Ancient Truths:
Best Loved, Dearly Missed and Sadly Betrayed
By Lisdean Warner
xangst@frii.com
Okay, guys, here's a story that's been percolating in my head for
months--since the season two finale, to be precise. It finally came out
this week (amid much prodding), and is based on the events of said season
finale. Rated PG for nothing much, and with angst and a touch of UST (I
hope <snerk>).
Hope y'all enjoy.
By the by, I wanted to thank all of you who commented on Manhattan and
Rattleby. I really appreciate the support, and I know I don't say that
often enough. That series will continue, though it'll be the middle of
September before the next one comes out.
Disclaimer: Boy, I wish M&S belonged to me, because, if they did, I'd be
glad to acknowledge fanfic as a reputable thing instead of a copyright
infringement <snick>. But, alas, they belong to CC, 1013, and that most
bureaucratic of all bureaucracies, Fox Broadcasting. I don't intend to make
any money off of this, so, hopefully, they'll all leave me alone about it.
**********
Best Loved
by Dean Warner
xangst@frii.com
Part One
"Okay kids," Bill Mulder said quietly. "We'll be next door at the
Galbrand's." He looked at his firstborn, a leaden wait in his stomach that
managed to slip slightly into his eyes. "Take care of your sister, Fox," he
commanded. "You're in charge."
As she closed the door, his wife let out a despairing little sigh. He
grabbed her hand, squeezing it thoughtfully. "They'll be okay, honey."
"But, Bill," she said forlornly.
"It's the government's party, dear," he replied, trying to convince her
of their children's safety. "They'll be all right."
The party was a slightly nervous affair for them both. His wife stood at
the window, looking longingly at their house next door, wishing she were
there. Bill Mulder came up behind her, and put an arm around her shoulder.
"Dear..."
"How can they do this, Bill," she asked tearfully. "They're our
children!" She turned to look at him, a horror in her eyes that would haunt
him to his dying day. "He's our *son*!"
She turned to the window suddenly, panicked, as they both heard a
shrill, short cry from across the way. He could feel her muscles tense, and
he held her firmly. "They'll be okay."
"But what if--" Her argument was cut off by the arrival of a handsome,
tall young man, a cigarette in his hand. Bill had never seen him without
one. Even when he came to the summer house in Quonochontaug. The man was a
business associate.
Before they'd started working on their current project, Bill Mulder
might almost have called him a friend.
"Bill," the young man said, a cloud of smoke escaping his lips. "It's
nice to see you relaxing for once."
***
Bill Mulder brought his head up from the table with a jerk, ignoring the
throbbing in his skull as he cut short the dream. "Relaxing." That
cigarette-smoking bastard had been so slick! He had fooled Bill for
years--his wife for much longer...
And by the time Bill had known what was going on, his daughter was
already gone.
He hadn't seen the old man for years--not since Fox had graduated the
Academy. Back then, the smoker had made a promise to his old friend. He'd
take care of Fox--he'd make sure that the young agent was safe.
After seeing the man again today, his once-full lips now withered with
age and twisted with power, Bill Mulder knew that he'd been tricked again.
Fox wouldn't be safe. Not if his "old friend" had anything to do with it.
And again, Bill would end up failing his own blood. But first, his son
would get the answers he'd been craving all his life.
Bill poured another glass of scotch, sipping at it and steeling himself
as he picked up the phone.
*******
Mulder Residence
Alexandria, VA
Fox Mulder sat impatiently on his couch, waiting for the phone to ring. He
had to find out about those files, and he had a niggling little suspicion
in the back of his mind that Scully might not be willing to help him with
this one.
She'd been so scared when she walked into his apartment earlier in the
day. Scared of losing her job... Scared of him, maybe. She'd sounded like
she was ready to run away when she asked him why he'd attacked the
Assistant Director. And she'd gone from fear straight to disgust when he'd
told her truthfully that he didn't know.
So here he sat, waiting for information. He stared at the taped "X" on
his window, and again wished that the phone would ring.
Suprisingly, it did. He put down his glass of water and picked up the
phone.
"Mulder," he announced tiredly.
It was the last person he'd ever have expected to hear. "Fox?" His
father had that harsh sound to his voice, like he'd been drinking. "This is
your father. I need to see you right away."
Mulder glanced at the window, frowning. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home," his father replied, and this time, Mulder could clearly
hear his father taking a sip of something. "How soon can you be here?"
Probably scotch, Mulder thought dully, again looking out at the X on his
window. It was the old man's drink of choice. There were always a couple of
empty bottles of it around the house after Sam was gone... His father's
voice broke into his thoughts with drunken urgency. "Fox... It's very
important."
Mulder almost refused. He was waiting for information. He *had* to stay
here. If he left, X wouldn't come back, and he'd never find out what was on
that tape. And he had to do that. He had a feeling that that tape would
change his life.
Still, his father sounded as if it really was important. The fact that
he had called his son at all made what Bill Mulder had to tell him
downright crucial. He never spoke to him--not unless it was urgent.
"I'll be there as soon as I can, Dad," Mulder replied, taking a deep
draught of water as he hung up the phone.
******
"Mulder?" Dana Scully knocked once more before sliding her key in the
lock--loudly this time, hoping to wake him *before* he pulled a gun on her.
He'd scared her this morning; so angry, so out of control... That wasn't
the Fox Mulder she'd come to know. Something was very wrong, and she was
sure it had everything to do with that tape he'd shown her.
He wasn't home, and she walked quietly through the living room,
wondering worriedly where he'd gone. He was obviously sick, and obviously
not himself, and she was worried that he'd get himself in trouble.
The X taped to the window calmed one fear and raised another. He'd
called his informant, trying to find out about that tape. Which meant that
he was probably at a meeting with the man right now. So he wasn't likely to
have run off on his own truth chase quite yet... But given his display with
Skinner yesterday, she desperately hoped that he could keep his temper
while talking to this "X" character. The large black man didn't seem the
type to take a physical attack lying down.
She spied a sheaf of papers sitting on Mulder's desk and leaned forward
to look at them, hoping they'd give her a clue to where her partner had
gone.
With a shattering of glass, and a very loud noise, she'd slammed back
into his couch, landing heavily on the floor.
It took her a moment to identify the reason for her current position,
looking amazedly from the hole in the window before her to the hole in the
wall behind... And suddenly she realised that her head hurt, that there was
something trickling down her forehead from her hairline. With a trembling
hand, she reached up and touched her fingers to the blood that the bullet
had left behind.
********
"We all need a chance to relax sometimes," Bill's wife answered quietly,
not a hint of her nervousness displayed for her husband's associate to see.
"Of course we do," the smoker answered blithely. He nodded to the house
next door, taking yet another drag on his cigarette. "Who's taking care of
the kids?"
Bill Mulder began to sweat, as his wife answered tightly. "Fox is old
enough to look after his sister now."
"He is getting older, isn't he?" the smoker replied conversationally.
"Certainly old enough to take care of his little sister."
The way he said it made Bill Mulder sick, as he finally realised what
the man was trying to say. He took his wife's hand, and began walking past
his associate. "Come on, honey," he said, trying to sound normal, for the
sakes of the others around him. "Let's go home and check on the kids."
"I'm sure they're fine," the smoker replied, a hard look in his eyes.
"And if you leave now, you'll miss dinner."
"I'm not hungry, suddenly," Bill replied, heading for the door.
A large, heavyset young man, with a slow methodical voice, stood in his
way. "Jenny's worked hard on this dinner, Bill," he said quietly, an
undercurrent of violence to his voice. Bill's wife backed off from him,
horrified. "You don't want to disappoint her."
"Besides," the smoker repeated. "You trust Fox to take care of her,
don't you?"
The unspoken threat was unmistakeable. They'd already given him his
choice--his best loved, or everyone. They'd make good on the threat if he
left now. And not only would his son be gone, but his wife and daughter as
well...
***
Tears coursed quietly down Bill Mulder's flushed face as he sat back,
hearing the doorbell ring. Running a clumsy hand over his eyes, he rose to
answer it.
*******
Mulder Residence
Tisbury, Massachusetts
Mulder was exhausted by the time he reached his father's front door.
Whatever bug he'd come down with in the last few days seemed suddenly to be
getting worse. With a hand nearly shaking in exhaustion, he pressed the
doorbell.
His father had been drinking. Even as sick as he felt, Mulder could
recognise the signs. The older man looked at him, with an expression that
Mulder couldn't decipher. "Fox."
"Dad," Mulder said quietly, holding out a hand for his standoffish
father to shake. He was amazed when Bill Mulder grabbed him, wrapping him
in a rough embrace. Something was *very* wrong here. "What is it, Dad?"
Mulder asked, puzzled and worried.
His father released him, looking at him sheepishly. "Come in."
Mulder heard the telltale click as his father locked the door behind them.
"What's so important, Dad?" Mulder asked, sitting heavily on his father's
couch. The older man just took a seat in the chair opposite him, pouring
himself a bit more scotch and gazing at his son reflectively for a moment
before dropping his eyes.
"It's..." Bill Mulder started tentatively. "It's so clear now...
Simple!" He sighed. "It was so... complicated then. The choices that had to
be made."
"What choices, Dad?" What was wrong here? His father was obviously
depressed--though it wasn't like Mulder hadn't seen *that* before... But
this was different somehow... Frightening.
His father looked at him, a strange mixture of pride and regret in his
gaze. "You're a smart boy, Fox," he said quietly, rising to walk toward the
window. "You're smarter than I ever was."
Mulder wished he had the strength to shout his frustration. "About what?"
Bill Mulder turned from the window, focusing on his first born. Envying
him. "Your politics are yours," he explained regretfully. "You've never
thrown in. The minute you do that, their doctrines become *yours*--and you
can be held accountable."
Mulder took a deep breath, sorting through his father's words. "You're
talking about your work for the State Department," he guessed.
"You're going to learn things, Fox," his father continued, as if he'd
never heard his son's question. "You're going to hear the words.... And
they'll come to make sense to you."
"What words?" Mulder tried to get his aching mind to focus on what his
father was saying, to leap to the conclusions that it had always been
praised for.
He couldn't figure it out.
His father stood before him, watching him, and his voice was desolate.
"The merchandise."
The phrase itself seemed to have the power to make the old man crumble,
and his eyes closed as he swayed slightly, and his son rose to walk toward
him. Whatever was going on, whatever his father was trying to say to him,
Fox Mulder knew that he was hurting, and with a weary hand, he reached out
and grabbed his father's shoulder, steadying him.
His father smiled wanly. "Look, I, um..." He looked into his son's eyes,
not noticing how glazed they looked, and forced a smile. "I've been taking
some medication, and, um..." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "You'll have
to excuse me for a moment."
As his father rushed out of the room, Fox Mulder sat heavily on the
couch, leaning his aching head back into the cushions. What did "the
merchandise" mean? What was it that was making his father so upset--so
*frightened*?
It took only a moment for that train of thought to wear him out, and
Mulder slipped quietly into a doze.
***
"Take care of your sister, Fox," his father had said, a strange look in his
eyes. "You're in charge."
"Yes, sir," Fox had replied, looking over at his younger sister, who sat
quietly, setting up the Stratego board.
Fox walked across the room, turning on the television--
***
A shot rang out, shattering the well-known dream, and leaving Mulder
confused.
"Dad?" he called worriedly, rushing for the bathroom.
***
Bill Mulder lay still, his brain working feebly as he felt the pressure in
his skull increase. He was dying. He could never protect his son now, could
never tell him what he needed to know.
Never tell him that *they* had taken the wrong child...
***
Bill sat silently as the charade continued around him. His "friends", his
associates, ate quietly, one eye always on him and his wife. It seemed
hours before they were allowed to leave.
His wife ran the hundred yards to their house, throwing open the door in
haste. Bill followed more slowly. He knew what she'd find, prayed that
Samantha hadn't fought them too hard when they'd taken her brother, hoping
that they hadn't hurt her, too...
