DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters in this story belong to CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network. I mean no infringement. The characters of M.D. Godin, Paul Leone, Deborah Bennett and Kathy Nahill belong to me and should not be used without my permission. So many people to thank for this one--the real Kathy Nahill for the information about nurses, Lorna Youngs and the real Paul Leone for the information concerning the Thresher incident, and my brother Dennis for his expertise with all things automotive. This is chapter six of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of Separation. The events in this story precede the events in 12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. Rated R for particularly strong adult language and situations. 12 RITES OF PASSAGE #6: "Revelation" By Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com New York City Police Department February 15, 1998 9:45 a.m. The dark-haired detective taking Dana Scully's statement muttered a curse and reached for the correction fluid. "Sorry--not gonna win any commendations for my typing," she apologized. Scully shrugged, wondering if the day would ever truly come when paper work was obsolete. "So you never saw anyone in the hallway, maybe lurking?" "It was a big party and I didn't really know many people there." "So what were you doing there in the first place?" Scully glanced at the woman's i.d. tag. M. D. Godin. "Detective Godin, my partner and I were following leads in a missing persons case." M.D. glanced across the office at the corner, where Mulder was giving his statement to a short, stocky Hispanic detective. "That your partner?" Scully nodded, following M.D.'s gaze. M.D. arched one dark eyebrow. "Lucky you." She had no idea just how lucky, Scully thought, remembering how she'd awakened that morning in the warm, safe circle of Mulder's embrace. The temptation to never move from that spot had been so overwhelming she had almost wept. So seldom in their six year partnership had she allowed herself to be utterly vulnerable to Mulder--not because she didn't trust him but because she didn't want him to feel he couldn't trust her. He needed to know he could depend on her to cover his ass, no matter how rough the case. She had to be strong, nurse her own wounds, carry her own burdens no matter how heavy they became. So she'd slipped out of his arms and into the other bed before he awakened, even though separating herself from him had left a physical ache as real as an excision. Keeping her distance from him was necessary. Essential. Wasn't it? "Are you officially on this case?" M.D. asked. Scully dragged her gaze away from Mulder's lean, angular features. "We haven't submitted a 302 yet. We wanted to see if the case warranted official investigation." M.D. nodded and typed a couple of lines on the report in front of her. She looked back up at Scully and opened her mouth to ask another question. But her eyes shifted suddenly and her mouth dropped wide. "Holy shit," she murmured. "I think I can die happy now." Scully looked over her shoulder, following the detective's stare. Her heart sank. Assistant Director Walter Skinner filled the doorway, his shoulders practically brushing the door jamb. He caught sight of her and crossed the room slowly, his dark eyes shadowed, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Scully glanced across the room at Mulder. He, too, had noticed the arrival of their boss. He murmured something to the detective taking his statement and rose, headed toward her. She stood as well, releasing a little sigh. "You know that man, too?" M.D. asked, her voice tight with awe. "You go, girl." Skinner and Mulder reached her side at the same time. She glanced from her boss to her partner. "It's not Agent Mulder's fault," she said when Skinner started to open his mouth. He arched his eyebrows. "Why don't you let me in on what's going on then, Agent Scully? Let's start with the phone call I got at 3 a.m. this morning informing me that two of my agents had been involved in a murder." Scully glanced over her shoulder at Detective Godin, who was observing their discussion with rapt attention. She frowned slightly and looked back at her boss. "Sir, I'd rather discuss this at another time. Agent Mulder and I have to finish giving our statements." Skinner's lips tightened with annoyance, but to her relief he nodded and backed away, crossing to lean against the wall near the door. Scully met Mulder's weary gaze for a long moment, drinking in his silent support, letting it steady her. Then she turned back to the desk to finish answering Det. Godin's questions. "Is he married?" M.D. asked. Scully blinked. "Excuse me?" The detective nodded toward A.D. Skinner. "The big guy. Is he married?" "He's a widower." "Oh. How sad." The detective didn't sound particularly sincere. "Look, how many more questions do you have for me?" "About the shooting?" "Of course about the shooting." "I'm through with that." She pulled the report from the typewriter and handed it to Scully. "Sign there." Scully signed by the X. "Can I go?" M.D. shook her head. "Not until you answer one more question. What's the big guy's name?" Scully glanced over her shoulder at Skinner, who