evenings after dinner they took turns doing the dishes
and then reconvened in the dining room for more poker or Scrabble or
Trivial Pursuit.  Mulder was virtually unstoppable at the latter and 
whatever team he was on almost invariably won.  

     Sometimes they would simply gather in front of the fireplace
and talk and laugh until the logs fell into glowing embers and the
chill drove them upstairs.  It was these nights that Scully enjoyed 
the most, with a comingled sense of pleasure and pain, remembering
the night of the funeral when she had sat alone among the others,
staring into the fire.

     And every night now she and Mulder headed upstairs together.
It had become an accepted fact, one on which none of the others
commented.  Jackie's reticence on the subject surprised her the most;
she knew the Canadian must have been dying to say something, but
whether it was from relief or joy or something else, she refrained.  And
for her part, Dana was so grateful for his warm presence beside her in
the dark that gradually drove the night terrors away that she found 
herself comparatively apathetic to her friends' and familys' opinions on 
the matter in any case.  Perhaps eventually it would bother her, but
not now.  And it certainly would not bother her enough to induce her
to give him up.

     One evening when Jackie and Melissa had volunteered for
kitchen duty she had a sudden thought as she rose from the table and
beckoned for Mulder to follow her.  She led him up the stairs and into
her room.  When she crossed the floor to open the window he merely
stared at her, puzzled.

     "There's something I've been wanting to share with you,
Mulder," she explained, then hurried on, "and if you make one smart
remark you'll regret it."  She turned and climbed out the window and
onto the flat roof just beyond.  Mulder gaped at her for a moment
before she turned and held out her hand.  "Well, come on."

     He peered out the window and saw that the roof was level for
a distance and that the flat surface was continued by a sort of
platform that had evidently been built into the huge tree that grew
just beyond the roofline.  He sat down on the sill and threw one long
leg over.

     Downstairs on the front porch where she was watching the
sunset Margaret heard a strange scuffling sound.  Puzzled, she 
descended the steps and turned to look up, shading her eyes against 
the sun.  She grinned at her daughter's back as one gangly leg 
appeared over the sill to Dana's bedroom to be followed by the rest of
a wary Fox Mulder.  She ducked back onto the porch and then 
headed into the house.

     This time she wouldn't say anything.

     Mulder straightened up next to his partner and followed her
across the roof to the platform.  She stepped onto it and walked over 
to lean against the tree trunk that grew up through the middle.

     "Careful," he warned her.  "Are these boards still sound?"

     She grinned.  "They were a few nights ago," she informed
him.

     A sudden comprehension dawned in his eyes.  "This is
how X got in touch with you."  

     She nodded.  "Sit down."  She took her seat on the far
side of the Nest and dangled her legs over the edge, under the
wooden railing.  He sank down next to her and leaned on his arms
on the lower board in the railing.

     "My dad and I built this when I was -- oh, I don't know --
twelve, maybe?"  She looked around.  "Hard to believe it's been almost
twenty years. . . ."

     Mulder peered over the edge.  "It's a long way to the ground,
Scully.  I'm surprised your mom agreed."

     She grinned.  "She almost didn't.  Dad talked her into it.  He
argued, among other things, that it would be a good fire escape."
Mulder nodded and she continued.  "And then he told her that if they
were too overprotective of me I'd never know which were my own
instincts talking and which were theirs."  She watched for his
reaction out of the corner of her eye.

     <Ouch.>  "I see," he said slowly.  He looked down again.
"Y'know, this is kind of like the crow's nest of a ship."

     She nodded.  "We called it the Nest."

     He grinned.  "Ever have any seafaring ambitions, Scully?"

     She shrugged.  "A few, maybe.  I think they've been cured,
though," she added, thinking of their single ocean voyage together
which had resulted in their contracting some bizarre ailment that 
aged their bodies, nearly killing them in the process.  He nodded
wryly.

     He looked around.  "Hey," he said.  "Whose initials are
all those on the tree?"

     She smiled.  "It was a tradition of sorts.  Whenever I had
somebody out here for the first time they got to carve their initials
on the tree."  She stood up and leaned against the trunk, tracing the
initials with her fingers.  "Here are mine, and Dad's," she said softly.
"We carved those the day we finished the Nest.  And over here are
Melissa's -- I finally got her to come out here one afternoon.  She
*hated* heights," she remembered with a fond smile.  "Still does.
And here are Bill's -- and Brian's. . . . They both begged for *months*
for me to let them come up."  He was standing by her now, looking
at the scars in the wood over her shoulder.  "Beth, my best friend
from high school.  And Jules, my college roommate. . . ."  Her
eyes grew soft as she remembered old friends who had shared so
much of her life. . . . But none as much as this friend who now
stood beside her.

     "Any guys?" he teased.

     She shook her head.  "Nope.  No guys.  Mom and Dad
wouldn't let me have guys in my room."

     "And you never snuck anyone up?"

     She blushed faintly.  "I tried -- once."  She furrowed her brows
in thought.  "What was his name -- Doug MacKenzie.  I was sixteen.
Mom caught him climbing out the window."

     Mulder laughed.  "Climbing out, not in, eh?"  He scanned
the tree trunk.  "But I don't see any "DM" here."

     She shook her head.  "He didn't get to stay up here long
enough for that."  <Or anything else,> she added mentally.

     "Too bad -- it really is quite an original take on the backseat
of a car," he teased. 

     "My life isn't over yet, Mulder," she retorted, then turned back
towards the setting sun, but not before she saw his jaw drop.  She
faced away from him, grinning.  He came to stand next to her and they
watched the sun, now a great orange ball of fire, burn its way through 
the deepening western sky.  "We still have a few minutes," she
informed him.  "Here."  

     She held out her hand and he took the pocketknife from her.
"What's this. . . . Oh."  His eyes lit up.

     She shrugged.  "I guessed you didn't have yours."

     He shook his head.  "Didn't take it up to Dad's. . . ."  His 
voice trailed off.  Hard to believe -- he hadn't been back to his
apartment since receiving the telephone call from his father.  Scully
had run in and gotten several changes of clothing for him, he knew,
and he also now knew that the men who had been holding him had
been there as well.  <Grand Central Station.  No telling who else has
been there by this time.>  He hefted the small knife in his hand.
"You really don't mind?"

     She smiled at him.  "I told you, all of my friends get to carve
their names the first time they come up."

     He stepped to the tree and opened the blade, scanning the
trunk for a good spot.  From the looks of it no-one new had been up
here in years.  He selected a likely spot just below the "DKS" that
Scully had carved next to her father's "WJS" and began to carve.  As
he worked she told him about her nephews' pleas to explore the Nest
and Bill's forbidding it.  "Maybe next summer they'll be old enough," 
she told him.  "I have a lot of fond memories of this place.  It would
be a shame to let it just die."

     They were creating new memories now.

     He finished carving and stepped back.  She leaned around
him to look.  The letters "FWM" were straight and neat and fresh
beneath the faded, aged and broken letters cut in the wood by a
young Dana Scully.

     "W?" she asked him.

     "William," he responded simply, turning away from the sudden
comprehension and pity in her eyes.  "Hey, look -- perfect timing!"
They sank again to the floor of the Nest and watched a blood-red sun
sink slowly to the horizon.  The fading light turned the grey sky a
faint greyish-pink like that color that was at one time called ashes-of-
roses.  The ashes of the dying day -- or the birth pangs of the coming
night?