His wife would kill him. He had asked her to help him make the choice,
and she had screamed at him, telling him she couldn't choose between them,
telling him that she loved them both. She'd gone so far as to ask him to
get them to take *her* instead, but for God's sake, to leave the children
alone.
So he had chosen as best he could. He knew she had wanted a daughter
that first time, knew that Fox had caused his wife so much trouble...
Knew that he himself loved his baby daughter more than anything.
And so the choice had been simple. Lie. He'd finally given them a name,
the name of the child he supposedly loved best--the child they would take
from him for "safe-keeping".
He hoped that Samantha was okay. He hoped she hadn't taken it too hard...
"Oh, Fox!" He closed his eyes at the pain in his wife's voice as he
neared the door, amazed that she had found out so quickly. But then, it
wasn't much later than 8:30. Sam would still have been up when...
He stood, shocked, in the doorway as he opened his eyes, unaware of the
cigarette-smoking young man who walked up behind him.
Fox lay in the center of the living room, lit only by the staticky glow
of the television. He was curled tightly into a ball, and his mother sat
over him crying. All the little boy could do was whisper in a tearful
voice, "She's gone... She's gone..."
"You'd better call the police, Bill," the smoking man behind the older
Mulder said quietly. "There'll have to be an investigation."
Bill whirled on him, murder in his eyes. "What have you done!"
The man had the presence of mind to look surprised. "You made your
choice, Bill."
"But you said you'd take him!" Bill cried, his voice a mere hiss as he
watched his wife trying to soothe their son. "You wanted me to pick the one
to go!"
The man blew out smoke coolly. "I couldn't take your best loved child
from you, Bill," he said calmly. "I couldn't let you sacrifice him."
***
Bill could hear a voice suddenly, a voice which, after that cold day,
twenty-some years ago, he had always resented, coming to hate the man that
that child who'd remained had become. The voice was ragged, full of tears.
Full of love.
"Dad?"
Bill Mulder tried to deny what he knew of himself in these last moments
of life. He had truly come to hate his son. Perhaps he had always been a
little envious of his strange, bright, opinionated young boy. He knew he
had been too weak to stand up to the forces that be, and had resented the
fact that his son, even at the tender age of twelve, already could. Maybe
that was why he'd told *them* to take him.
Maybe that was why the smoking man had made sure it didn't happen.
And yet, his son loved him. He could hear it in his voice as he called
out, could feel it in the tender hands that reached down to cradle a dying
old man's head. He wanted to tell Fox how ashamed he was; for chosing
Samantha over him, for blaming him when the syndicate had turned against
him and taken his little girl instead...
He wanted to tell his son that he loved him.
But in the end, all he could do was whisper two desperate words:
"Forgive me..."
************
End Part One
Subj: NEW: Best Loved 2/?
Date: 22/08/96 04:03:56
From: drakkar@bconnex.net (Char Hall)
To: vlen@alphalink.com.au (Vanessa), larchiba@unixg.ubc.ca (Jess),
drakkar@bconnex.net (Char), lioness@veldt.jpl.nasa.gov (Lioness),
amy@infocom.net (Amy B.), junebug@cybercomm.net (JuneBug),
zzcf89a@prodigy.com (Megan), logan5@primenet.com (Tas),
misfiled@onyx.xtalwind.net (Nancy), xangst@frii.com (Lisdean),
loxtonk@ozemail.com.au (Kylie), pduda@csci.csc.com (Patrick),
lwagner@nando.net (Lee Ann), argo@easynet.co.uk (Jason), QueeQuag1@aol.com
(Randi), svanlooy@mail.coin.missouri.edu (Sara), evelyn@mail.cosmosbbs.com
(Tammy), hutntut@teleport.com (Heather), clane@straths.strathcona.vic.edu.au
(Carrie), bstrbabs@flinthills.com (Beth & Peter), summer@rhf.bradley.edu
(Summer), cstickney@Wittenberg.EDU (Carolyn), fbi_basement@hiley.demon.co.uk
(Michelle), aethra@sover.net (Amanda), drfire@ix.netcom.com (Rachel),
BarbaraMS@aol.com (Barbara), stargaze@tornado.be (Luc)
Disclaimer in part one.
***********
Best Loved
by Dean Warner
xangst@frii.com
Part Two
There were people everywhere, shouting commands, following orders. He could
hear the soft susurration of a brush on the edge of the windowsill. He
could hear his mother crying, his father railling at someone in a hushed
tone...
But Fox Mulder could focus on none of it. All he could do was remember
the light, remember his sister as she called for help.
Help he couldn't give her.
"Mr. Mulder?" The voice was crisp, efficient. "Sir, is this your gun?"
The gun... Fox had tried to get to it. He'd tried to stop them... Guilt
drove him to a fresh spate of tears, as he whispered so quietly that only
his mother could hear him; "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
"Oh, Fox," his mother murmured back, stroking his hair soothingly.
"Oh... It wasn't your fault, honey..."
*****
But it was. And so was this, Mulder thought, as he carried his father's
body to the couch, laying him out with grief-driven care. It was all his
fault. He shouldn't have let his father out of his sight tonight, just as
he shouldn't have let Sam out of his sight on that night twenty-four years
ago.
He stared down at his father for a moment, wishing this were all a
dream, wishing his dad would open his eyes and laugh, the way he had when
Fox was young, and he had played pranks on his brilliant, gullible son...
Mulder straightened up abruptly. He had to talk to someone--to tell
someone what had happened. He had to call the police. Get them over here,
so that he could find out who had done this...
There weren't a lot of possibilities, he thought hazily. Cancerman...
Krychek... Someone else in that goddamned syndicate... Someone who hadn't
wanted him to know what his father was trying to tell him...
He had to call the police. They had to be caught. They had to be brought
to justice.
Heedless of his own actions, Fox Mulder went to the phone, and dialed.
****
Dana Scully looked over the papers before her, trying to get her mind to
understand a code that was wholly unfamiliar to it. This tape... This tape
held something that she was sure would give them answers...
She just wondered if they were the answers that they'd want to hear.
She was startled by the ringing of her cellphone in the silent rooms of
Fox Mulder's tiny apartment. She answered, praying it would be him.
"Scully."
"My father's dead, Scully."
She sucked in a breath. Dear God, he sounded on the edge of
exhaustion--on the edge of sanity. "Where are you?"
"They shot him," Mulder continued mindlessly. "And he's dead."
She stood, trying to force herself not to pace. "Mulder, where are you?
Just tell me where you are."
There was a long pause, then his dead voice in a sigh. "I'm on the
vineyard."
Oh, God... Images of his attack on Skinner, his abortive attack on *her*
earlier that day, flashed through her mind. She clutched at the door frame
for support. He'd gone to his father's house...
"Who shot him, Mulder?" she asked carefully.
Again, he paused, his voice barely audible. "I don't know."
"Mulder, were you arguing?" She shut her mind off from the idea that he
might say yes.
But he knew what she was trying to say. Somehow, the question had gotten
through the haze and anger that had surrounded him the last few days. His
sigh this time was sadly amused. "I didn't do it, Scully," he said
tearfully. "He was trying to tell me something."
She damned herself for not believing him. But the important thing right
now was to get him out of there. Once she had him where she could see him,
she had a chance of finding out what the hell had really happened. "Mulder,
listen to me--"
Her pause had been too long, and he could hear her accusation in the
silence. "You gotta believe me, Scully," he began desperately.
"Mulder, I believe you, just listen to me!" She was sure the lie wasn't
believable, but she hoped he was too upset to notice. "You've got to get
out of there. You have to leave immediately."
He was a dog with a bone in his teeth, and the petulance of his response
frightened her. "I can't leave the crime scene. It'll look like I'm
running--like I'm guilty."
Her fear took over. No matter what he'd done, he was her partner, and
there had to be a reason for his actions! He would never have hurt his
father otherwise. Whatever was happening to him, she had to protect him.
"Mulder, they're going to suspect you anyway!" she said, hoping he'd
understand, and allowing the paranoid part of her brain to finally speak to
her, dispelling her momentary loss of faith in him. "You've--you've got no
ID on the shooter... Your behavior has been irrational lately."
She suddenly knew that she *did* believe him, as she uttered the quiet,
pleading words, "Mulder, can't you see that everything is pointing directly
at you?"
They were setting him up, she thought, grasping at the door frame so
hard now, that she was sure she'd break it. They were turning everyone
against him...
Even her...
But Mulder wouldn't give up his own, twisted logic. "He was shot with
somebody else's weapon."
"Damnit, Mulder, you're an FBI agent!" she cried angrily. "You have
access to weapons other than your own!"
Mulder thought that through in the nerve-wracking silence that followed.
Then finally, "All right, meet me back at my apartment."
"No!" she cried instantly, glancing furtively around the empty rooms.
Then, more calmly, "No, you can't come home. Somebody shot through your
window tonight... They almost killed me. They may be trying to kill you."
She could hear Mulder breathing heavily over the phone for a moment, as
she sat in his apartment, waiting for an answer. When it did come, it
wasn't at all what she'd come to expect from Mulder.
His voice was more tear-filled than before. "Are you okay?"
She softened, fear still a strong twist in her gut. "I'm okay, Mulder,"
she assured him comfortingly. "...Did you call the police?"
He had to think about it, and that scared her even more. "Um... I called
you..."
"I'll call them, Mulder," she said quietly. "Can you meet me at my
apartment?" She wasn't sure she should let him drive all the way from the
Vineyard, but she had no other choice right now. He had to get out of the
area. "Can you drive?"
"I'll meet you at your apartment, Scully. I'll be there in...." He
trailed off for a moment. "I'll be there."
********
Scully Residence
Alexandria, VA
Scully paced, waiting for something. Part of her waited for a call from the
police--any police. Mulder had been apprehended at the scene, rushed off to
jail to await sentencing on a murder he didn't commit--a murder he was in
no mental condition to defend himself from.
Or he had crashed somewhere on the highway, his grief and his...
condition? ...causing him to lose control as he drove toward sanctuary...
Mostly what she waited for was the knock on her door that would tell her
he'd gotten safely this far--she'd worry about what happened next later.
She'd stopped at a gas station on her way back to her apartment, using
the payphone to call the police in Tisbury. An anonymous tip. She closed
her eyes, sinking into her couch, wishing that he were there, that she
could figure out a way to help him.
*******
"Mrs. Mulder, I'm sorry, but we have to question him." Fox heard
desperation in the voice. "We've had no leads on your daughter's
whereabouts, and Fox is the only witness to her kidnapping."
"He just got home from the hospital, officer," Fox's mother replied.
Even through the walls and up the stairs, he could tell she'd started
crying again. "He's in no condition to answer your questions."
"I understand that he's having a great deal of trouble with this, Mrs.
Mulder--"
"And why shouldn't he!" His mother suddenly cried out. "His baby sister
is *gone*!"
Fox started crying again at that. Samantha was gone... He was in charge!
He should have stopped them. Instead, he told himself disgustedly, all he'd
done was curl up into a little ball and blubber like a baby.
******
Which somehow seemed less cowardly than what he was doing now, Mulder
thought bitterly, as he drove toward Scully's apartment.
When Sam was taken, he'd been a young boy, not even in his teens. While
part of him would always blame himself for what had happened, part of him
was well aware that a twelve-year-old would have had no way of stopping the
abduction. But now, he was an adult... An FBI agent. He should have stayed
with his father's body, explaining to the police what had happened. He
should be out right now, trying to catch his father's killer...
But he was *so* sick! He knew he shouldn't be driving, knew he should
be... in a hospital... under a doctor's care... Something...
But Scully *was* a doctor, he thought hazily, parking unsteadily in
front of her apartment. She was his own personal doctor. She'd help him
find the truth. She'd help him find the killer. If he could just make it up
the stairs to her apartment, he'd be safe. He'd be able to find the killer
if she helped him.
As he reached her door, he suddenly remembered what she had said to him on
the phone hours ago: "They almost killed me."
Like they'd killed his father. Like they'd taken his sister. He knocked
heavily, waiting the painful seconds while she answered the door, falling
gratefully into her arms, convincing himself that she was there.