was glaring impatiently in her direction. "Walter Skinner." "Walter." Det. Godin caressed the word, her voice soft. "Nice name. He another FBI agent?" "Assistant Director," Scully answered, only half-listening. Mulder had apparently finished his statement and was headed in her direction. He glanced at the detective, nodding slightly toward her before he slipped his hand behind Scully's back, pressing his palm against her spine. His touch was electric, as always, piercing through his wool overcoat and the terry cloth robe hidden beneath. He guided her toward the door. Skinner met them there, blocking the exit. "Now, want to tell me what the hell's going on? * * * * * The bagel shop was little more than a glass front hole-in- the-wall, but it had hot, fresh bagels and cream cheese, and a round table in the back that afforded Mulder, Scully and Skinner a modicum of privacy. Skinner ordered bagels and coffee for the three of them, and the waitress smiled at him as if she knew exactly who he was. Which, for all Mulder knew, she did. After five years and counting, the Assistant Director remained an enigma. Sometimes--many times--he was certain that he could trust the man with his life and Scully's. But other times, he realized that Skinner would take only so many chances for his agents. Sometimes, he backed away and left them to twist in the wind. Scully didn't trust Skinner. Not completely. Mulder thought that she liked the man and even respected him. But she didn't trust him. She trusted no one. No one but him. Just like he trusted only her. He sat back and listened as Scully told the story from beginning to end, her voice low and controlled. To look at her, no one would know she had spent a good part of the night before shivering in his arms. She didn't even blink, her tone of voice never wavered. But Mulder knew. He remembered. She had clung to him, curled against him, buried herself in his embrace. She had allowed him to witness her vulnerability, an act of trust so intimate he still found himself breathless at the memory. And yet, this morning she had retreated from him, slipping quietly from his embrace, trying not to wake him. He hadn't let her know that he was awake, not wanting to embarrass her. But it had taken a huge amount of control to suppress the groan that had rumbled through his entire being when she had pulled herself away from him. Holding her had been...right. It had felt natural, necessary. Like air filling lungs. Blood coursing through veins. And when she'd torn herself away and retreated to the other bed, he had felt as if something essential had been stripped from him. It still hurt, even now. "When we get back to Washington, I'd like to submit a 302, sir," Scully finished. "I believe there is sufficient evidence to warrant further investigation of Sarah Chandler's disappearance." Skinner's jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared as if he'd smelled something foul. "I can probably push this case request through for you, Agent Scully, but are you sure it's wise? Your position and that of Agent Mulder are tenuous at the moment. The primaries are not going well for President Matheson's supporters--this may not be the best time to rock the boat." "A woman is missing, sir. A crime has apparently been committed. Politics cannot be allowed to dictate our investigations." Scully lifted her chin, her eyes blue and blazing. Mulder held back a smile. For a woman who'd been sent to put an end to his work in the X-Files--not to mention derail his career--Dana Scully had turned out to be quite an asset to both. With her assistance, he'd turned the X-Files into a viable division with a phenomenal success rate. And his own position with the Bureau had seen an upturn over the years, as he'd been able to back his speculations with solid evidence, thanks to her careful scientific methods of inquiry. He knew Walter Skinner couldn't resist her determination. God knew HE'D never been able to. The waitress approached with their bagels and coffee. After she left, a taut silence ensued as they spread cream cheese on their bagels and stirred creamer in their coffee. Finally, when Mulder was about ready to scream from nervous tension, Skinner spoke. "I'll make sure the paperwork is pushed through. When will you be returning to D.C.?" "We have to go back to my mother's house and make sure she's all right. I'll want the local cops there to keep an eye on her for a few days, make sure she's safe. But we'll be back at work first thing in the morning." Mulder took a bite of bagel. It was soft and delicious, reminding him of childhood excursions into the city after he and his mother had left the Vineyard and moved to Connecticut. On some Sunday mornings she used to take him to a deli much like this one, he remembered. They'd have bagels, cream cheese and fresh fruit and talk about everything and nothing. But even then, they'd steered clear of the most important subjects. Like what had happened to Samantha. What had ripped the family apart. Why they couldn't seem to talk about the most significant, horrible events of their mutual lives. Skinner interrupted his sad musings. "My flight back leaves in a little over an hour. I think I have enough to file the 302 for you." "Thank