     He scooted closer to her and she leaned into his side with
a small sigh.

     The sky varied in hue from a deep, brilliant blue to purple to
rose and, just above the sun itself, a glowing orange-gold.

     "There it goes," he whispered, his voice the merest breath on
the night air.  Just before the sun was swallowed up by the horizon
the sky exploded in a riot of color, oranges and yellows and deep
reds battling for prominance and then fading to dark and darker.
Finally, only the faintest touch of pink touched the night sky that waited 
in limbo for the dead light of day to fade enough for the bright new moon
and stars to come up.

     "It's gone," he said softly, and she nodded.  But she had
not been watching the sun.

     She had been watching his face.

*End Chapter Fourteen*


*****************************************************************************
_Vengeance_ Chapter Fifteen: "The Reports of My Demise. . . ."
by JulietttXF@aol.com
*****************************************************************************



     As the week wound down Margaret watched with satisfaction 
the changes each successive day wrought in Dana and Fox.  At first 
it was the physical changes that she noticed most, the relaxing of the 
fine, tight lines around their mouths and the gradual brightening of her 
daughter's dulled eyes.  Then, too, they were eating and sleeping better.


     But it was their mental and emotional progress that gave her 
the most delight.  Early on she had noticed that time and time again 
when Fox was out of her sight Dana would look for him; 
subconsciously, if he were in the room, her eyes would dart over to 
his and she would relax, reassured.  Or if they were in separate 
rooms she would find him and speak just a word to him, or none at all, 
the anxiety that tightened her face relieved for the time being.  And he 
would do similar things: touch her arm to get her attention, look up 
from his book with a faint smile when she entered the room, both still 
afraid, somehow, that this was all a dream and that they would awaken 
in the hell of loneliness and uncertainty once more.  Margaret knew 
that they were completely unconscious of their actions and found it 
both painful and pleasurable to watch them.  What, she wondered for 
the nth time that week, would they do when they had to go back to the 
X-files? 


     But as the days passed she could literally see their sense 
of security return, and she knew that they would be all right.  It
might be difficult to curb their newfound closeness, but nothing,
*nothing* could be as painful as being separated.


     And as the days went on they both began to grow restless.  
It was a combination of factors, really: the sense of not knowing 
what awaited them, their status in the FBI, when they returned.  The 
desire to get back to work, back to their shared search for the Truth, 
which now included the truth behind several very personal murders.  
And, underlying it all, the uneasy knowledge that this was a very 
temporary haven at best, that the peace they had gained while at the 
oasis of the Scully house might very well disappear as soon as they 
left its walls.


     As real a threat to this sense of safety as the real world and 
the dangers they daily encountered was the knowledge that with a 
return to the X-files would come the return of Agent Mulder and Agent 
Scully.  They would again be partners first and friends a not-too-
distant second, but professionalism would reign in a way that it did 
not have to, here.  Here they could be Mulder and Scully, best friends 
and companions.  Not that they had overstepped the boundaries set up 
for them by the written and unwritten FBI guidelines and the unspoken
restrictions they had placed upon themselves and one another.  But 
here they could walk that tightrope more easily because the fear of 
falling was not compounded by the knowledge that they had an 
audience.


     Well, of course they had an audience, but a sympathetic one.  
The new sleeping arrangements were never mentioned, but they knew 
that their friends and family understood.  As much as they themselves 
understood.  Maybe more.


     The physical closeness they enjoyed at night did not continue 
in the revealing, sometimes harsh, light of day.  Aside from the 
occasional tap on the shoulder or Mulder's perpetual and ghostlike 
hand at the small of her back when he guided her before him over the
uneven terrain of the Scully property, they rarely touched then.  It was as 
though they were determined to convince themselves -- and the others 
-- that their need for comfort was a part of the dark, a simple result of 
the nightmares that still plagued them at times.  That their lives 
themselves had been a living, hellish nightmare for the past five months 
was something they pushed away somewhere with the anger and 
frustration and need for justice, to be dealt with some other time.
After this week.  When they were forced to deal with it.


     And so, without ever discussing it, they looked forward to the 
night.


     On Wednesday morning Melissa left to rejoin her husband;
his niece had done a wonderful job running the bookstore, from what
he said, but she had a professional and personal life of her own.  And
so, after breakfast and a round of hugs from which even Marty did not
escape, she drove off, leaving behind her a certain emptiness that
Margaret Scully knew was only the beginning as the house continued
to empty.


     And she left behind her a vacant bedroom.


     Margaret and Jackie and Marty all wondered what Mulder
and Scully would make of that.  Mulder wondered about Scully.  And
Scully wondered about Mulder.


     On Wednesday afternoon Skinner called and told them that 
the gun used to kill Bill Mulder and injure Scully had been traced to a 
dealer in Boston.  His records showed that the purchaser was a man 
by the name of John Murel.  Scully snorted into the phone at that and 
when Mulder looked at her inquisitively she explained.  


     "That was the name of one of Humphrey Bogart's characters 
-- I forget which movie."


     On the other end of the telephone Skinner was nodding 
approvingly.  "Very good, Agent Scully.  We had the owner fax us a 
copy of the signature and ran it through Handwriting.  No match, 
Agent Mulder, I'm happy to say."


     Mulder sputtered.  "Did you really think. . . ?"


     "Easy, Mulder," Scully calmed him.  "I'm sure Director 
Skinner was just covering all of the bases."  And if they could
manipulate DNA they certainly had the ability to create a convincing
forgery, either at the moment of purchase or sometime during the
transmission of the copy from the point of origin to its destination.
Frightening when you didn't know who you could trust.


     <And that's not all he was covering,> Mulder mouthed to her 
before turning his attention back to the phone.  She smirked at him.


     "Exactly, Agent Scully.  I also made note of the fact that on 
the date the weapon was purchased you two were in Dudley, 
Arkansas.  Both of which facts are negative clues at best.  But they 
were still enough ammunition for me to approach the board about your 
reinstatement, Agent Mulder."

     "And?"


     "And upon your return you will undergo a complete psychiatric 
evaluation to determine whether whatever caused your 'outburst' in the
hallway is likely to recur.  Those charges have been dropped, by the way,
due to Agent Scully's evidence.  You may not have heard," his voice 
became very quiet and serious, "but Mrs. Thomas, the woman from your
building who shot her husband, had to be hospitalized due to her
hysteria.  They -- found her dead a few days later.  It was ruled a suicide."


     Mulder slumped over the table, his head in his hands.  "A suicide."


     Scully darted a glance at him before speaking into the phone again.
"And the autopsy?"


     "Revealed high levels of the same toxins found in the dialysis 
filter you sent me," he said simply.  "I had Cunningham assist the acting
pathologist -- actually, he approached me and suggested it."  Scully's 
respect for and gratitude to their boss soared.  He had been determined 
that any results from the autopsy be reliable.  The test results and the 
handwriting analyses would have been so easy for people with the 
resources and connections of the people with whom they were evidently 
dealing to fake.  "And incidentally, we were able to recover water samples
from several apartments that also contained the chemicals."  His voice 
took on a slightly humorous tone.  "As good as these men -- whoever 
they are -- were, they forgot to clear out the ice makers in the affected 
apartments.  This evidence was enough to convince the board that the 
filter was real and not simply a plant intended by you, Agent Scully, to 
clear Agent Mulder."