And that she'd help him.
******
"Oh, Mulder! Thank God!" Scully bore his weight carefully as her lanky
partner all but fell into her arms. In his unsteady embrace, she could feel
the heat coming off of him. She put a cool, gentle hand to his forehead.
"Look at you, you're sick!"
"I'm all right," he said, moving with the deliberation of a drunkard to
her armchair, still a hand around her waist. "I'm okay."
Scully grabbed him with both arms, trying to stop him from sitting down.
"No," she cajoled quietly. "Come on, I want you to lie down. NO!--" She
pulled him bodily out of the chair, repeating, "I want you to lie down."
She grabbed at the zipper on his jacket, which his clumsy hands were
reaching for. "Let me take your coat off."
Suspicion welled up in her again, as she saw the amount of blood that
had soaked into his shirt. She tamped it down hard, reminding herself of
just how devious these people could be--and just what lengths they'd go to
to conceal the truth.
"We gotta find 'em, Scully!" he cried, exhausted, as she tried to lead
him into her bedroom.
"Well, right now, you have to lie down... Come on."
He sat on the bed with little prompting, but getting him to lie down was
a greater problem. She finally took his head in her hand, laying him flat
on the matress, as she comfortingly ran a hand through his hair. She stood
looking down at him for a moment, before going off to get something to try
to bring his fever down.
"We gotta find out who killed my father!"
He was up, though shakily, as she rushed back into the room, and she
forced him down once again, a doctor's firmness in her voice, though all he
heard were shadows of his mother's care... "Well, right now, you need to
rest, okay? ...Rest."
Lying on the bed, a cool washcloth gracing his forehead, Fox Mulder
allowed himself to feel just how tired he really was. He sighed hugely as
Scully murmured to him in a soothing tone that reminded him of that night.
"It's okay... It's okay..."
******
"Fox, honey?" She ran her hand through his hair again, tears dropping
heedlessly from her face to his. "It's okay..."
How could she say it was okay? Dad had left him in charge, and he'd
failed. He was supposed to take care of his sister!
"Mrs. Mulder?" The voice was quiet, caring, but Fox was beyond its
comfort. "Do you... do you want to call an ambulance? Your son..."
"I'll take care of my son!" His mother cried tearfully, holding his head
in a fierce, protective embrace.
"Maybe you should get him some help." This other voice was suave, slick.
Fox had heard it before, but he couldn't remember where...
It made him think of the sea, though all he could smell where cigarettes.
"Please, dear." His father. Oh, he was going to kill him! He'd told Fox
to take care of his sister, and look what had happened! His father's voice
drifted away slightly. "Officer? My son needs... My wife wants to take him
to the hospital."
"Of course," another voice replied, a subtle suspicion in it. At least
*this* man knew that Fox was to blame. "Mrs, Mulder, we'll want a copy of
the hospital's report... And we'll want to question him later."
*******
Scully woke from a fitful doze to find her partner fidgeting in the bed
before her. Rising out of her chair, she went to him, a hand to his still
burning forehead.
"I didn't do anything!" he cried out pitifully, his voice that of a
scared little boy. It pulled at her heartstrings as he dove further below
the surface of his dream. "Please! Please! I didn't *do* anything!"
That was enough. She shook him lightly, then harder, as he failed to
rouse. Just as she began to fear that something was truly,
life-threateningly, wrong, his eyes came painfully open, letting loose the
tears that his lids had hidden.
"Mulder," she called softly, waiting for his eyes to slide toward her
and focus on her face. "Can you sit up for a minute?"
He nodded drowsily, though he still needed her help to rise. She patted
him carefully on the arm, and all but ran to the bathroom, grabbing a glass
of water and three aspirin. As an afterthought, she grabbed her thermometer
as well.
"Drink this," she prompted quietly, as he looked blankly at the glass in
her hand. She added the aspirin to the equation, and watched as he downed
them, draining the glass as if he hadn't had a drop to drink in days.
He dropped the glass to his lap after a moment, staring through her. "He
was trying to tell me something, Scully," he said finally. "They wouldn't
let him tell me... I'll never know what he wanted to *tell* me!"
Scully forced him to lie down again, sliding the thermometer in his
mouth and watching him carefully. He wasn't just sick... It had to be more
than that. She'd seen him almost dead. She'd seen him with the flu. She'd
seen him at his worst and at his best...
But she'd never seen him like this.
"Mulder, please try to sleep," she pleaded softly. "I'll be right here,
I promise..."
With a tear-filled sigh, Fox Mulder gave in again to sleep...
******
It was a week before Fox could speak, another before he could hold a
conversation.
Stress, the doctors said. Stress, and grief, and...
"Mrs. Mulder?" The doctor had closed the door, in deference to the
seemingly sleeping boy in the hospital room, but Fox could hear every word
he said. "Have you... Has your son ever had any problems--before this?"
"No!" His mother sounded dutifully upset by the accusation. "No, he's
always been a normal child! How could you even think that..."
"I don't mean any offense, ma'am," the doctor replied quickly. "It's
just... I've never seen a child respond quite like this and frankly... I'm
concerned."
You've never seen a child who lost his little sister before, Fox thought
bitterly, his self-recrimination overwhelming him again. He tried not to
cry, tried not to let his mother know he was awake, but a sniffle escaped
him nonetheless, and she was at his bedside in a shot.
"Fox, honey?" She reached a hand out to his forehead, soothing him, her
skin cool against the flame his tears had fanned. "It's okay... I'm right
here, honey..."
Fox gazed past her, looking blankly out the door, and froze, as he saw
his father looking in. At the stricken look on his son's face, Bill Mulder
tried to smile comfortingly, but Fox knew it was a lie.
He knew his father blamed him for the loss of his baby girl...
And he knew his father hated him, because it should have been *him* that
was taken...
******
Mulder woke slowly, aware that his head was a little less clouded than it
had been. With a shock, though, all that had happened the night before came
back to him.
His father was dead. And he *had* to find the killer...
And Scully was here, to help him.
"Scully?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, aware suddenly that he was
alone. Best to get dressed and try to start finding the killer on his own.
He grabbed his jeans from their place at the end of the bed, and looked
at his holster.
His gun was gone.
*******
End Part Two
**********
Best Loved
by Dean Warner
xangst@frii.com
Part Three
Dana Scully watched the forensics expert fire Mulder's gun into the
ballistics box, trying not to fidget. She shouldn't have left Mulder alone
this morning. His fever had broken around six-fifteen, but until she knew
what was *really* wrong with him, she was afraid of what he might do. Well,
there was nothing she could have done about it. As soon as she was done
with this, she'd get back to her house to check on him.
Hopefully he could give her a little more information before this afternoon.
She looked up as the man before her put down Mulder's gun and moved to
the other end of the room.
"I'll run a comparison as soon as they send me the bullet removed from
the victim," he told her calmly, extracting the spent bullets from the box.
"How long will it take to determine if they're a match?" She wanted to
make sure she had *something* to give Skinner at that meeting this
afternoon. Otherwise, he'd have Mulder taken into custody without a second
thought.
The man before her shrugged. "Well, they're both nine millimeter. We'll
run the specs, compare the striae... We should know pretty much right
away."
Thank God. Scully nodded politely to him, a little startled by the
ringing of her phone. Great. Skinner was calling to tell her he'd moved up
the meeting again. When he'd called this morning, he'd said to meet him in
his office at three-fifteen, then, later, it was two-thirty. Now what was
it going to be? Immediately?
"Scully."
Mulder's voice surprised her, both with its vehemence, and its very
presence on the line. She'd have thought he'd still be asleep, considering
the night he'd had. "You took my gun," he accused quietly. "You think I did
it, don't you?"
She tried to be patient. "I took your gun to run it through ballistics
to try to clear you, Mulder."
"Then why didn't you *ask* me?"
"You had a temperature of 102 last night. I didn't want to wake you."
"What?" he asked creully. "Were you afraid I was going to shoot you, too?"
Given the last twenty-four hours, Dana Scully had finally had enough.
"Mulder, I'm being called into Skinner's office this afternoon. They're
going to want answers, and I'd like some good ones to give them."
His next words hurt--more than she wanted to admit. "So you can clear
your conscience and your name? You've been making reports on me from the
beginning, Scully. Taking your little notes!"
She pushed the thought of his words away. The faint ring of truth they
held was too much for her to deal with right now. "Mulder, you're sick,"
she said plaintively. "You're not thinking straight. I'm on your side, you
*know* that."
He turned even colder suddenly. "You have my files and you have my
gun--don't *ask* me for my trust!"
"Mul--" Scully cursed silently as he hung up on her.
*******
Mulder paced in Scully's apartment for ten minutes, trying to calm himself
down, trying to figure out what to do next.
She'd said he couldn't go back to his apartment... Of course, she'd also
taken his gun... his trust.
To Hell with her. He'd go back to his apartment, try to contact X again,
try to get some idea of why they had killed his father.
That thought made him sink wearily into her couch. His father. What had
he been trying to tell him last night? The evening was so damn hazy now. He
couldn't think well enough to put together *any* of the clues that their
abortive discussion might have given him.
He realised suddenly that it was harder to get off the couch than it
should have been. He needed to eat. When you were sick, you needed to
eat--it was something his mother had taught him nearly twenty-five years
ago...
******
"Fox, please, honey." His mother's voice was quiet, sad. She was crying
again. He tried to make his eyes track up to meet hers, but they just
didn't have the will.
"Won't you just eat a little, Fox?" She'd tried everything to get him to
eat. He'd heard the doctors whispering about putting him on an IV soon, if
he didn't eat.
But he couldn't. The thought of food made him sick. *Any* thought made
him sick, actually. Because every thought led back to Samantha...
"Dear?" His father's voice did finally prompt his eyes to move from
their focus on the blanket before him. His father's eyes were bloodshot,
cold, recriminating. He blamed his son for his daughter's loss.
Which was just as well, Fox thought bitterly, his eyes dropping again to
his hands in his lap. Becuase it *was* his fault. He couldn't help thinking
that everything would be so much better for them if *he* had been taken
instead of Samantha.
"Dear," his father repeated. "The doctor wants to speak with us."
Fox was vaguely aware of his father's hands as they closed around his
mother's shoulders, pulling her up to stand next to him. She leaned over to
her son briefly, the kiss she planted on his forehead burning him like a
brand. "I'll be back in a minute, Fox."
He hoped she'd never come back. Just leave him to rot in this hospital,
let her and Dad get on with their lives...
"Mrs. Mulder." Fox could hear the doctor talking through the door,
sounding worried. "We... we need to think about putting your son on IV
nutrients, Mrs. Mulder. He simply will not eat, and, in his mental
condition..."
Fox smiled meanly as the doctor trailed off. Mental condition. Ha. As he
retreated deeper and deeper into himself, Fox was beginning not to have a
mental condition at all.
Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd soon disappear completely...
******
Mulder sat down abruptly in the taxi's back seat, hardly remembering that
he had called them, or that he had walked down the stairs from the
apartment building to meet them. The heavy-set man in the driver's seat
turned toward him questioningly. "Where to?"
"The Park in D.C.," Mulder replied dully. He'd have to wait until dark
to go back to his apartment. It wouldn't be safe in the daylight.
And right now, he wanted to be alone. He needed to think. He needed to
try to figure out what his father had been trying to tell him.
******
Mulder had been gone by the time Scully got back to her apartment. She'd
looked around, noticing that he'd taken what little he'd brought with him
last night, and that he'd devoured an entire box of corn flakes, leaving a
bowl half full of milk on the kitchen table. Damnit! Where did he go? In
his condition, he could have gone *anywhere*!
She sighed as she locked the door behind her. At least the ballistics
report showed that it hadn't been Mulder's gun that had killed his father.
That made her breathe a little easier. She was more sure than ever that
Mulder was being set up. And that that set up was good enough that he was
somehow systematically setting everyone against himself.