you, sir," Scully said. He pushed away from the table and stood. "Are you certain you wouldn't like to take another day off, Scully? You've been through a lot over the past few days, and you're still not fully recovered from the shooting--" "I'm fine," she assured him. Mulder bit back another smile. Skinner glanced at Mulder. He said nothing, but his expression was unmistakable. *Take care of her, Mulder,* Skinner's eyes told him. Mulder nodded slightly, assuring his boss that the message had been received. They parted company, Skinner remaining behind to pay for their food while Mulder walked Scully back to her car. The morning was chilly, and Scully shivered slightly as she unlocked the passenger door for him. No debates about who would drive, he noted. It was her car, but more importantly, it was her opportunity to take positive steps toward reclaiming control over her life. She had reacted in a similar fashion another time she'd broken down in front of him. When the Donnie Pfaster case had stripped her bare of her defenses. She'd cried in his arms, sharing her pain and fear with him, holding back nothing. Nothing he'd ever experienced--not friendship, not love, not sex--had ever come close to the intense intimacy of what he and Scully had shared in that moment. Her pain had become his, not because he'd taken it into himself but because she'd given it to him to bear for her. But when it was over, she had regrouped. Distanced herself. Put the walls back up, protecting herself even from him. He understood. Really he did. But distance was distance, no matter how understandable the reasons. She turned to look at him while he was fastening his seatbelt. He met her serious, quizzical gaze with a little lift of his eyebrows. "You don't have to do this with me, Mulder." He frowned, not following. "This case--I don't know where it's going to lead us, but I'm pretty sure we're both going to get jerked around a while before it's all over. I just want you to know that if you want to bail out, I'll understand. Sarah Chandler is nobody to you. You don't have to do this." "Do you want to find her, Scully?" She nodded. "And you're going to do everything in your power to do that, right?" She nodded again. "Then so am I." Impulsively, he reached across the seat and caught her hand. He tensed, waiting for her to draw away. But she merely turned her wrist so that her palm flattened against his, tightening the grip. "Thank you." He squeezed her hand, then reluctantly let go, sitting back in his seat as she cranked the car and deftly pulled out into the mid-morning Manhattan traffic. Her driving was quick and efficient; he dozed off as they headed into the flow of traffic on the I-95 headed into Connecticut and didn't awaken until Scully gently tapped his chin. He started awake to find that they were parked in front of his mother's house. "Sorry." "No problem--your snoring kept me awake for the drive," she said with a wry little half-smile. He smiled back at her. "As long as I didn't TALK in my sleep." "Who says you didn't?" Her eyes darted away coyly as she unfastened her seat belt and opened the driver's door. He frowned as he followed, not sure whether she was kidding. "Did I give away any trade secrets?" She cut her eyes at him, waiting for him to precede her up the stairs to his mother's house. "I know where you hide your sunflower seeds now." He feigned a groan and walked up the steps. He lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened before he got a chance. His mother lurched out the door and flung her arms around him, almost knocking him off balance. He felt Scully's hand on his shoulders, steadying him until he could regain his center of balance. He looked down at his mother. "Mom?" She held him tightly for a moment, then suddenly pulled away, her face going red with embarrassment. She stepped back, straightening her cream silk blouse. "I'm sorry, son." He shook his head, unutterably sad that his mother felt the need to apologize for a display of affection. Just how dysfunctional was that? "What's the matter?" "The incident at the hotel was all over the news but no one released any names. But one reporter gave a description of the young woman who had been shot and killed--a young red- haired woman. I tried calling everyone I knew who might have information but no one could tell me anything!" She turned to Scully, her eyes wide with burgeoning relief. "I'm so happy to see the two of you in one piece," she murmured, holding out her hand. Scully took his mother's hand and squeezed gently. "We're fine." "But we need to talk," Mulder added. His mother looked up at him, her eyes dark with pain and fear, and for a moment, he almost lost his resolve. But unbidden, the image of Leigh MacGraw's blood-drenched body filled his mind, reminding him how close he'd come to losing Scully--yet again. And he knew that no matter how much it hurt, his mother was going to have to face the past and give them some answers, before anyone else got hurt. His mother licked her lips slowly, drawing a deep breath. Then she nodded, thrusting out her chin in an expression of determination so reminiscent of Samantha's little girl stubbornness that he couldn't catch his breath for a moment. "So much of it is gone, Fox," she