     <Would you lie to protect him?>


     "That's good, sir."


     "Do I want to know how the board reacted to the news of my
return to the land of the living?" Mulder asked sardonically.


     "You will receive full reinstatement pending your psychiatric
evaluation, Agent Mulder," Skinner said sternly.  His tone of voice 
said, "don't ask for much more than that."


     Mulder sighed silently.  "Yes, sir."


     There was a slight hesitation.  "Some of us will be very glad to have
you back aboard, Agent Mulder."


     He grinned at Scully.  "Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."


     "Agent Scully, if I could have a word. . . ?"  Mulder hung up 
the phone and made a show of looking at the pictures and photographs 
collaged on Mrs. Scully's refrigerator.  Scully conversed for a few 
moments in low tones with Skinner, then hung up.  He swung to face 
her.


     "Well?"


     "Eavesdropper."  He made a face and she relented.  "He just 
wanted my opinion of how you were doing," she explained.


     "And you said?"


     "That you were doing well but that you would do even better 
with two weeks paid medical leave in the Bahamas," she retorted, then 
laughed at his stunned expression.  "I told him you were improving, 
that your appetite was good, but that you still needed rest.  I wasn't 
going to chance his sending for us early," she finished with a nod 
and a smile.


     "Sneaky, Scully," he said with admiration.


     She shrugged.  "It's true, Mulder.  You're still not a hundred 
percent -- neither of us is.  It may be a while."  She hesitated.  "Oh, 
and he also wanted to know whether I would be taking the second 
week of my two-week personal leave," she said casually.


     He looked at her.  "And?" he asked softly.


     She continued to stare at the phone receiver cradled in her 
hands.  "I told him I thought it would be a good idea if I came back 
when you did, so I could catch you up on what you'd missed."  She 
paused for another moment, then looked up and met his gaze with 
her own, steady and sure.


     What he'd missed.  He had missed nothing so far as the 
X-files were concerned, he knew; she had been assigned absolutely 
no cases during his absence.  And Skinner knew that as well, but 
he hadn't called her on it.


     He smiled and she smiled back.


*****


     "I want to make some calls this afternoon," Mulder announced
as they sat down to lunch.  "There are a few people who might actually
be glad to know they'll still have me to kick around for awhile longer."


     "Actually, Mulder, I'm certain there are quite a few people who
would be glad to know they'll still have you to kick around," Jackie
deadpanned.  He glared at her and she made the sign to ward off evil.


     "I think that's a wonderful idea, Fox," Margaret smiled.  "I
know that if I didn't already know I would really appreciate knowing 
that you were safe."


     His face softened.  Why, why couldn't he feel this way about
his own mother, he wondered.  After all, Mrs. Scully wasn't even. . . .
"Thanks, Mrs. Scully," he murmured.


     "So, who's on the list?" Scully asked, ladling the rich-
smelling clam chowder into her bowl.  "I know I want to call Bruce.
Skinner told me he already knows, but. . . ."  Her voice trailed off.
"He did a lot to help me," she added quietly.  "In fact, if we throw
that party in your honor when we get back we'll definitely have to
invite him."


     "A party," he groaned.  "I don't particularly like parties."


     "Nonesense!"  Maggie Scully exclaimed.  "Everybody
likes parties, especially when they're in your honor."


     "Dad didn't," Scully piped up.  "Remember that bash we
planned for his fiftieth birthday?"  Dana and her mother rolled their
eyes and groaned.  Mulder was quick to pick up on a good story.


     "What happened?" he asked eagerly.


     Scully looked at him and realized -- Mulder had never
thrown his father a surprise party.  Had never spent hours on the 
phone with their siblings plotting just how to pull things off while 
working on it from different corners of the country.  It was a funny 
story, but now it seemed a little more poignant.  And a little more 
precious.


     Dana watched Mulder laugh at Margaret's energetic
description of the elaborate set-up and the Captain's equally
emphatic though unexpected reaction to it.  <This is Mulder's
party,> she reflected, <practically everyone in the world about
whom he cares and who cares about him is in this very room.>
There were others, she knew -- his buddies at The Lone Gunman,
a few friends with whom he played pick-up basketball or had an
occasional drink.  People with whom he was friendly and who
would welcome him back with a smile.  But nearly everyone who 
had truly mourned him, whose lives had been shattered by his 
loss and whose lives would be infinitely brighter for his return, was 
here.


     Her first reaction to this revelation was pity -- to have so
few truly kindred spirits in the world struck her as sad.


     But then she realized that these same few were the 
ones who had mourned *her*, as well, along with her brothers
and their families and a few close friends outside the Bureau.


     And maybe it wasn't so bad, after all.  Their friends 
were few, perhaps, but they were *good* friends.  Friends who
would willingly lay their lives on the line for them.


     And she thought about the men and women with whom
they worked on a daily basis, who always seemed to have some
function or another to attend, whose parties often excluded the
spooky pair from the basement, and she wondered: with all their
parties and after-work get-togethers, how many of them had true
friendships, with anyone, like the friendships she had with Jackie
and with Marty -- and especially with Mulder?


     She relaxed and allowed herself to smile again as 
her mother ended the story to Mulder's and Jackie's crows of delight.


     "He sounds like a wonderful father," Mulder said softly
after the laughter had died down.  "I wish I could have known 
him."


     "I wish he could have known you, too, Fox," Margaret
said with a curious undercurrent in her tone.


     They fell into a brief silence, then a slow smile spread
across Mulder's face.


     "The Lone Gunmen."


     "Huh?"


     "I'm going to call the Lone Gunmen."  He turned to Scully
and grinned.  "Wanna help?"


     She hesitated, then grinned back.


     This could be fun. . . .


*****


     "Lone Gunman."


     "Hello, Frohike."


     "Agent Scully -- should I turn off. . . ?"


     "It doesn't matter, Frohike."  The incoming line at the
Lone Gunmen's office was as secure as it was possible to be,
she knew, and she and Jackie had of course checked for wiretaps
when they had swept the house for bugs earlier that week.


     "Oh."  Pause.  "How are you doing?" he asked gently.


     She smiled.  She had been pleasantly surprised by this
enigmatic and admittedly squirrelly man's honest willingness to
help her during Mulder's absence.  He might tease her and make
passes at her when all was right with the world, but when things
had fallen apart he had been there, willing to help.  In fact, he
had called her and offered to run a second set of DNA tests.  
She still had no clue how he'd heard about the second autopsy;
the same way they seemed to know about everything else, she
reflected.  And when the call from the Lone Gunmen had come
through with the results of that test -- the call Jackie had taken 
because she, Dana, had been in shock after completing the
autopsy and coming to the irrevocable -- and now obviously
erroneous -- conclusion that Mulder was dead -- it had been
Byers who made the call.  Frohike, she imagined, was too
torn up to do it himself.  Reflecting back, she wondered now
whether he had felt greater pain at his friend's death or at the
thought of having to tell her.  Whichever was the case, she was
glad it was Frohike who had answered the phone this time.  He
deserved to be the recipient of this news.