Why was he acting this way? She'd seen him in his more paranoid moments,
and admitted to herself that he wasn't really all that different in those
times than he was being now. Creul, hazy, distrustful...
Still, she couldn't help thinking, as she drove up to his apartment
building in the oncoming twilight, that he was somehow different than he
had been. Something was changing him...
And she shuddered to think at what that might be.
******
Mulder wasn't home. Somehow, though she hoped he would be, she wasn't
terribly surprised. With tired hands, Scully pulled out her pocketknife,
and started digging the slug out of his wall.
It was big, she thought dispassionately. Big enough that it could easily
have killed her, had it hit her just centimeters lower in the forehead. She
drove her thoughts fiercely away from that contemplation, and stood down
from the chair she'd used to reach the bullet, looking around the room. The
desk was still in disarray, just as it had been when she'd left here last
night...
Or was it? Had the papers there been moved? She looked at them
carefully, trying to remember....
And that was when she saw the van. It was unmarked, which couldn't be
considered *too* usual in Alexandria. What *was* unusual, was the fact that
the man walking toward it was rolling a soft water canister behind him. She
couldn't see any labels on *that*, either.
Her thoughts about Mulder's recent behavior coupled with this image, and
she suddenly had an idea--a frightening idea, to be sure, but...
***
The closet that held the building's service tanks wasn't difficult to find,
and she made her way down to the basement quickly. Flashlight in hand, she
groped through the darkened room, looking for the row of canisters.
She ran the light over them thoughtfully, until the beam came to rest on
a shiny, brand new hose unit--with an unmarked tank attached to it...
******
Mulder had waited until dusk to catch another cab from the park to his
apartment. He hoped that by that time, it would be safe to attempt to
contact X.
He was wrong, he realised, as he turned the corner toward the outside
stairway, catching sight of a shadow moving through the bushes.
He walked to the stairs, brusting into a run as he reached them, and not
stopping until he'd gone through to the back exit of his building.
Breathing hard, he reached the corner of the building, glancing quickly
around it to catch sight of Alex Krychek sneaking along the wall toward
him.
He reached for his gun, and cursed silently. The spy had taken it. So be
it. Right now, he'll gladly beat this son of a bitch to death with his bare
hands!
Like a good little FBI agent, Alex Krychek let his gun lead him around
the building's corner. With a fierce cry, Mulder was all over him. It took
only a few frenzied second for Mulder to grab Krychek's gun. He could have
shot him then, but he wanted answers--and he wanted revenge.
Krychek did his best to fight Mulder off, but the older agent seemed to
have the strength of a man twice his size, and Krychek landed painfully
against the trunk of a car, with mulder's arm at his neck, and his own gun
in his face.
"I'm gonna kill you anyway, Krychek, so you may as well tell me the
truth," Mulder gritted angrily. "Did you kill my father?"
******
Scully walked up the stairs from the basement, trying to decide what to do
next. Find Mulder, obviously. But the question there was how? She had no
idea where he'd gone to, and given his current disposition, she was fairly
sure he wouldn't be forthcoming if she called.
Her decision was made for her as she walked up the stairs toward the
back entrance, heading for her car.
"Did you kill him?" Mulder's voice was rough, as if he'd been
running--or fighting. "Answer me!!"
Scully ran the remaining steps to street level, dropping the bag of
evidence she'd discovered, as she drew her gun.
Alex Krychek lay on the ground, and Scully watched in amazement as her
partner kicked him viciously, before dragging him to his feet and pushing
him against the car they stood behind.
That was when she saw the gun in Mulder's hand.
"Mulder!" she called, frightened suddenly. "Don't shoot him!" She hoped
her voice held at least a bit of its usual authority, because the only way
she'd get Mulder to obey her was if he did it out of instinct. "Just back
away!"
He did, but only so that he could get a firm, two-handed grip on his
weapon. "He killed my father, Scully!"
"I have him!"
"No, Scully!"
She could see Mulder's finger tightening on the trigger, and knew that,
sick as it was, there was only one way to stop him.
Dana Scully took a quick, deep breath, and fired.
Mulder hit the ground hard, the back of his head grazing the wall behind
him as he went down. With a terrified, wild look in his eyes, Krychek
glanced quickly at Scully, and ran like a bat out of hell.
But Scully couldn't care less. She knelt beside her partner, looking
frantically for a pulse, trying to decide how badly she'd hurt him.
Her head shot up suddenly, as she heard a terrified woman's voice,
coming from within a nearby apartment.
"Somebody call the police!"
*******
Scully sat down, exhausted. The shot had been one of her best--clean
through the soft tissue in his shoulder. No broken bones, no damage to his
lung...
She willed herself to stop shaking.
Looking around the motel room vaguely, her eyes fell on the phone. She
had to get some sort of plan together. She had to get him somewhere where
he'd be safe, until she could figure out something...
She was startled by the ringing of her cellphone.
"Scully," she answered carefully.
"Miss Scully?" The voice was slow, old... She tried to place the accent,
but failed. "This is Albert Hosteen. I was contacted by a friend in
Washington..." He seemed puzzled by her silence. He'd have been more
puzzled still, had he seen the tears of relief that had suddenly sprung to
her eyes. "You spoke to her about some files?"
"Yes, Mr. Hosteen," Scully finally replied, clearing her throat. "Where
are you?"
"If you can meet me at the Adobe Hotel in Farmington, I will take a look
at your files."
Scully almost smiled. New Mexico was, very likely, the *last* place they
would ever think to look for her--*or* Mulder. "That would be fine, Mr.
Hosteen," she said calmly. "I'll be driving... Can you meet me..." She
looked over at her partner, and the fresh dressing on his wound. "On second
thought, can you give me your phone number? I'll call you when I get
there."
*******
The next forty-two hours were likely the longest that Dana Scully would
ever endure. Her first stop was at the training facility in Quantico, where
she snuck in to steal what she'd need for the trip. Okay, she told herself,
ass she stuck the vials of sedative and antibiotic in her bag, so it wasn't
technically stealing. They *were* being used for legitimate medical
purposes, on a federal agent--albeit, one who was currently under
investigation for murder. One who was about to be transported illegally
over state lines...
She shut off that thought process as she returned to her car, where
Mulder was just starting to come around. Soundlessly, she primed a
syringe--another of the booties in her theft--and injected a liberal amount
of tranquilisers into him. With a light groan, Mulder was under
again--would hopefully stay that way, at least until she was in the next
state.
It was four-thirty in the morning, and she was already in Illinois,
before she felt it safe to stop. She was exhausted, but she knew she'd
never be able to haul him into a motel room by herself. So she caught an
hour's nap in the uncomfortable confines of her driver's seat.
She stopped five more times on her way to New Mexico, twice for gas and
food, and three times--always on long stretches of deserted highway--to try
to catch a few minute's sleep. She kept Mulder under for the entire trip,
giving him a final injection of sedative as she reached Santa Fe. If she
was right about what had been in that soft water canister, he'd need the
time to let the drugs get out of his system.
And, in truth, she was too tired to try to make him stay put, if the
drugs were to convince him otherwise.
***
The Adobe was easy to find--Farmington being a small town--and it was
nearly ten pm when she drove into the parking lot. Getting out of her car,
she noticed a young indian lounging around outside the manager's office.
"Miss Scully?" the boy asked as she approached. She rubbed her elbow
unconsciously against her hip, comforting herself with the felt presence of
her sidearm.
"Yes?"
"My name is Eric," he said, reaching out a hand. "I'm Albert Hosteen's
grandson." He looked into the night at her car. "Is he okay?"
She was a little amazed that he could see Mulder in the dark from this
distance. "He's sick."
Eric nodded disinterestedly. "They'll give you room 135," he said
quietly, holding out his hand. "I'll help your friend in."
With a distrustful stare, Scully shook her head. "No, thank you."
Eric simply nodded again, going back to lounging by the door.
Keeping an eye on him, Scully walked in to the office. She wasn't
surprised when the manager presented her with the key to room 135--along
with the key to the adjoining room. With a bemused look, Scully paid him in
advance, and walked out--
--to find Eric standing by her car, watching her.
"How did you know I would be here tonight?" she asked, finally letting
exhaustion take over from her suspicion.
Eric shrugged. "This is how long it takes to get from Washington to
Farmington--if you don't stop."
Scully finally smiled. Maybe, for now, she and Mulder might actually be safe.
Eric helped her carry Mulder into one of the rooms, and stood at the
door, staring at her as she fussed over her partner. He smiled as she
finally looked up at him. "You haven't slept," the young man observed.
"I'll be okay."
"My grandfather told me to take care of you," Eric said simply. "He said
you would be in trouble when you got here. You need to sleep."
Scully looked at him wordlessly for a moment. His *grandfather* had told
him? How had the old man known?
"Where is your grandfather?"
"In bed--where you should be." Eric smiled again as Scully grimaced. "I
will look after him. You should sleep."
In the face of such logic, Scully thought sarcastically, how can I
refuse? And the boy felt like he was safe--in fact, she felt safer than she
had since Mulder had found that damn tape...
With a sigh and a tired smile, Scully grabbed her bag and headed for the
room next door, leaving the connecting door comfortingly open.
****
Scully was in the shower twenty minutes before she truly felt clean. Two
and a half days was a long time to go without a shower--or a bed, she
thought gratefully as she pulled on her pyjamas and opened the bathroom
door, looking longingly at the single bed before her.
Still, she couldn't help worrying about Mulder, and she walked quietly
to the door that led to his room, peeking in carefully.
Mulder lay where she and Eric had left him, never moving in his
drug-induced sleep. Eric sat in a chair beside the bed, a book in his hand.
He looked up at her, the ghost of a smile still on his face. With a
returning ghost, Scully turned from the door, dropping onto to the firm,
smooth bed.
She was asleep within minutes.
*********
End Part Three
**********
Best Loved
by Dean Warner
xangst@frii.com
Part Four
"Fox?" The officer's voice was warm, caring. He was young, Fox saw, as his
vague eyes floated up to the man's face. "Fox, can you answer a few
questions for me? About your sister?"
Fox nodded. He was too tired now for tears. He hadn't eaten since the
night his sister disappeared, and even the nutrients they were giving him
through a tube in his arm weren't enough to make him feel strong. For a
long while after that night, he'd slept, mostly. But, when he slept, he
dreamed--so eventually, he stopped doing that, too.
He'd always been good at convincing his parents that he was asleep. It
was a trick he'd taught Samantha, too. Breathe really regularly (he'd
laughed at her when he'd had to tell her what 'regularly' meant), and don't
turn over, and after a couple of checks, they'd think you were asleep. He
and Sam had spent nights and nights sitting up, Fox whispering ghost
stories to his little sister. Even when he gave her nightmares--nightmares
that would wake their parents from a sound sleep--she never told on him.
The TV show she'd watched had been scary, or someone at school had told a
scary story...
She'd never ratted on him...
"Fox?" The officer had been saying something, Fox realised suddenly.
"What?"
The officer patted Fox's knee reassuringly. "Look, Fox... Why don't I
come by later, huh?" He smiled winningly at the little boy in the hospital
bed. "Why don't you get some sleep?"
Fox just nodded dully, and his eyes followed the young man out of his
room. As the officer started talking to his father outside, Fox wondered
that none of them thought to close the door all the way. Didn't they know
that he could hear every word they were saying?
"What did he say?" Fox shuddered slightly at the anger in his father's
voice.
"He's... not really in the mood to talk, Mr. Mulder," the officer
replied gently. "I'll come back later today."
"But..."
"He's already told us that he doesn't remember what happened that night--"
"And I'm sure he's telling the truth." This latest voice sounded like
the doctor who'd been taking care of him since he got here. Doctor
Anderson. "These sorts of trauma are very difficult on children, Mr.
Mulder. Your son seems to have blocked out the entire evening. Now, if
you'll excuse me, I need to check on Fox..."
Fox looked away from the door as Dr. Anderson walked in. "Hey, Fox," the
tall man said gently. "How are you feeling?"
Fox shrugged, still trying to listen to the people talking just outside.