     "Actually, Frohike, things are going very well, thank
you.  I actually called for three reasons: one, to thank you for all
your help.  It really meant a lot to me."


     "Uhh -- you're welcome, Agent Scully," he mumbled. 
What had gotten into her?


     "Two, I wanted to ask you whether or not you still had
that DNA sample I gave you."


     "Uhh -- yeah.  Yeah, we do," he averred.  Then he 
paused.  "What's this all about?"


     "Well, that's reason number three," she grinned.  "There's
somebody here who wants to talk to you."  Mulder picked up the
extension.


     "Hey, Frohike."


     There was a long pause.  Then, "Mulder?"  His voice
was weak.


     Mulder laughed.  "Well, this is a first.  I would have
guessed you knew all along that I was alive and where I was --
I thought maybe you just didn't say anything so you could have
Scully all to yourself."  She made a face at him but he ignored
her.


     "Mulder?  It *is* you -- fanTAStic!  *Where* have you
been?  And how did you pull this off?  Geez, man -- the duck and
cover of the century!  Maybe you can give us some pointers to
help us find Elvis!"


     She rolled her eyes as Mulder laughed again.


     "Well, unlike the King I didn't actually do this alone, 
Frohike -- in fact, it wasn't even voluntary, I'm afraid."


     "No kidding?  Wow.  You were vanished, huh?  I should
have guessed -- you would be insane to run off and leave that
tasty partner of yours."


     Mulder hid his mouth in his hand as he watched Scully
stiffen.  Things were getting back to normal.  Fast.


     "Yeah.  I'll tell you all about it -- it'll make your wildest
conspiracy theories look tame, Frohike."


     "Any chance we could do a feature for next month's 
issue?"


     "I'm afraid not.  This one is very hush-hush -- you got it?"


     "You bet.  Can't wait to tell Langley and Byers -- they're
out investigating a supposed Hoffa sighting -- bogus, if you ask me."


     "Okay.  I'll be in touch. . . ."


     "Wait -- Mulder?"


     "Yeah?"


     "Umm. . . ."  Frohike's voice dropped several notches in
volume and pitch.  "Is the lovely Dr. Scully still there?"


     Mulder's eyes lifted to those of his partner.  She was waving
at him frantically and making slashing motions across her throat.
What she would do to herself or to him? he wondered.  No matter.
Any other time he might be tempted, but now. . . .


     "Sorry, Frohike," he said apologetically.  "She stepped 
out."


     "Oh.  Well, tell her --" he cleared his throat.  "Tell her that
when she -- gets back -- I'd like to take her out for a sort of --
victory dinner," he said haltingly.


     Scully opened her mouth, tempted to respond.  Amazing.
The man was blunt to a fault in front of her, but in discussing her
behind her back he was almost -- courtly.  Mulder gave her the eye
and her mouth snapped shut.


     "Will do.  Bye now."  He hung up.


     "Thanks, Mulder," she said with a smile.


     He shrugged.  "Just didn't feel like sleeping on the couch
tonight," he teased.


*****


     Next Scully called Bruce Cunningham.  Unlike Frohike,
he had already heard the good news, but she still wanted to speak
with him.


     "Hello."


     "Bruce?  This is Dana Scully."


     "Dr. Scully!  Assistant Director Skinner called me -- I'm so
glad to hear that Agent Mulder is okay."  She smiled.  Cunningham
called Mulder "Agent Mulder" but she was always "Doctor" to him.


     "Thanks, Bruce -- I'll tell him you said so.  The reason I was
calling, really, was to -- thank you, Bruce," she said softly.


     "For what?"  He sounded genuinely puzzled.


     "For assisting on the Thomas autopsy."


     "Oh, that."  It was a verbal shrug.  "Just part of my job. . . ."


     "No," she said firmly, "it wasn't.  Skinner told me that you
approached him and insisted on getting involved.  It probably wasn't
a very politic move, but -- you've really earned our thanks."  She had
no confidence that *his* phone wasn't bugged, but whoever might
possibly be listening would know by now of Cunningham's
involvement, anyway.


     He cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed.  "No big deal,"
he muttered.  "I just -- I couldn't stand by and just watch them ream
Agent Mulder out like that.  He didn't deserve it -- and neither did 
you."


     She smiled and wondered again whether it was her 
imagination or if Bruce Cunningham had a slight crush on her.  Even 
if so, he had never acted unprofessionally or spoken to her with 
anything other than respect.


     "I don't know if you heard, but it worked -- the board reviewed
your findings and Mulder and I are being reinstated."


     "Really?"  His voice betrayed his excitement.  "That's fantastic!
Guess the good guys do win occasionally, after all."


     "Only when we stick together," she said quietly.  


     He was silent for a moment, then -- "Dr. Scully?"


     "Hm?"


     "I -- when A.D. Skinner told me that Mulder was alive -- I 
thought -- maybe you'd want those test results.  You know, in case you
wanted to -- continue investigating or something."


     She sat up a little straighter in her chair.  "Oh, really?"  Her
mind raced as she tried to determine where he was going with this.
Should she try to warn him that the line might not be secure?  Wouldn't
that tip their hand even more?  Surely anyone listening would expect her
to respond with enthusiasm. . . .  But before she could decide on a 
course of action her assistant continued.


     "Yeah.  I, uh -- unfortunately, Dr. Scully, the samples and the
official records are missing. . . ."


     <Of course>


     ". . . Anyway.  I turned in the paperwork and audio recording
myself, but -- can't imagine what happened to them -- I *know* they
were there."  He managed to convey a sense of disorientation and 
genuine confusion, but suddenly her mind cleared.


     She remembered the small pile of cassettes Bruce had 
collected since beginning to work with her.  After ascertaining from her
whether or not an autopsy were considered sensitive information, he
would remove the recording she had made and duplicate it on a small
machine he kept in the lab for that express purpose so that he could
review their notes and conclusions on his own.  Evidently he had
somehow managed to play dumb and make a copy before turning in
the DNA results and was attempting to convey that information
without alerting anyone who might be "listening."


     <Agent Cunningham -- you brilliant, wonderful, paranoid 
guy. . . . You'd do the Lone Gunmen proud.>


     "Oh, that's too bad," she said with apparent dismay.  In 
reality she was grinning like a madwoman.  <Oh, Bruce -- remind me
to give you a big hug when we get back. . . .>  Mulder, who was not
privy to Cunningham's end of the conversation, looked on, puzzled.
"Later," she mouthed at him.  "Well, we'll talk when we get back, okay?"
she asked her assistant.


     "Okay, Dr. Scully.  And if there's anything I can do to help --
anything at all. . . ."  He let his voice trail off, hoping that she had read
him properly.  He *would* do anything he could to help -- and he had.
Too bad he couldn't have kept a part of the tissue sample. . . .


     "I'll remember, Bruce -- and thanks again."  She hung up and
practically jumped at Mulder.  "That sly little devil -- I'm beginning to
be even more glad he's on our side, Mulder."


     "What?"


     She relayed their conversation to him, along with what she had
deduced.  He grinned at her.  "Sounds like the kid's got a future."