Anderson had closed the door all the way when he came in, so the young boy
could only catch snatches of what was being said.
"Dragged the river..."
"...ransom note?"
"...bodies in the area morgues..."
Fox started to cry, heedless of the man standing before him.
"Fox," Anderson said gently. "I know this is hard on you... But hang in
there, okay?" The man smiled comfortingly. "It'll all turn out right..."
***
Mulder rolled slightly in his sleep, groaning as he rolled onto his
newly-bandaged shoulder. He felt a gentle hand force him back onto his
back, and muttered quietly in his sleep.
"It's okay," he heard a voice say. Somehow, though he knew it couldn't
be the case, he heard it as his mother's. "I'm right here...."
Yes, he thought drowsily. Right there... Where she's supposed to be.
********
"How is he?" Eric asked as he walked back into the motel room, a bag of
donuts and a cup of coffee in his hand. A tall, broad, old man walked
behind him, and Eric put his burdens on the desk and brought his companion
forward to introduce him. "This is my grandfather."
"It's good to meet you, Mr. Hosteen. Thank you for your hospitality--and
your grandson's."
"Albert, please," the man replied, moving closer to the bed, and
repeating his grandson's question. "How is he?"
Scully stood, stretching her sore back. "He's doing better. The sedative
I gave him last night should be wearing off soon." She took the coffee with
a smile to Eric, sipping at it gratefully as she gazed at her partner.
"Albert... How did you know we were coming?"
"You called," he replied simply, though she could see from the twinkle
in his eyes that he wasn't coming clean.
"So you had your grandson sit outside the motel until we just *happened*
to show up?"
"We have had omens," the old man replied quietly. "I knew that you would
be coming."
"Why?"
Albert's eyes had a strange glow to them, the kind of glow that Scully
always saw in her partner's eyes when he was in the hunt.
"To find the truth."
*********
Scully didn't know if her hands would ever stop shaking. This couldn't be
happening. She had had Albert start with the most recent files, hoping to
find *something* that might explain what was happening.
What he had found was terrifying, and Scully was desperately afraid that
it might be enough to bring her world crashing down.
Albert watched the young lady as she rose and got another cup of coffee.
Eric had come by with some sandwiches earlier in the day, but hers remained
untouched. She spent her time reading over the files he had already
translated, only occassionally rising to grab a cup of coffee, or to sit
worriedly beside her still-sleeping partner.
It was obvious to the old man that Mulder had slept far longer than she
had expected him to. It had been early morning when Albert and his grandson
came to the motel, and as the afternoon wore on, the young lady seemed to
grow more and more distressed. With a sigh for his old bones, Albert walked
past her and leaned over the young man lying on the bed.
*********
Fox awoke, nine days after his sister's disappearance, to find himself in a
strange room. He didn't recognise it for what it was, didn't realise that
the IV attached to his arm should have told him that he was in a hospital.
The last week and more were a blank, and Fox could only think of one thing.
He had to find Samantha.
It didn't hurt to rip out the IV in his arm. He never felt the blood
trickling down to his wrist. With shaking, fast-weakened legs, Fox drew
himself out of bed and hobbled crookedly toward the door, throwing it open
as he walked through.
He had to find Samantha. He had no idea why it was so important, but he
knew he needed to see her, to pull on her braids, to hear her whine at him.
She had to be somewhere, he thought dully, as he walked slowly from room
to room, stumbling occassionally, grabbing at the wall for support. She had
to be somewhere...
"Fox?" The voice was only vaguely familiar, and Fox didn't even bother
to look up to identify the face. He had to find Samantha. As soft hands
tried to stop his forward progress, the young boy finally pulled away and
tried to run.
The stairwell was close. He burst through the door, hobbling desperately
down the stairs as that voice called worriedly after him. He didn't care
what *they* wanted. He *had* to find Samantha!
The stair was the same as all the others--short, cement, a small ridge
of metal at the edge--but this one was too much for his unsteady legs, and
he felt himself falling forward, detached from the pain as he landed on his
cheek, half a flight below.
He welcomed the darkness that followed.
Maybe here, he could find Samantha...
*******
Fox Mulder woke to see his father's face; old, as it had been when he last
saw him, not the young man whose worried visage had greeted him in the
hospital, when he'd awakened from that fall. This face was old, wrinkled,
yellow in the eyes, blushed with alcohol in the cheeks. Mulder wanted to
talk to him...
But suddenly, it wasn't his father anymore. It was another man, an
Indian, his face lined and kindly, his voice, when he spoke, slow and
gentle.
"He's awake."
Mulder stared up blearily, exhausted. After a moment, a familiar face
swam into view.
Why was that face familiar?
"Mulder?" The woman asked quietly, catching his vague eyes and holding
them. "Mulder, it's me."
Mulder nodded slightly. "It's me." Scully.
Satisfied, Scully put something cool in his hands. "Here, drink some of
that. You haven't had any water in over thirty-six hours."
Thirty-six hours? What exactly had happened here? He remembered waking
in her apartment, their arguement, the park... He'd gone back to his *own*
apartment...
Krychek...
Mulder tried to sit up, gasping painfully at the pull on his shoulder.
Scully settled a pillow behind his back, her voice a professional one--a
doctor's voice. "Your shoulder's going to be fine. The round went through
nice and clean."
He glared at her in disbelief. "You *shot* me!"
"Yes," she replied, irritated. "I did. You didn't give me much choice...
You were about to kill Krychek."
Mulder didn't understand. "Why'd you shoot *me*? He's the one!"
"If he is," Scully replied patiently. "Then his weapon is probably the
same one that killed your father."
"What are you talking about?"
Scully took a deep breath, spelling it out for him carefully. "If you
killed Krychek with that weapon, there would've been no way to prove that
*you* didn't kill your father." She watched him as the sense of her words
sunk in, and as the pain of his father's death hit him once again.
"I'm sorry about your father, Mulder," she said tenderly. "I haven't
been able to tell you."
Mulder sat silently, his brain trying to kick into gear. He felt so
foggy. Like when he'd been a boy, and the police had tried to question
him...
"How'd you know it was Krychek?" he asked finally, sounding very much
like that little boy in a hospital room.
"I didn't," Scully sighed, rising to walk to a nearby table. "I went
back to your apartment to pull the slug from the wall. But I noticed an
unmarked van delivering soft water." She presented him with a small
cylinder, wrapped in an evidence bag, and he somehow got the idea that she
expected him to know what it was. "And I found *this* in one of the tanks
servicing your building."
"What is it?" Mulder finally asked.
"It's a dialysis filter. It's a device used in the transmission of
substances to solution." Her voice was suddenly sad. "Considering the level
of psychosis you were experiencing, it was possibly LSD, amphetamines, or
some kind of exotic dopamine angonist."
The haze in his mind was finally starting to clear. "Oh my God... There
was a murder in my building..."
Scully looked down at him candidly. "Well, it wasn't an exercise in
subtlety." She sat down, leaning forward anxiously, hoping that he'd
finally begun to see the danger they were up against. "Mulder, these men
are quite possibly the same ones who killed your father and who
systematically tried to destroy you by turning everyone you could trust
against you." She softened as she saw his eyes clear. "I don't think I have
to tell you why."
"I'd gotten too close to the truth," he replied quietly. Now that he was
completely awake, he realised that he had no idea where he was; no idea who
the old man at the table by the window was. "Where are we?"
"We're in Farmington, New Mexico."
"New Mexico?"
Scully nodded tiredly. "We've just driven two days across-country. I had
to put you out to let the side-effects of the psychosis abate." She looked
up as the old man approached them. "This is Albert Hosteen. He's been
translating your files."
The old man looked down at Mulder, his smile benign. "You're lucky she's
a good shot."
Mulder looked at the bandage that covered his shoulder. "Or a bad one,"
he replied, a tentative smile for his partner.
Scully returned it with relief. "Albert was a Navajo code-talker during
World War II. He helped encode the original documents."
"How did you find him?"
"Through a woman in D.C.," Scully replied, looking up again as Albert
moved toward the door. "But he claims that he knew we were coming."
Albert looked back at them as he opened the door. "Last week, we had an
omen."
Mulder nodded solemnly, watching as the old man left.
"Most of these files are written in jargon," Scully explained. "But
apparently there was an international conspiracy dating back to the 1940s.
Albert says that evidence of these secrets are buried on the reservation
not far from here. He'll take you as soon as you're able."
Mulder nodded again, shrugging his shoulder to see how bad the pain was.
He decided immediately that he wouldn't be shrugging it again any time
soon. With a grunt, he rolled up to sit on the edge of the bed, facing his
partner. "What about you?" he asked quietly.
"I'm afraid you're on your own with this," she replied nervously. "I
didn't show up for a meeting with Skinner day before yesterday. I don't
know what the repercussions will be."
He watched her for a moment, seeing her fear reflected in her
down-turned eyes. "You've taken a big risk," he said in a whisper.
Scully's eyes came up to meet his, and he was surprised to see that
their fear was for him. Not her job, not herself... him.
"I was certain they would have killed you, Mulder," she replied quietly.
Mulder placed a hand in her lap, stilling the trembling of his partner's
hands, before rising and heading to the bathroom. He could still smell his
father's blood on his skin...
He wondered if he always would.
Scully hadn't moved since he'd risen, and he turned to her now, his
voice gentle. "Thank you... Thank you for taking care of me."
He noticed that her hands were shaking again as she rose. "There's
something else," she said, sounding on the verge of tears. "My name is in
those files. It appears in the latest entries, along with Duane Barry's."
Mulder stared at her in shock. "In what context?"
"It's not clear." She was trying not to let it get to her, he decided,
watching her hands as they tortured each other. "But it has something to do
with a test. I want you to find out, Mulder." Her voice was pleading,
tearfilled. "I *need* you to."
He nodded to her, holding her eyes for a moment. "Are you okay?"
She tried to crack a smile. It very nearly cracked his heart. "I'm fine,"
she said finally, shaking her head in an attempt to diffuse the tension.
"You'd better take a shower before you go out to the reservation," she told
him blithely, moving to tidy up the room. "The coyotes will smell you
coming."
He grinned at her lopsidedly before going into the bathroom.
Only when she heard the shower start up did Scully allow herself relief.
She dropped onto the bed, still warm from Mulder's slumber, and cried.
**********
***********
Best Loved
by Dean Warner
xangst@frii.com
Part Five
"I... I really am sorry, Mrs. Mulder." The man had the grace to sound
remorseful. "The case will be kept open, of course, but..."
Fox shivered in his bed, as he heard his father's tired, rumbling voice.
"Thank you, Lieutenant Harcourt. You'll let us know if...?"
"Of course, sir." The lieutenant, who Fox remembered as a tall, willowly
young man, seemed to hestiate for a moment. "Your son, Fox? How is he?"
There was a long, long pause; time enough for Fox's father to say
something caring, something reassuring...
In the end, it was his mother who answered.
"He's... doing better, thank you."
"He seems like a good kid, Mrs. Mulder," Harcourt replied gently. "I'm
so sorry that this had to happen.. to all of you."
Fox tuned out as his parents played the gracious hosts, and saw
Lieutenant Harcourt to the door. He still wondered if this wasn't all his
fault. There had to have been something he could have done to stop... it.
His mother had tried to tell him, time and again in the last three
months, that it wasn't his fault...
But his father knew the truth. And every time Fox looked into those
cold, accusing eyes--eyes that had once been gentle and loving--*he* knew
it, too.
*******
Mulder tried to wash the sight of his father's dead eyes from his mind, as
he turned the hot water up to its highest setting. His throbbing arm
protested, but he couldn't have cared less. He couldn't let these
memories--couldn't let his grief--keep him frozen in this room while the
truth was out there.
With a sigh, he switched off the water, stepping out of the shower and
rubbing at the mirror that his bathing had covered with steam. His face was
haggard in the foggy light of the bathroom, the angry wound on his shoulder
a flaming red from the scalding rinse he'd given it. He avoided his image's
eyes, dreading the pain that he might find there--fearing that it might his
father's ghost, and not himself, who gazed back.
Groaning at the pain it caused, he drew on his bathrobe, and headed for
the door. Scully, it seemed, had been as thorough as always, even as she
made a mad dash from D.C. She had gone back to his apartment, he saw, as he
exited the bathroom, and had taken the overnight bag that he always had
ready for their frequent forays into the unknown.
"Scully?" he called carefully, as he leaned down, wincing at the
increase of blood flowing toward his injured shoulder, and took the bag in
his good hand, laying it gently on the bed. He looked around, slightly
lost, until he saw the connecting door to the next room, standing open, and
heard the soft sounds of a shower being run.
He dressed quickly, running a tired hand through his already-drying
hair, and sat silently on the edge of the bed for a moment.
Scully. She'd risked everything to get him here. Her job, her future...
A shiver ran through him as he remembered that she'd also risked her life,
risked the horror of a bullet through the brain to try to find some shred
of truth at his apartment.
He couldn't believe that he had honestly thought she might betray him.
Even if she was right, even if they *had* been drugging him, dragging him
down into a senseless pool of his own violent thoughts...
She was the only one he trusted.
And she had brought him here, he thought, as he rose and headed into the
next room, to help him find the truth. It had taken very little time for
them to make a connection, he mused. That first case... And she had learned
to trust him.
So why hadn't he learned to do the same?
They were bound together now. Pain, anger, justice... These were just a
few of the strings that held them. The strings that made her give up
everything for him. And he knew, instinctively, that he would do the same.
His knock on the bathroom door was tentative, but he was answered
immediately by the sound of hurried hands shutting off water, and an
almost-frantic "Hang on a second!" that shouted back at him through the
door.
Her hair was soaking wet, and her robe was racing to join it. Above her
right eye, Mulder could still see the angry red of her scar--the sole sign
that, only a few days ago, she might have been dead.
But for fate...
"Albert said he'd wait outside for you," she told him breathlessly. Her
eyes turned soft and worried suddenly, as she looked him over. "Are you
okay? They won't think to look for us here... You could--"
"I'm fine," he replied, his lopsided smile a shadow of its former self.
"Mulder..."
He gripped her hand lightly. "I'll be okay, Scully." With a final smile,
he turned from her, heading for the other room, and Scully suddenly had the
irrational fear that this might be the last time she ever saw him. As if
she'd spoken aloud, he turned to her, that ghost haunting his features
again.
"I'll call you and let you know what I find."
********
The drive out to the reservation took longer than Mulder had expected, and
by the time the rental car that Scully had acquired for him turned onto
Albert Hosteen's street, the FBI agent was almost shaking with
anticipation. But there was still something he had to know, something that
had plagued him since he and the old indian had started this silent drive.
"You said you knew I was coming?"
Albert nodded sagely. "In the desert," he said quietly. "Things find a
way to survive... Secrets are like this, too. They push their way up
through the sands of deception so men can know them..." He seemed ready to
say more, but broke off quickly as a small white house came into view.
"Here, this is my house."
Mulder pulled up outside, sitting thoughtfully for a moment. "But why me?"
"You are prepared to accept the truth, aren't you?" Albert asked
seriously. "To sacrifice yourself to it?"
"I don't understand."
Albert watched his quiet driver for a moment, gauging how much the young
man might understand. "There was a tribe of Indians who lived here more
than six-hundred years ago," he said, his voice in the rich cadences of a
storyteller. "Their name was Anasazi. It means 'the Ancient Aliens'. No
evidence of their fate exists. Historians say they disappeared without a
trace. They say that because they will not sacrifice themselves to the
truth."
"And what is the truth?" Mulder asked after a moment.
Albert smiled, the smile that had reminded Scully so much of her
partner. "Nothing disappears without a trace."
His companion puzzled that through for a moment, and suddenly sat back a
bit. "You think they were abducted?"
Albert nodded. "By visitors who come here still."
With that, he opened the door, heading for the house, where a young man
stood waiting at the bottom of the steps. After a shocked moment, Mulder
followed.
"What's buried out there?" he asked, as the young man straddled a small
dirt bike, reving it up noisily.
"Lies," Albert replied simply. "You will see for yourself."
The old man simply watched as Mulder mounted the motorbike behind Eric.
And Mulder rode off silently... To see for himself.
*********
The trek down the hill was hard on Mulder, jostling his aching arm with
every unsure step. But the silver metal, floating just beneath the red
desert sand, was enough to make him forget the pain, as he scrambled down
toward what he hoped might be the truth.
His progress was stopped by the ringing of his cellphone.
"Mulder."
He would never have imagined hearing *that* man on the line. "You're a
hard man to reach," said a smoke-ravaged voice. Very chummy...
Mulder tried to keep his temper. "Not hard enough, apparently."
"Where are you?"
As if he'd give him the satisfaction! "I'm at the Betty Ford Center,
where are you?"
The cancerous old man seemed to ignore the dig about the drugs in
Mulder's water. "I need to talk to you, Mr. Mulder. In person. There are
things to explain."
Mulder felt his temper getting out of hand. "Yeah, well, I'll save the
government the plane fare--I just need to know which government that is."
Again, the barb was ignored. "Your father may have told you things, Mr.
Mulder," the man continued calmly. "I should warn you not to take those
things at face value."
"Yeah, and what things are those?" Mulder asked, suddenly very, very
tired of this game.
"He was never an opponent of the project. In fact, he authorised it.
That's what he couldn't live with."
"No," Mulder said, white-hot anger taking over, at the mere suggestion
that, somehow, his father had brought his own death on himself. "He
couldn't live with it because you had him killed!"
"We weren't involved in that--"
"Listen to me, you black-lunged, son-of-a-bitch!" Mulder shouted. "I'm
going to expose you *and* your project! Your time is over!"
"Expose anything, and you only expose your father--"
Mulder stabbed viciously at the disconnect button. His father, whatever
he might have done in the past, was *not* the one to blame here. Cancerman
would be uncovered, and he would pay for Bill Mulder's death--or Fox Mulder
would die in the attempt to bring him to justice.
*****
Scully looked through the files again, jotting down notes about their
contents. Mulder hadn't presented her with a full copy of the digital tape,
but what she had was enough to scare her.
It was no secret that the U.S. Government had used the Axis powers to
improve their position when Russia became the enemy of the day. Hundreds of
Nazi and Japanese scientists, desperate to avoid Nuremberg, had willingly
sold themselves to the United States, in exchange for simple freedom.
They had been, at least in part, responsible for the meeting of
Kennedy's challenge that the U.S. be the first to put a man on the moon,
and they had been instrumental in a dozen, major, medical breakthroughs in
the years before Vietnam...
But Scully now realised just how high the price had been for those
breakthroughs--and just how many innocent civilians had died for that
knowledge.
Her morbid thoughts were shattered by her cellphone, and she picked it
up nervously, wondering what was waiting for her on the other end of the
line.
"Scully."
"Yeah, it's me." Mulder sounded preoccupied--and a little stunned.
"Where are you?"
"Nowhere I ever expected."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm in a boxcar," he replied quietly. "Buried inside a quarry.... There
are bodies everywhere."
She shivered suddenly. "Bodies?"
She could almost hear him nodding. "Stacked floor to ceiling."
"What happened to them?"
Again, he was preoccupied, thinking, trying to piece this crime
together, as he had all the other crimes they investigated. "I don't know."
With a shock, Scully realised that *she* probably did. "Mulder," she
said quickly, sifting through the notes before her. "In these files, I
found references to experiments that were conducted here in the U.S. by
Axis powers' scientists who were given amnesty after the war."
Mulder pulled himself out of his musings. "What kind of experiments?"
"Some kind of test,"Scully replied, wishing once again that she had had
more of these files. "On *humans*. What the files call 'merchandise'."
In a boxcar, miles away, Fox Mulder closed his eyes, finally starting to
piece together the clues... Starting to understand what his father had been
trying to tell him on the night he had died.
"But these aren't humans, Scully," he said quietly. "From the look of
it, I'd say they were aliens."
"Are you sure?" she asked, misssing--at least, for the moment--her usual
hint of skepticism.
"I'm pretty damn sure," he replied, anger welling up in him. Had his
father really been a party to this? He looked over the corpses before him,
disgust rising--a disgust that was cut short suddenly, by the image of one
of these corpses' arms. "Wait a second..." He crouched down to have a
closer look at it. "This one... has a smallpox vaccination scar..."
He could hear papers ruffling over the line, as Scully hunted for
something. "Mulder--"
With a creak, the hatch above him started to move, and Mulder yelled out
in frustration as it slammed closed, locking him in this dark, tomb-like
hell...
********
"Mulder!" Scully stood nervously, fear rising in her again.
"Mulder, what happened!!!?"
*********
Somewhere in the New Mexico desert, a boxcar burned....
*********
END
*************
Dearly Missed
by Dean Warner
xangst@frii.com
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: TA
WARNINGS: Okay, so this isn't really a warning. This is, in part, a
novelisation of the third season episode "Blessing Way". Also, it makes
more sense if read after the story Best Loved, which was, in part, a
novelisation of "Anasazi".
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, etc. don't belong me. I'm using them
without permission, but I'm sure that CC, 1013, and Fox, the holders of the
copyrights, won't come after me, because if I made any money off of my
fanfic, then I definitely wouldn't have to work so much!
SUMMARY: Scully battles her guilt from the past, and dangers of the
present, to find out the truth about happened to her partner.
**********
Part One / Four
Dana Scully ran quickly through the woods, glancing back at every turn to
make sure that her father was still following her. Her twelve-year-old
lungs wheezed in protest, trying to tell her that she had run too hard
today, too long...
But she couldn't listen to them. She had to get back to him, make sure
he was all right. She heard her father breathing heavily behind her, felt a
horrible dread building in her, and pressed on...
***
She felt that same dread, now, as she drove toward Albert Hosteen's house,
cutting a half-hour drive down to fifteen minutes. As she drove up,
launching herself out of the car and shooting up the porch steps, she
feared that, this time, she'd be far too late. With a trembling hand, she
pushed the half-open door to the edge of its hinges, and plunged into the
relative darkness of the little house.
A man sat before her, sunk into his chair, as a younger man tended to a
vicious wound on his cheek. Albert Hosteen looked up from his son's
ministrations as Scully entered.
"What happened?" she asked breathlessly, barely noticing the material
havoc that had been wrought--focussing only on the damage done to the
living.
"There were men," Albert's son said quietly.
"They were looking for your partner," Albert finished sadly.
"Where is he?"
Even as Albert shook his head in despair, Scully caught sight of a
figure entering the kitchen. She winced at the blood and bruises on Eric's
face.
"He was in the quarry," Eric mumbled, his words fighting past his
swollen lip. "They came in a helicopter."
"Where?"
Eric moved slowly toward the door. "I'll take you."
"No!" she answered sharply, grasping the boy's shoulder gently. "Just
tell me how to get there."
***
That run, twenty years ago, had been the longest of her life--until now.
The car was useless after a certain point, threatening to slide off of
trails meant only for motorbikes. The last mile, with a column of smoke to
guide her, made her understand what Hell must be like.
As she slithered down the last bit of the quarry wall, Scully's breath
caught in her throat. Like a zombie, she walked toward the sheen of silver
that smoked beneath the red sands before her.
A hatch was open, heat coming off of it in waves, and she looked down in
horror, as snatches of a long-ago conversation ran through her mind:
"I hate fire... I'm scared to death of it..."
"A man has to face his demons..."
Her mind shut down for a moment, as she thought of the demon he might
have faced here in the desert.
But Albert had said that they were "looking" for him! Maybe, somehow....
"MULDER!" She listened painfully for a moment, as her empty cry bounced
off of the rocks around her... as the first tears slid painfully down her
cheeks...
But someone heard...
The voice was distorted--by the rocks above him, the fire raging behind,
the pain in his head... But Fox Mulder heard.