     She nodded.  "But only if he stays smart.  I'd hate to think of
anything happening to anybody else because they were trying to help
us -- to help me. . . ."  She paused and looked up at him, her face
serious.  "Mulder -- I never said -- I'm really sorry about sending you off
alone like that. . . ."


     <I'm afraid you're on your own with this one, Mulder.>  Those
words had haunted her all these months.


     He waved away her apology.  "Hey -- you did what you thought
was right."


     "No."  She shook her head.  "I mean -- you went there 
because of *me*, Mulder -- I told you I needed you to find the answers
and you went down there and --" she broke off with a shudder.  His 
quest this time had had nothing to do with finding Sam and everything
to do with her.


     <I want you to find out, Mulder.  I *need* you to.>


     And he understood.  "Scully," he said softly, placing his hands
on her shoulders, "you said once that this search -- our search for the
Truth -- had become your search as well.  Well, finding out what 
happened to you -- that's a part of that Truth -- and it's important to
me."  


     <As important as finding Sam. . . ?>


     <Yes.> he admitted.


     Her eyes lifted to meet his, and, after a momentary pause, 
she smiled, her eyes clear for the first time in months.



*End Chapter Fifteen*
     
*******************************************************************
_Vengeance_ Chapter Sixteen: "Picking Up the Pieces"
by JulietttXF@aol.com
*******************************************************************


(Same disclaimers apply.  I swear I wrote the line about the gun
well before "Nisei". . . .)




     The rest of the week went quickly -- too quickly, Margaret
thought privately.  Melissa had had to leave, but she had four 
other beloved "kids," as the privately called them, to look after 
and mother to her heart's content.  She particularly enjoyed 
watching Dana heal and blossom under the influence of love and 
good food and plenty of rest.  


     The night Melissa had left she had been unable to hide
her interest in whether the vacated room would have any effect
on the sleeping arrangements of a certain pair of FBI agents.  The
sheets on Melissa's bed had been changed earlier in the day; she
would leave the decision entirely up to her daughter and Fox 
Mulder.


     When bedtime came they all trudged up the stairs as
usual, Marty steering Jackie into their bedroom when it appeared
the Canadian was tempted to linger in the hallway.  For her own
part, Margaret, having remained downstairs to close up the house
for the night, caught the questioning, half-hopeful look on Mulder's
face as he paused in the hallway between Scully's door and that 
of the empty bedroom.  Dana kept her own eyes averted as she
opened the door and stepped in, then turned to meet Mulder's 
gaze with her own.
     
     So simple.  So trusting.  Mrs. Scully swallowed the
lump in her throat and smiled to herself as her daughter's partner
slipped into the room and the door closed, leaving her alone in
the hallway.


     With a sigh she passed the closed doors on her way to
her own empty and silent room.


*****


     Margaret glanced up from the book she was reading
at Dana and Jackie, who were poring over one of the Scully
family photo albums.  Mulder was lounging indolently in one of
the armchairs, catching up on some of the reading he'd missed
out on during his absence.  She shook her head slightly in
amazement at the stack of _OMNI_ and _Time_ magazines
they had picked up for him, most of which he had read already.


     As she watched, Mulder looked up from his article,
his gaze coming to rest on Scully.  Behind his glasses his eyes
softened slightly; he seemed content simply to look at her, to
know that she was nearby, and safe.  Perhaps feeling her eyes
on him, his gaze flitted to meet hers, and he answered her smile
with one of his own.


     She had found herself becoming increasingly more fond 
of Marty as well, and fully approved of him as a match for Jackie.  
Not that it would have mattered had she disliked him.  The Canadian 
could so easily have been one of her own daughters for all the Scully 
stubbornness and intensity that she radiated.  


     Margaret sighed a little and wondered whether those same 
traits would prevent her younger daughter from finding that same 
kind of happiness.  For years she had watched Dana and worried 
that this lovely young woman, who had so much love to give to the 
right man, would never find him.  Oh, not that she thought Dana 
should be content to sit at home and wait for Prince Charming to 
come to her doorstep; she applauded Dana's desire to make her 
own way in the world and, after her initial shock, openly supported 
her.  But there were still times she lay in her bed at night and 
trembled at the thought of her baby out there facing some of the 
horrors of which Dana had spoken.  Knowing her daughter, those 
cases she actually mentioned were the tame ones, and that frightened
her all the more.  The danger level had risen sharply during the time she 
had been with the X-files, and at first she had wondered why Dana did 
not request a transfer.


     But then she had had The Dream, as she always thought 
of that particular nightmare.  The one that had led her to drive to her 
daughter's house late at night without even calling first.  The one 
that had introduced her to Fox Mulder.  One look into those sad and 
terrified dark eyes and she knew exactly why Dana had stayed.  
And later, after her return and her recovery, when her daughter 
informed her that the division had been reopened and that she had 
requested a transfer back there from Quantico, she had bitten back 
all the motherly concern that prompted her to scream and clutch her 
baby girl protectively to herself and had instead forced a tight smile 
onto her lips.  At least they would be together.


     She had just never thought that Prince Charming would have
such an abominal taste in ties.


     They left on Saturday.  They had originally planned on 
returning on Friday so that Mulder could take care of all the little
things that needed his attention.  But Scully had paid his rent, and his 
basic utilities -- even the cable, she informed him with a grin, failing to 
admit that she had spent more than one night curled up on his sofa in 
the gloom of that lonely apartment lit only by the glow from the 
television screen, waiting and hoping for word from Mulder, or at least 
from Mr. X.  She only hoped his fish had fared well during her week-
long absence.


     He needed groceries, but that was all.  It was so little -- it 
seemed somehow *wrong* that he could have been gone so long 
and yet he would simply be able to walk back into his apartment 
without things having changed, to perform all those little daily rituals 
he used to perform.  *He* had changed, and it seemed impossible 
to him that anything else could have remained the same.  He 
wondered if Scully had felt the same sense of disorientation after 
her return.  But then she had been so sick for so long 
afterwards. . . .  He brushed those thoughts aside and when Scully
teasingly suggested that this might be a good opportunity to make 
some long-overdue changes in his life, he came back with some 
smart remark about painting his walls a different color.  Deep down,
however, he admitted that she was right.


     Margaret had asked them to stay that extra night, reminding 
Mulder that anything he had to do could be done on a Saturday 
equally well, and had been pleased when they had conceded without 
too much protest.  Even she could not convince them to stay until 
Sunday, however.


     That last night they all curled up in various spots in the
living room and watched the fire in relative silence.  This felt so 
*right*, somehow, and they each found themselves wondering how 
long it would be before they felt that kind of peace again.  Mulder in 
particular found himself taking mental snapshots of the evening to 
tide him over those long, sleepless nights alone in his apartment: 
Margaret Scully, sedate and smiling at them all from the depths of 
her chair; Marty sitting next to the hearth with Jackie in his arms; 
Scully. . . .


     Scully was curled up on the sofa next to him with her head 
on her hand, looking for all the world like a sleepy kitten as she 
blinked at him drowsily.  He smiled and resolved that the next time 
she stood in front of him looking every inch the professional, a tiny 
dynamo with her hands on her hips, chewing him out over some 
mistake or another, he would remember this moment, the way her 
hair fell softly and messily around her face, her small body 
practically swimming inside a set of her younger brother's old sweats.  
He would remember and he would bite back the retorts that usually 
came springing to his lips under such circumstances.


     The fire flickered and died and they reluctantly got up and 
went to bed.  And slept, if it could be believed, without any 
consciousness of dreaming.


*****


     He woke to the sound of a gentle rain on the roof and Scully 
in his arms and the knowledge that his peace, this ever-so-fragile 
peace, was about to come to an end.  She shifted slightly and he 
froze, not wanting to awaken her, wanting just to hold her for a little 
longer, his partner, his friend.  Knowing that she was safe and he 
was safe and they were together again, that the long separation was 
over and the future was ahead of them bright with promise.  Well, as 
bright as it had ever been.  His eyes flicked over to the clock.  Eight-
thirty.  Still early for them these days.  He closed his eyes and 
pulled her a little closer and slept again.


     She felt him stir and lay still as still, then relaxed again as he 
relaxed and then she, too, slept.


     Margaret Scully had set her alarm and awoke early to make 
biscuits.  She would have no influence over how her children ate once 
they returned to their own lives, but she was determined to send them 
away well-fed.  So when they all trooped down several hours later, it 
was to behold a spread that made the rest of the week's hearty 
breakfasts seem meagre.  And for once, Mulder was able to eat 
enough of it to win her smile of approval.


     She watched glumly as they packed up to leave.  Jackie had 
given Scully the keys to her car and would ride with Marty, picking up 
her car from Dana at lunch the next day.


     "You're all coming back for Thanksgiving, right?" Margaret 
reminded them.


     "Yes, Mom," they chorused, the three newest "adopted" 
Scullys included, and she grinned.  Jackie hugged Margaret and the 
two agents, pausing to mutter under her breath into Scully's ear.


     "Tank's full, Dana -- no excuses about running out of 
gas. . . ."  And then she dodged her friend's slap with a laugh, and 
she and Marty drove off, leaving Mulder and Margaret to stare at a 
blushing Scully.


     "What'd she say?"


     "Nothing worth repeating, Mulder."


     Margaret accepted hugs from both of them and watched 
them approach the car with a bemused smile on her face.  They had 
both headed for the driver's side.


     "I've got the keys, Mulder."


     "Scully. . . ."


     "Jackie will kill you if you move her seat and mirrors."


     "I'm shaking."


     "You should be."


     He paused.  "You're probably right."  Shrugging at Mrs. Scully, 
he walked around the car and slid in the passenger seat.  But he just 
couldn't give in without a parting shot.  "It'll be good to get my gun 
back -- maybe then I'll get a little more respect."  He already had a
replacement cellular phone; Margaret had presented him with it the
night before.


     "Ask for one with a Velcro grip this time, Mulder.  Better yet, 
start carrying a spare."


     They drove off, leaving Margaret Scully laughing on the doorstep. 
She watched until the dust had settled behind their car and then 
reentered the house with a small sigh.  It was quiet now -- too quiet.


     Things were going to seem awfully empty for awhile.


*****


     They rode in silence for awhile, each wrapped in private 
thoughts -- memories of the past few months and the past week, 
speculation on the future.  Mulder's thoughts ran to Scully's 
intentions and preparations for vengeance before his return.  He 
wondered how she felt about everything now -- how *he* felt about 
everything now -- and finally decided he had to ask.


     "Scully?"


     "Hm?"


     He glanced over at her.  "We never really finished talking 
about what we're going to do about Cancerman and Krycek."


     She sighed and nodded.


     "You still want to go after them?"


     She bit her lip.  She *did*, of course, but that was no longer 
uppermost in her mind.  Her primary concern had always been to get 
Mulder back and then, when it seemed that was no longer possible, to 
find out what had been done to him and why, and to make those 
responsible pay in the only way she could be certain they would ever 
see justice.  Those first two goals had been achieved with his return 
and recounting of his kidnapping.  As to the last. . . .


     "I want justice, Mulder.  I just don't see how we're going to get 
it."


     He nodded.  So long as he had been missing she had been 
willing to risk everything to find and punish Cancerman and his 
henchmen, Krycek in particular.  But now that he was back 
everything had changed.  It was no longer worth it, not when they 
still had the possibilty of working within the law, within the X-files, to 
find the answers they sought.  It was the same reaction he had had
during her coma; while she lay on the brink of death he wanted 
nothing but revenge, but once she had recovered his hatred had
melted, giving way to gratitude and a desire for answers.


     But the evil was still out there, and it was as strong as it had 
ever been.  There had been and would still be others, others who 
would perhaps not be as fortunate as he and Scully had been.  Yet 
he still believed his return -- and its timing -- had been fortuitous.  Not 
only for him, but for Scully as well.  It had prevented her from crossing 
that line upon which both of them had teetered so often.  He 
remembered holding Kryceck with one hand and his gun with the other, 
the rage and grief washing over him, drowning him until he could see 
and hear and feel nothing else but the roaring of his own blood in his 
veins.  Another time, standing in a bleak, hidden apartment staring 
down the barrel of his gun at the man he despised most, determined to 
rid the earth of at least one of its many vermin.


     Twice he had been a hair's breadth away from becoming a 
murderer.  He had killed before, of course, but only in the line of duty, 
and only to protect himself, his partner, or a civilian.  But those two 
times he had wavered on the edge of that precipice, had gazed into the 
abyss and recognized the monster there as the darkness in his own 
soul.


     <You're in a very dark place.  Much darker than where my 
sister is.>


     Twice he had walked that thin line and teetered on the brink of 
lunacy, of becoming what he hated most.


     And twice this same woman had brought him back into light 
and life and sanity.


     It appeared his own timely return had served some similar 
purpose for her, and for that he gave thanks.


     "Someday, Scully," he said firmly.  She looked at him for a 
long moment, then nodded, and they drove on in silence once more.


*****


     They stopped at the grocery store on the way to his 
apartment and filled a cart with enough supplies to stock two 
relatively-empty kitchens.  When she began placing her own 
selections in the cart he had raised his eyebrows -- after all, she 
had only been gone a week -- but she simply shrugged.  He then 
realized that she probably had no idea in what state she would find 
her own cupboards, yet another testimony to how far gone she had 
been the last few weeks.


     When they reached his apartment she helped him carry in his 
groceries.  At the door he paused and she hurried to unlock it.  She 
had forgotten that he did not have his keys.  He would have to 
replace the contents of his wallet as well.  She swung the door open 
and, when he hesitated, preceded him into the apartment.  By this 
point she was probably more comfortable with his place than he was.


     He entered slowly, almost tentatively, looking around him at 
the foreign/familiar surroundings.  It seemed eerily quiet, and after a 
moment he realized it was because his computer, which he normally 
left running, was off.  The entire place was so -- still.  And clean.  
Everything was in place except for a blanket which lay crumpled half 
on the sofa and half on the floor, and an empty mug which sat on the 
end table.  He looked over at Scully.  She avoided his eyes for a 
moment.  She had been half-asleep on his couch when the early-
morning call had come in about his -- about the body.  Slowly she 
lifted her eyes to his and he smiled reassuringly.


     He caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye 
and swung to his right.  A slow grin spread across his face at the 
sight of the fish swimming in the aquarium.