He tried to draw breath, tried to cry out to her, tried to inch farther
toward the crack of light he saw before him, reaching out until his hand
broke through into the baking sun... It was too hard, finally, and Fox
Mulder knew that he would die here, mere yards from his partner...
In this macabre, communal casket...
********
"Maggie!"
Dana Scully wheezed painfully, taking comfort from her father's hand on
her shoulder, as her mother ran out from the back door.
"Maggie, call Doctor Hillshan. Charley's hurt."
When her father's eyes had turned back to her, Dana's fear increased a
hundredfold, as she saw in them a fear she had never thought to see from
her courageous Ahab. "Come on, Dana," he said quietly, pulling her gently
to her feet. "You've got to show me where you left him."
***
Where she'd left him? Where *had* she left Mulder, she asked herself. In
Hell. In more danger than he had ever faced before. In a danger *she* had
been well aware of...
She sighed, watching another town pass by in the early morning.
Illinois. She'd be back in D.C. by this afternoon...
But what would she do then?
As her cellphone rang, she held in her fear. "Scully."
She fought not to let herself hope that it would be him--not to think
about what she would say: "Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?"
Fought not to hear his dream response: "I'm okay."
It was a losing battle.
"Agent Scully?"
She held in her disappointed sob, as Skinner's voice came to her over a
hazy line. "Yes, sir."
"I've been told by the agents in New Mexico that you left the crime
scene without permission yesterday?"
Scully listened to the silence that followed.
"Can I ask where you are?" Skinner said after a moment, irritation
evident in his tone.
"I'm on my way back to D.C.," she replied dully. "I'll be there this
afternoon."
"I want you in my office by four, Agent Scully."
She didn't even bother to respond as she pressed the disconnect button,
all but throwing the phone onto the seat next to her.
*****
Scully's anger had long since taken over from her grief. As she sat quietly
in Skinner's office, heard some pig-headed bureaucrat before her rattle off
his inanities, she realised that she had already known this would
happen--long before she'd even reached New Mexico.
But now, she didn't care...
"This summary action *is* justified under the OPC articles of review..."
Scully tuned the man out again, noticing Skinner squirming in his seat.
She sent a cold glare his way, perversely satisfied when his eyes dropped
quickly away from her.
"We will have to ask that you check your weapon and your badge--before
you leave the building, Agent Scully."
She stood finally, as the curly-headed man before her ceased his catalog
of her crimes. Reaching into her belt holster, she withdrew her sidearm,
laying it on the desk beside her badge.
"We would also ask that you make yourself available to answer further
questions in our investigation into Agent Mulder's whereabouts."
Scully stared at her erstwhile superior, as he rattled off the pat
request. How the hell could he be so heartless about this? "I told you
everything I know," she said coldly. "To the best of my knowledge, Agent
Mulder is dead."
She turned from him quickly, not bothering to find out whether he truly
showed any remorse for what had happened. His low voice froze her in place.
"Don't think this hasn't been difficult for everyone."
She bit her tongue, satisfying herself with a venomous glare in his
direction. How could he be so *fucking* callous! Without another word, she
strode out of the room.
He caught her on her way out. "Agent Scully--"
"Who are these people?" she demanded angrily, whirling on him.
Skinner took her shoulder, leading her farther from his slightly-opened
door. "'These people' are doing their job."
"What they're doing," she gritted painfully. "Is putting an official
stamp on a *lie*."
She almost laughed her contempt as Skinner's eyes hardened. "These
people have a protocol to follow--which is something you and Agent Mulder
did *not* consider."
"What about the people who were poisoning Agent Mulder's water?" She
watched coldly as Skinner's eyes fell. "Whose protocol was that?"
"The investigation into--"
"The 'investigation' will be an exercise!" she railed, cutting off his
inadequate excuse. "The men who killed Agent Mulder are the men who killed
his father--they aren't meant to be found!"
"We will find them."
Scully bit back her initial response--You couldn't catch a fly if *they*
didn't want you to!--and instead gritted, "With all due respect, sir, I
think you overestimate your position in the chain of command!"
***
She'd nearly stopped her hands from shaking by the time she'd reached
Mulder's office. Looking both ways, Scully slid the door shut, locking it,
and made her way to his desk.
She knew exactly where he would have put it... Under the desk, taped to
the top of the drawer...
She looked down in shock as she held the empty cassette container.
******
The tape was gone...
Scully couldn't even begin to guess at who had taken it. There were so
many players in this game now... So many people that she couldn't trust...
And no one left that she could.
In a daze, she boarded a bus in the evening twilight, knowing where it
led, but not really caring. She forced her mind to remain a blank until
she'd been left off in a quiet little neighborhood, ignoring the driver's
polite farewell, ignoring the blare of a horn as a car came within feet of
hitting her...
Ignoring everything.
Three blocks on, her mind cut in on her, and she started running, tears
streaming down her face as she remembered...
She and Ahab found her little brother just the way she had left him, one
leg twisted horribly beneath him, one arm at a dangerous angle... His face
covered with blood from a gash in his cheek.
The walk back to the house seemed to take forever, and Dana's feet were
throbbing by the time their back porch came into sight. Dr. Hillshan stood
at the door, Dana's mother standing on the lawn below, looking for some
sign of her family, her voice breaking open in a sob as she saw her baby
boy in his father's arms...
Dana had waited in the living room, afraid to go upstairs, afraid to find
out how badly her brother was hurt. It was two hours before Ahab and Dr.
Hillshan walked quietly down the stairs, and she could feel Ahab's eyes on
her as he bid the doctor farewell.
"Dana?" He sat on the edge of the table before her, looking down at her
red-rimmed eyes. "What happened, Starbuck? You were supposed to be looking
after him."
"He didn't want to play with me," she protested tearfully. "He wanted to
go off and climb the rocks." Her tears became sobs as she remembered his
call to her. "He... must'a slipped..."
Ahab took her trembling hands in his, squeezing gently, giving her a
comfort she didn't deserve. The reprimand she *did* wasn't far behind. "You
know you were supposed to keep an eye on him, Dana," her father said
quietly. "He was your responsibility, and you shouldn't have let him go off
alone."
"But, I wanted to--"
"Starbuck!" he barked, squeezing her hands fiercely now. "You should
have stayed with him--no matter what."
***
Scully stopped running, stumbling along exhaustedly. Her feet hurt--just
like they had that day in the woods. With shaking hands, she stripped off
her pumps, carrying them uneasily by her side, heedless of the gravel that
slowly destoryed her hose.
She should have stayed with Mulder--should have been ready for the
danger that she knew was there. But she had been worried about losing her
job, her reputation...
And now, she had lost *him*.
With dull eyes, she looked up at the house that her body had stopped in
front of, nearly in tears as she recognised the familiar outlines.
Her knock on the door was tired and small, but her mother answered instantly.
"Dana?" Her mother's voice was so welcome--but still not the voice she
wanted to hear.
"Hi, Mom." Part of Scully's mind wondered what she must sound like. Like
a little girl who'd shot a snake... Like a little boy who'd lost his
sister...
Her mother's voice was puzzled, and Scully suddenly realised that the
older woman had no idea what had happened in the last week. She had no idea
that Mulder was gone. "What did you do with your shoes?"
Scully felt suddenly foolish. "Um... They started to give me blisters, so..."
"You walked here at this time of night?"
The care and worry in her mother's voice were suddenly more than she
could take, and the tears that she'd thought were spent welled up again in
her eyes. "Oh, Mom!" she cried weakly, stepping into the older woman's
welcoming embrace.
"What is it, Dana?"
"I've made a terrible mistake." She sucked in a shaky breath, feeling
the comfort of her mother's shoulder beneath her cheek. "Dad would be so
ashamed of me..."
***
Her mother had protested when Scully asked her to take her back to her own
apartment. As much as Dana wanted to stay at her mother's house, she knew
she had to be alone tonight.
She chastised herself again for her selfishness. If she hadn't been so
worried about her own reputation, he would be here right now, closer to the
truth, closer to the answers he'd sought so desperately for so many years.
But maybe he had those answers... Did the dead find their answers in
Heaven? She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Did you, Ahab?
With a painful sigh, she turned toward the window, trying to sleep,
praying for a pitying lack of dreams...
She was almost relieved when the doorbell rang...
Until she saw who it was.
"Frohike?" she asked incredulously.
"I know it's late," the little man slurred drunkenly. "But I heard the
news..." He stood before her, silent for a moment, and suddenly seemed to
think better of his visit. "Maybe I should go. Pardon my presumptuousness."
But Scully shook her head. He was a friend--albeit an occassionally
bothersome one. And he had been *Mulder's* friend. And he was hurting--just
like her.
"How much have you had to drink?" she asked, a hint of sad laughter in
her voice.
Frohike held up an empty bottle of scotch, looking at her questioningly.
"Do you recycle?"
*******
End Part One
**********
Part Two / Four
Dana Scully sat upright in bed, shaking off the fear of her dream. It
wasn't a nightmare, not the kind of thing she'd come to expect these days,
but the images were so painful, so strange, that it took her a moment to
realise that they had never really happened.
She took a deep breath, letting fragments of the dream roll around in
her head...
Mulder had been there, surrounded by pinpoints of light, lost somewhere
in the space that he had always seemed to think held answers for him. And
Deep Throat was there as well... And Mulder's father...
Sometime during this strange fantasy, Scully had understood that this
must be part of Heaven, some other part than she had visited before.
Deep Throat called Mulder his "old friend", his mellifluous voice
rolling across the starfield as he spoke some great philosophy.
"I come to you, old friend, with the dull clarity of the dead. Not to
beckon you, but to feel the fire, the intensity, that still lives in
you...Go back..."
Come back, Scully thought desperately, knowing that this was a simple
trick of her grief, not a reality... Come back...
Mulder's father had been quiet--remorse from the dead--but his words
still made Scully cry as she heard them again in her mind. "You are the
memory, Fox... It lives in you. If you were to die now, the truth dies..."
Scully sighed, dashing tears from her eyes as she rose. He was already
dead. Dead, or gone... She shook her head, refusing to allow herself to
continue the fantasy--Dead *and* gone!
As she started the shower, pulling herself under the torrent of water,
Scully realised that this was the fifth day. Five days since Mulder left.
She wondered sadly if this was the way *he* had measured his life. Five
days since Samantha left... Five months... Five years... Ten... Twenty...
How high would she have to count before she found out the truth about
his death? How many days, or weeks, or months, before she would stop
teasing herself with the possibility that he was still alive?
*******
It took her longer than it should have to get ready to see Skinner, but she
felt somehow stronger as she walked through the main entrance of the Hoover
building, certain that her superior would see the logic behind the find
that Frohicke had given her last night. Certain that he'd help her find the
truth about Mulder *and* his father.
A deep, kind voice shook her from her thoughts. "Making you come in the
front door these days, are they, Agent Scully?"
Scully grinned quietly up at the security guard. "For now."
Her smile changed to a frown as the metal detector went off.
"You carrying your weapon?" The guard asked, more puzzled than wary.
"No."
The guard pulled out his detector wand, gesturing to her embarassedly.
"Sorry to have to run you through this."
"That's okay," Scully reassured him instantly, frowning again as the
wand detected nothing. "That was wierd."
"Yeah," the guard replied, dropping the wand back on the desk behind
him. "Well, I've had a straight pin left in a shirt collar set this thing
off, but, uh..." He smiled shyly. "You can go on through."
"Thank you," she replied, a courteous smile of her own.
She thought about the metal detector all the way up to Skinner's office.
That was strange. She wasn't even wearing her cross today--too mad at God
for the past couple of weeks to show Him that sort of duty. What could
possibly have set that off? A filling? It couldn't be *that* sensitive!
With a sigh, she shelved that particular worry, nodding calmly to
Skinner's assistant as she entered his outer office.
He was at the door in a moment. "Scully, come in please."
She walked in quietly, noting, with a touch of disgust, that the office
still smelled faintly of cigarettes. She snorted inwardly. There's a shadow
around every corner here.
Skinner took a seat behind his desk, not bothering to offer her one--he
knew she wouldn't take it. She had that "hunting" look in her eyes.