     She watched as his shoulders relaxed slightly and relaxed, 
herself.  She remembered how strange it had been to walk in the 
front door of her own apartment after her abduction and find things so 
unchanged.  Well, unchanged from the way they normally were -- 
Mulder had had the broken window and the phone replaced and all 
other evidence of that awful night removed.  Then again, time had not 
passed for her in the way it had for him; when she had awakened in 
the hospital she had had no memory of anything after the car ride to
the mountain top with Duane Barry.  So it did not seem entirely 
strange to her that her apartment still looked relatively the same; 
even after she had been told the length of time she had been gone 
she could not fully comprehend it, and yet she had still had a vague 
sense of vertigo upon entering her apartment for the first time since 
her return.  She had felt then that it might almost have been better 
had some of the evidence of Barry's intrusion been left; with things 
returned to their pristine condition her memory and her senses had 
been in conflict.  It must be far worse for Mulder.


     She went with him as he walked through the apartment, 
watching the tension flow out of him, feeling as much as seeing him 
settle back in to his life.


     His personal life.  Here in this apartment.  Alone.


     Without her.


     They looked at one another and she knew it was time.  And 
there was ice cream melting in her car.


     "Guess I should go."


     "Want me to come with you?"


     "No, that's okay.  It's only been a week."  *Only a week.*  
Impossible, but true.


     "Okay."  He hesitated.  He wanted to ask about dinner, but 
surely she had things that required her attention after a week's 
absence.  She probably had to call, mail to read.  And he had 
monopolized her attention for the past week.  He felt vaguely uneasy 
when he recognized his mindset slipping back into that of Agent 
Mulder instead of the much more easygoing and open man he had 
been for the past week, but he felt powerless to stop it.  It was better 
this way, he assured himself.  Better to start now so that things 
would be normal by Monday morning when they had to report to 
Skinner.


     Normal.


     Right.


     She felt him withdrawing and a slight chill swept her.  Was 
she going to lose him now?  In their attempt to overcome the 
closeness they had gained over the past week would they have to 
resign themselves to being cooler than normal toward one another?  
She didn't think she could stand it if things changed now.  As 
wonderful as it had been to be with him in that way, it wasn't worth it.  
Not if it turned him into the stranger she saw taking over the man 
standing in front of her now.


     He looked at her and slumped slightly, then smiled self-
deprecatingly.  This was *Scully*.  His partner.  His friend.  Nothing 
could change that.  Nothing, that is, except something within 
themselves -- deceit, dishonesty, coldness.  He had tried shutting 
her out when the X-files had been closed the first time, and it had 
almost broken his heart.  No way could he do that now, even if he 
wanted to.  And he certainly did not want to.


     She smiled back at him, and when he saw the relief in her 
eyes he reproached himself.  He stepped forward, then stopped.  
Somehow the intimacies they had shared at the Scully house 
seemed to have become a part of that place, so far removed from 
their everyday lives.  He regretted the loss of their physical 
connection and hoped that the emotional and mental communion 
would not be diminished as well.  Time would tell.


     "I should go," she said again.  She grinned.  "Or else that 
half-gallon of Ben and Jerry's will be 'Cookies and Mush.'"


     He laughed and the tension eased somewhat.  Not entirely, 
but enough.


     "You going to be okay?" she asked.  <Are *we* going to be 
okay?> 


     He nodded in response to both her spoken and unspoken 
questions, and she smiled again, then headed for the door.  She 
turned in the doorway.


     "Oh, I forgot."  She opened her keyring.  After a moment's
hesitation she removed his key and held it out to him with
reluctant fingers.  "Here," she said softly, avoiding his eyes.


     His hand closed over hers.  "Keep it."  She looked up and
he smiled down into her eyes.  "I have a spare."


     Her smile of relief lit her whole face and she nodded, 
replacing his key on the ring with a satisfying "clink."


     "'Night, Mulder."


     "'Night, Scully."  She hesitated another moment, then 
turned and walked out to Jackie's car.  He stood at the window and 
watched her drive away, then turned with a sigh to begin picking up 
the pieces of a life put on hold.



*End Chapter Sixteen*
*********************************************************************
_Vengeance_ Chapter Seventeen: "Dream a Little Dream"
by JulietttXF@aol.com
*********************************************************************



     Scully couldn't sleep.  Rather, she couldn't *stay* asleep.  She
rolled over and stared at the clock beside her bed and groaned.  Almost
midnight.  She had been tossing and turning for nearly half an hour
after awakening with the cold certainty that Mulder was dead.  She had
sat up in her bed, shaking, for a long time before she finally convinced
herself that it had all been a horrible dream.  For one, there was the
sweatshirt, his Oxford sweatshirt that she had "accidentally" packed 
with her things at her mother's house and which she had worn to bed,
ignoring that part of her mind that sniggered at her for doing so.


     But what if *that* had all been a dream?  She was reminded of
the Japanese philosopher she had read of in college who once said 
that, upon awakening from a dream of being a butterfly, he did not
know whether he were a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly or
a butterfly who was now dreaming of being a man.


     She had to smile slightly, thinking of what Mulder would say
about that story and about her reaction to it.  She rolled over and
turned up the volume on her clock radio; listening to music to dispel
the nightmares had become a habit over the past few months, and 
tonight upon awakening she had automatically clicked it on to the
soft rock station she usually used.  She listened for a moment to 
the end of a song that just ten days ago she would have found 
depressingly cheerful:


     As I lay me down to sleep
     This I pray
     That you will hold me dear
     Though I'm far away
     I whisper your name
     Into the sky
     And I will wake up happy
     And wonder why. . . .


She smiled a little.  At least now it was a possibility.  She curled
herself around the pillow and closed her eyes, willing her mind to 
recall the sense of peace and safety and comfort she had felt last
night at her mother's.  


     It wasn't working.


      Finally she sighed.  It was, after all, not yet midnight.  This 
was, after all, Fox Mulder.  He would still be awake. . . .


     Reaching for the phone and the light at the same time, she
flipped the switch and hit the first speed-dial button.  He answered
before it had even finished ringing.


     "Hello."  


     That was odd.  He always answered, "Mulder."


     "Mulder, it's me. . . ."  This, at least, was *her* standard
response.  She could hear the smile in his voice.


     "Hey, Scully."  He sounded like he had known it was she on
the phone before he had even answered.  Well, that made sense.
What *didn't* make sense is the impression she got that he had
somehow *expected* her to call. . . .


     "You okay, Scully?"


     "I'm fine, Mulder."  She closed her eyes again and smiled.
<Go ahead, Dana, follow the script. . . .>  "Just . . . missing you, 
that's all. . . ."  <Okay, add a line here and there. . . .>


     "Oh, really?"  She could hear teasing and affection in his
voice now.  Warmth flooded her as she thought how very close she
had been never to hearing that tone again.


     "Yeah."  She took on a light, bantering tone of her own.
"Guess I forgot what it was like to be able to stretch out in bed 
without hitting somebody's big, *cold* feet."  Try as she could, she
could not quite keep the longing out of her voice.  <One more night.
If I could just have one more night of that safety and warmth. . . .>


     "Hmmm."  He sounded slightly out of breath.  His next
words took her completely by surprise.  "You decent, Scully?"