He was just sorry that he couldn't let her know where her quarry was.
"You said you needed to see me concerning the investigation?" he asked,
sounding more professional than he probably needed to. Still, he had to
keep up appearances for the shadow on the other side of the door.
"Yes, sir," she replied, just as formally. "I came across a news
article. A man's body was found in New Jersey, and I have reason to believe
that he was killed by the same men responsible for Agent Mulder."
And any number of other people, Skinner added silently. He shifted
forward in his seat. "Can I see it?"
Scully handed over a crumpled and worn bit of New Jersey newsprint.
Skinner barely read the information before him. Given his current position,
*any* information she had was going to have to be disregarded. But he
promised himself that as soon as his "visitor" in the other room left, he'd
take care of this properly.
"The date of death postdates Agent Mulder's disappearance," Scully was
explaining. "Now, you already have the ballistics data from Agent Mulder's
father on file." She paused, apparently only just realising how pedantic
she sounded. Her tone dropped to a "professionally pleading" level. "I
would like you to run it against the ballistics in this man's case."
"To try to prove what?" Skinner asked.
"Well, if both men were killed by the same weapon, we could prove that
Agent Mulder didn't kill his father. And, it could also help us find the
man who did."
Skinner really wanted to give her this satisfaction--wanted her to find
the truth--but she'd been right yesterday... These people weren't meant to
be found.
"You've been relieved of your investigative function," he pointed out,
perhaps a little coldly.
"Yes, I know that, sir," she replied quietly. "I just thought this might
be helpful."
It would be, if I was ever allowed to pursue it, Skinner thought, his
anger building at his own helplessness. "I'm afraid not," he said briskly,
watching the shock rise in his agent's eyes, and damning himself for it.
"This case would have been handled by the Trenton P.D. They're on our
drugfire-ballistics database. If there was a match on the two slugs, all
the bell and whistles would have gone off by now."
"You don't want to check?" Scully asked in disbelief.
The betrayal in her eyes was murder on him. She'd come to *him*,
trusting him to help her find the truth. And he was too weak to stand up to
the men who held it. His self-disgust came out in his voice, as he threw
her words from yesterday back at her. "Ms. Scully, I think you
underestimate the duties and responsibilities of my position as Assistant
Director."
Her chagrined gaze at his nameplate didn't hold for Skinner the
satisfaction that Scully might have thought it did. It just served to prove
to him how much he'd let her down.
"I was just trying to cooperate with your investigation," she said in a
small voice.
Skinner's frustration suddenly had full control. "To mitigate your
situation and enhance your chance of reinstatement, isn't that right?"
"NO!" she cried out, her own anger rising. "I just want answers."
Skinner played this next card very carefully. Half of the act was for
Scully, half for the bastard outside. He hoped that each of them knew which
side of the card they were supposed to look at.
"So do I. I want to know why I was asked to execute a search warrant on
your apartment, to look for a digital cassette."
Scully shook her head, giving Skinner just the answer that the shadow
needed to hear. "I don't have it."
"Is this tape what Agent Mulder died for?" He thought he already knew
the answer, but he wanted to be absolutely sure before he threw his career
away on it.
"I believe so," she replied, the tears in her voice pulling at Skinner's
heart.
But now was not the time for truth--it was the time for poker, and
Skinner's opponent was *very* shrewd. "You want to bring me a smoking gun,
Scully?" he asked, in his best hard-assed tone. "You bring me that tape."
He leaned back, not feeling a bit of the relaxation and satisfaction he
conveyed. "Otherwise, I would ask you to go home, sit tight, and let *us*
do our job."
He watched Scully digest that, watched her disappointment in him turn to
the strong resolve that he'd always admired in her.
He hated every second of it.
"Is that all, sir?" she asked finally.
"Yes, that's all."
He watched as she walked out into the outer office, her head down. One
would have thought she'd felt rebuked or disheartened by their meeting, but
Skinner knew her better than most--she was as mad as he'd ever seen her.
His other door opened, and the bane of his existence loped in, already
reaching for a cigarette. "Did you ask her about the tape?" the old man
asked.
As if you didn't know! "She says she doesn't have it."
"Is that what she says?"
Skinner took a deep breath, and, for the third time in as many hours,
reminded himself that killing this bastard would only make things worse.
"*Yes,* that's what she says."
Stick *that* in your pipe and smoke it, Skinner thought meanly. They
couldn't get what they wanted from Scully. And maybe, just maybe, that
would give *him* time to give *her* what she needed.
But the cold look in the smoking man's eyes suddenly made Skinner
reconsider. If she didn't have it...
"Well, that's unfortunate for everyone," the old man said quietly.
...Did they still need her alive?
*******
Scully stood before the elevator, waiting impatiently as it crept up toward
her from the ground floor. Forget it, she told herself angrily. Take the
stairs, work off that angry energy.
She knew now what Mulder had gone through when she was missing. In that
case, Skinner had also been unwilling to help, telling Mulder to go home,
to let others handle the case. All it seemed to have done in his case was
give him more time to weave his wild theories about what might have been
done to her. Aliens, and implants, and...
Her foot faltered on the next stair. Implants... What if it was
something *inside* her that set off the metal detector? Not a necklace, or
a straight pin... but *her*?
Her mind was still spinning as she headed toward the door, pulling off her
visitor's badge, and tossing it dully into the waiting basket. Some morbid
curiousity, coloured by the strange ideas rolling around in her head,
caused Scully to head for the metal detector.
"Back again?" the young guard asked, a comfortable insubordination in
his voice.
Scully barely noticed it. "I'm just curious about something," she said
quietly. "Would you mind if I went through here again?"
He eyed her strangely. "Go ahead."
Scully surprised herself by jumping as the detector when off again.
"This thing's more sensitive than a toothache," the guard observed jokingly.
For Scully, it was anything but a joke. "Would you mind running the wand
over me one more time?"
Again, his eyes seemed to ask what she was up to. He took out the wand.
"Sure."
Running it over her again, he got the silence that he expected--until it
passed over the back of her neck. The shrill beep of the wand caused Scully
to turn back toward him, her hand to her chest in surprise.
"Are you wearing a necklace or something?"
"No," she replied, distracted. "Not today."
"Then what the hell is that?"
Scully stood there thinking for a moment, her fear building. Realising
that the young guard was watching her carefully, she cleared her throat and
looked up at him. "Um, thanks. I'll, uh... I'll see you later."
The guard just watched her go, puzzled by the quick, almost frightened,
stamp of her heels as she headed out the main door.
***********
End Part Two
**********
Part Three / Four
"Charley!" Dana's voice was raw, fear and the long run from the house
burning her lungs. She ran toward the small valley where she'd left him,
her bright red braids bouncing along in her wake.
"Charley!" She caught sight of him, just where she had left him. But as
she approached, she saw that he was now lying on his stomach, his twisted
leg pulled out straight.
With a deep breath, her father crouched next to her, reaching out a
gentle hand to turn him over. Dana gasped at the tall, dark-haired man laid
out before her... Mulder--
"Agent Scully?"
The urgent call drew her from her reveries, and she turned, taking in,
once again, the chaos of the emergency room that surrounded her. Doctor
Oppenheim was calling to her from across the room.
"Agent Scully, I think you need to see this one."
She handed the equipment in her hand off to the nurse beside her, and
made her way toward Oppenheim, who stood beside another gurney, watching a
patient convulsing painfully before him.
"We can't figure this one out," the young doctor was saying, muttering
to his nurse for another shot of pain killer. "He's not as badly burnt as
some of the others, but he doesn't seem to be responding to treatment."
"Well, maybe he--" Scully broke off sharply, staring at the dark-haired
man on the gurney. His hazel eyes opened wide in fear, latching onto her
face, and his seared throat croaked her name out painfully.
"Scully--"
The trip back to Mulder's hotel room was Hell. She was tired, sore...
They'd lost all but two of the soldiers that had been brought in. And those
two wouldn't see the end of the day, she sighed sadly, getting out of the
car and heading for Mulder's door.
So many people lost...
"Scully?" Mulder was sitting quietly at the table, surrounded by papers,
and lit by the glow of his laptop. "I have something I'd like you to take a
look at."
"What?"
"I found a scar on Max Fenig's neck," he said quietly, pulling at the
files before him. "I've only seen it once before--on a woman I believe was
abducted by aliens."
Scully shrugged tiredly, moving forward to look at the file he held.
"Let me take a look."
The woman's neck was small, supple. Her hair was a flame red...
Dana Scully jerked away from the vision of her own photo with a gasp, to
find herself sitting anxiously on her couch, late-afternoon sunlight
streaming through her windows.
God, she wished the dreams would stop. With a sigh, she stood, heading
for the bathroom, reaching up to tie her hair back. She stopped,
frightened, as her hand ran over the back of her neck.
The metal detector... What the *hell* was inside her? What had set the
machine off?
Part of her desperately didn't want to know. She had enough to deal
with. She had to find Mulder's killers--his *father's* killers... She
didn't need another complication...
But she needed to know.
Forsaking the bathroom for the moment, she dug her address book out of
her briefcase, trying to stop her hands from shaking as she fumbled for the
number.
The phone rang twice, before a tired voice answered her. "Hello?"
"Hi, Will?" She steeled herself, and plunged in. "Look, I was wondering
if you could meet me at the lab--I know you probably just got off, but... I
have something strange I'd like you to take a look at."
********
Scully looked at the xray, her mind casting back to a hundred others, just
like it... Perfectly normal people--with strange metal objects in their
bodies... Xrays she had seen in Mulder's files.
"What do you think it could be?" she asked, turning to her friend.
Will Jeldin shrugged. "I don't know. It's embedded in your soft tissue,
here," he said, pointing to the glaringly obvious white dot on her xray.
"Looks like maybe a piece of buckshot."
Scully frowned to herself. "I don't know how it could have gotten there."
And she definitely didn't think it was buckshot.
Will took her aside, flipping her hair over her shoulders, and examining
her neck. "Oh, I can feel it, just under the skin." He peered more closely.
"And now that I'm looking, I can see a tiny little scar. If you want, I can
do a local, and pull it out of there?"
Scully had been staring at the xray before her, barely listening to what
he said. "Yeah," she replied dully.
She stood still, startled by the chair that Will suddenly butted into
her legs. She sat, looking up at him. "Thanks for coming down here to do
this for me so late."
"No problem," he replied, as she held her hair away from her neck,
feeling the slight sting as he injected the anesthetic. "You were probably
injured in the line of duty, and you didn't even know it."
Scully sighed strangely. She had a horrible feeling about this. It
wasn't buckshot, it wasn't an injury... It had to do with the time she'd
been gone.
She didn't know how she knew, but she did. And she was terrified to find
out what they'd done.
********
Walter Skinner woke in his bed with a start, his eyes tracking around his
bedroom, until they settled on the familiar dresser opposite him. It was
the only other piece of furniture in the room. He looked around with a
sigh, taking in the half-empty boxes, the general mess that one expected
from a bachelor's apartment.
Except that he wasn't a bachelor, he thought sadly, pulling himself out
of the narrow bed, and heading downstairs to the kitchen.
The dream had been bad. Not like the terrors he'd begun having again of
late, but a full-blown nightmare. And it featured his two most troublesome
agents.
It was strange, he thought, starting the coffeemaker with dull hands. He
rarely dreamed about work. It was enough of a nightmare in the
daylight--there didn't seem to be the need to relive it in the dark.
But this dream had been so real. He almost felt the need to call Scully,
to make sure that the bloodied body he'd come upon, the dead woman who had
woken him with such a shock, was alive and well...
Or at least alive, he thought, a tragic smile gracing his face. Scully
wasn't going to be well for a long time--not until she got over Mulder's
death.
That was the other strange thing. Mulder. He'd been in the dream, too,
alive, holding a gun on him, as he himself stood over Scully...
With a hopeless sigh, Skinner took up a cup of coffee, moving to his
living room. He had to do something about Scully, he thought quietly. He
had be