     "What?  Of course I'm . . . you gonna ask me what I'm
*wearing* now, Mulder?"  Geez.  She would have expected it of
Frohicke, but. . . .


     "No," he said quietly, "I'm just going to ask you to open the
door."


     Her heart leapt in her chest.  Did he mean what she thought --
*hoped* -- he meant?  She jumped out of bed and hurried through the
dark apartment, the phone still clasped to her ear.  Peeked through
the peephole in the door.


     He did.  He was there, standing there on her doorstep with
his cellular phone to his ear, looking directly at the peephole.


     She fumbled with the latch and finally succeeded in 
dragging the door open.  And then she was in his arms, the hug
she had wanted to give him early in the day overwhelming her.


     They held each other tightly for a moment, then he gently
propelled her back into the apartment and shut and locked the door.
Turned and stood staring at her, a half smile on his lips.


     She took a deep, calming breath.  Then a thought struck
her.  "How -- how did you get here so fast?"


     His smile was sheepish now.  "I -- uh, I was in my car out
front, listening to the radio."  She frowned and he hung his head a 
little.  "I had just gotten here -- was trying to decide whether or not 
to come up when I saw your light come on and then you called. . . ."  


     "Why?  Why did you come?"  She knew but she wanted
to hear it anyway.  Needed to hear it after her own admission.


     "I -- ah -- well. . . ."  He took a deep breath.  "I guess I just
wasn't used to having all the covers I wanted. . . ."


     They looked at each other.  Their silences had always been
meaningful, but this one spoke volumes.


     Finally she simply smiled at him and nodded.  He slipped out
of his jacket and she realized he was wearing his "sleeping sweats."
So he had intended all along. . . . He had driven over here in the middle
of the night just to sleep with her. . . . The thought made her flush
warm all over.


     He followed her to the bedroom without a word and slipped in
beside her.  She put her head in the spot between his collarbone and
neck that had become so familiar and felt his arms go around her.
Sighed.


     "Good night, Scully."


     "'Night, Mulder," she whispered.  And then, so faint that she 
almost missed it, that soft brush of his lips against her hair.  She had 
never been quite certain before, but she knew now that he had gently 
kissed the top of her head.  She smiled into the darkness.


     <You will hold me dear. . . .>


     She fully intended to stay awake as long as she could, simply
enjoying the warmth and security of his arms, but his soft, even
breathing soon lulled her to sleep.


*****


     The phone was ringing.  Groggily, Mulder rolled over and 
reached for it.  It wasn't where it normally was, on the end table 
next to the sofa.  But then, he half-realized, he wasn't where he
normally was.  Where was he?  His bed.  He finally succeeded in 
knocking the phone off the hook before he was able to drag it to his
ear.


     "Mulder."  Silence.  "Hello?"


     "Mulder?"  Jackie's voice.  Why did she sound so surprised?  
He decided to ask.


     "*You* called *me*, Jackie."


     Another pause.  Then her voice again, sounding slightly
strangled.  "No, actually, I called Dana. . . ."


     His eyes shot open.  Dana?  But. . . . And then he felt the
warm weight on his chest shift slightly and looked down.  Red hair
tumbled from sleep.  Her hand clutching his shirt like it had the first
morning they had awakened at her mother's.  Scully.  Oh, yeah.
Despite his disorientation a sudden warmth swept over him and he
smiled.


     "Uhhhh. . . ."


     "Mulder?"  He could hear her wheezing slightly now.  "Is she
awake?"


     He panicked, pure and simple.  Lie to her?  <Sorry, St. George,
but you must have called me by mistake. . . .>  Lie to her?  <Uhhh, 
yeah, Jackie -- let me go wake her up.>  Lie to her?  <Yeah, I just came
over to pick her up for an early breakfast. . . .>


     "Umm.  Jackie, she's still asleep.  Can I have her call you 
back?"  He winced.


     "Yeah -- you do that, Mulder.  Have her . . . call me . . . 
definitely. . . ."  


     "Uh -- okay.  I will."


     "Oh, and Mulder?" she paused for effect.  "Tell her -- no hurry."
He heard riotous laughter just before the phone clicked.  Hoo boy. . . .


     Then he looked back down at Scully sound asleep in his arms
and smiled.  <I will wake up happy. . . .>


     Whatever Jackie had in mind, it was worth it.


     He tucked her more securely into his embrace and slept.


*****


     When she awoke it was after noon.  She blinked for a moment,
disoriented, unsure of where she was or *when* it was.  The only thing
that felt familiar was the strong arm around her, and she knew exactly
whose that was.  She smiled a little.  Funny that the one sensation she
had never felt before that week -- sleeping in Mulder's arms -- should
now be the first thing she recognized upon awakening.  She sighed a
little and snuggled down to enjoy those first few precious moments
between waking and sleeping that always seemed to set the tone
for the rest of her day.  His arm tightened around her back.


     "Morning," he said softly, the motion of his breath stirring
her hair.


     She smiled.  "Morning," she murmured, and waited for him to
pull away, banishing the physical comfort of his proximity once more
to the darkness with all the other hidden, unspoken fears and wishes
too shy for the light of day.  


     But he didn't move.


     <It shouldn't feel this good.>


     <What shouldn't?  Not being alone for once?  Waking up and
knowing right where you are for a change?  Feeling safe?  Knowing 
your best friend is safe?  Is that what shouldn't feel good?>


     <Weeellllll. . . .>


     <Lighten up.  Time enough for rules and regs when you get
back to work.>


     Suddenly she realized -- Sunday.  Noon.  Lunch.  Jackie. . . .
She stiffened and he immediately slid his arms from around her and
sat back against the headboard.  Her heart sank.


     "I was supposed to call Jackie," she said quickly, and he
paused.


     "She called earlier.  Said for you to call her back but there
was no rush."  He saw her relax slightly.  He hesitated, unsure of
himself.  "So -- want to get some lunch?"


     She looked him straight in the eye.  "I'm really not all that
hungry."


     He nodded.


     "In fact, I'm more tired than anything."  She lifted her 
eyebrows at him.


     He nodded again, still uncertain of what -- if anything -- she
was offering, and unwilling to overstep the bounds.


     She watched him.  He seemed undecided about whether
to stay or go.  <Mulder. . . .>  Finally he slid back down and
closed his eyes.  A moment later he felt her move a bit closer to
him and he slid his arm around her with a smile.  Tomorrow things
would go back to the way they had been.  He was certain of it.
But today was still a part of that fuzzy, half-lit time where the
strict rules by which they governed themselves could be bent
and stretched a bit.  Not broken -- not yet.  Perhaps never.  But
for now he was content simply to lie down in peace and rest.


     A phrase he had once heard popped into his head: living
well is the best revenge.  Perhaps in his case, *living* was the
best revenge.  They did not have all the answers to their
questions -- yet.  But he knew that with the woman who now
lay dozing in his arms he had a better chance of finding the
Truth than he had ever had in his life.  She was as committed
to his search as he was, had taken his quest and made it her
own.  No, they had made it *their* own.  And what was more,
she was committed to *him*.  And she would help him -- they
would help each other -- to find the Truth and to deal with its
consequences.  And, together, they *would* find it.  He
believed that.


     With a vengeance.

     T    H    E         E    N    D


Songography: "As I Lay Me Down" by Sophie B. Hawkins