said. "But I'll tell you what I remember." * * * * * The trunk in Caroline Mulder's bedroom was small and old, a brass and leather treasure that Bill Mulder had brought with him to the marriage. As Scully crouched by the closet to get a closer look, Mulder listened to his mother's soft explanation, his stomach twisting into a dozen painful knots. "I found it among his things after his death, but so much happened--I let it slip out of my mind." His mother couldn't meet his eyes as she handed him a small brass key. "And the times when I remembered it--I suppose I didn't really want to know what was inside. I didn't want you to have to know things about your father that would taint your memory of him. I suppose I believed I was protecting you from his secrets and lies the way I failed to protect you and your sister when you were young." He turned away from his mother, automatically looking to Scully. Her steady gaze shot through him like a jolt of electricity, easing his tension a bit. He crossed to the closet and pulled the trunk from its hiding place, noting its weight and the dry, old smell of the brown leather. His breath quickened, his heart pounded, as if he were about to unlock the secrets of the universe. "I'll be in the living room," his mother murmured. He paused in the act of unlocking the trunk and turned to watch her go, sadness dampening his excitement and fear. Even now she can't face it, he thought, staring at the empty space in the doorway where he'd last seen her. Scully's hand closing over his turned his attention back to the trunk. He met her quizzical gaze. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?" she asked. "Are you ready to face whatever we might find in here?" He stared at her a moment, gauging his own resolve. He already knew a good many horrifying things about his father. Did he really want to know more? What if something he found in this trunk destroyed what little regard for his father he had left? He took a deep breath, nodded, and turned the key in the lock. * * * * * Fifteen minutes of silent perusal later, Mulder opened a folded piece of notepad paper he found tucked into an address book from 1993. A sprawling cursive covered the small sheet of paper, bold and black. Mulder scanned the note quickly without really reading it, his eyes dropping automatically to the signature at the bottom. His eyes widened. He read the note again, more carefully. "Mr. Mulder, "We need to meet. You have information I need, and I have something of interest to you that might be worth a trade. I will be in Boston on Friday, November 19th. Meet me at City Hall Plaza at 3:30 p.m." The note was signed, "William Scully." Mulder's stomach knotted painfully. Not William Scully. Not him, too. He quickly refolded the note and tucked it in the back of the pocket calendar, glancing at Scully to see if she had noticed his swift gasp of surprise upon seeing her father's name. She was looking through a stack of letters and memos, her forehead crinkled with concentration. He took a couple of steadying breaths and opened the calendar, flipping to November 19th. There, in his father's tight, neat handwriting, he found "W.S. - Boston" jotted on the calendar page. He closed his eyes for a moment. Damn it. Okay, okay-- He tried to regather his thoughts. There was nothing here to indicate that William Scully might be involved in his father's dirty dealings. Scully's father might have wanted to meet with his father to discuss his daughter's work--William Scully hadn't been happy about his daughter's job, and based on what Mulder knew about the former Naval officer's personality, it wasn't a stretch to think he might have sought out his daughter's partner's father for a "dad to dad" discussion. Was it? He put the calendar and the enclosed note in the pocket of his jacket and picked up another stack of papers. Mostly memos, notes his father had jotted to himself, an occasional card from a friend or an acquaintance. Nothing that meant anything to him. But in the next stack, he found something else that made his breath catch in his throat. It was a clipped newspaper obituary. "Capt. William Charles Scully, U.S.N., Ret." His heart in his throat, Mulder skimmed over the accolades for a man who'd served his country and left behind two daughters, two sons and a grieving widow. There was nothing written on the clipping, nothing to indicate why his father might have kept the newspaper notice. He pulled the pocket calender from his jacket and tucked the obituary next to the note. He started to put it back in his jacket pocket when he heard Scully's swift, sharp intake of breath. He looked up and saw that she had gone utterly pale, her eyes wide and stricken as she stared down at the ragged- edged paper in her hands. "Scully?" She looked up from the paper, her throat bobbing as she swallowed convulsively. "What is it?" He reached for the paper, but she pulled it back, pressing it against her chest. "Scully?" She stared at him wordlessly. He reached for the paper again, gently prying her fingers open so he could take it from her. Her eyes fluttered closed and her lips parted slightly to draw a shallow breath. He looked down at the piece of paper. It was a one-sheet dossier. At the top were the initials "D.S." and Scully's address. Below, neatly typed, was a day by day log of Scully's activities, from the time she left her apartment to the time she arrived at her office at the FBI Academy at Quantico. Dated and notated, it was a detailed run down of her life over a five day period in mid-August, 1994, including her participation in the hostage situation involving Duane Barry. At the bottom of the dossier, a single line sent a chill down his spine. "Your orders, Mr. Mulder?" Mulder shook his head, unable to absorb the words he was reading. It wasn't possible--his father couldn't have-- Then, in a red haze of fury, he realized that sacrificing human beings for the "greater good" was an act his father had perfected. The old bastard had traded off his daughter, for God's sake! "Son of a bitch!" He spat the words, his voice rough and hoarse as if he'd just swallowed broken glass. "Mulder--" Scully reached out to touch him, but he pushed her hands away and jumped to his feet, rage compelling him to keep moving, keep walking, do anything but dwell on his father's treachery. Heat surged through him despite the coolness of his mother's bedroom; he peeled off his jacket and flung it onto the bed, venting his anger through the sharp, violent action. "He knew what they were going to do to you, Scully! The son of a bitch KNEW and he let them do it! God, he may have ordered it himself!" "Mulder, we don't know--" "I DO know, Scully. I know he was part of experiments inflicted on innocent civilians and I know he gave my sister to those manipulative, lying bastards and I GODDAM FUCKING KNOW HE COULD'VE STOPPED YOUR ABDUCTION BUT DIDN'T!" He grabbed the first thing his hands fell on--a photograph lying on his mother's dresser--and flung it across the room into the wall. The glass shattered, the small wooden frame splintered, and the photograph inside fluttered free of its confines to settle atop the broken frame. He stumbled to a halt, bending at the waist and sucking in deep breaths as if he'd just run a long distance. For a long moment, only the ragged sound of his breathing filled the silence. Then Scully spoke, her voice faint and tight. "Mulder-- what's this?" He lifted his head to look at her. She was holding the small leatherbound date book he'd tucked into his jacket pocket. It must have fallen out of the pocket when he threw his jacket on the bed. In her lap, he saw the small note and the obituary that he'd tucked into the back of the calendar. "Scully--" "This is from my father." He ran his hand over his jaw, trying to push aside his seething rage at his own father to address her concerns about hers. "Scully--" "Was he involved with your father's work?" Her eyes darkened, widened as she met his gaze. "Did he know--" Mulder shook his head violently. "No, Scully, we don't know that your father had anything to do--" "He said he had something to trade with your father, Mulder." "It could be anything--" "Why would my father want information from your father? In November of 1993, he was retired from the Navy and your father was no longer with the State Department. What could they have to discuss?" "You said your father didn't approve of your choice of careers. Maybe he was hoping my father might be able to influence me to--" "To what? Ditch your little partner?" Her nostrils flared. "That's not how my father operated." "But you think he'd be involved in genetic experiments on innocent human subjects?" She stared at him a moment, tension creasing her forehead. Then, suddenly, she relaxed and lowered her head. "No, of course not." He released a little sigh, experiencing a sharp stab of envy. How wonderful it must be to have utter faith in one's father. "Maybe your father suspected that your job was more dangerous than even you realized. He was in the military, after all--he's a smart man. He probably knew the government and the military were keeping secrets from the public. He might even have known the danger you would be subject to as my partner. Might he have tried to take steps to ensure your safety?" "Why approach your father?" "Maybe he thought I was the source of danger in your life. Maybe he wanted to use my father's influence over me to make sure that I did nothing to endanger your life." "He would have come to me--" "Would he? You yourself admit that your relationship with your father was strained after you chose to enter the FBI. Maybe he didn't think you would listen if he tried to warn you that I was of danger to you." She looked down at her hands. "I wouldn't have listened." "Maybe you should've." He looked away from her, a fresh surge of anger slicing through his insides. "Maybe you should've turned right back around that first day and told Blevins and his cronies that you had no intention of working with 'Spooky' Mulder." "And what? Nothing bad would've happened to me?" "You were abducted because of working with me, Scully. Melissa is dead because of your association with me. Maybe even--" He stopped short, shocked by what he'd almost said. "Maybe even what?" she asked when he didn't say anything more. He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away. Why had his father kept an obituary notice about William Scully's death? And was it mere coincidence that within two months of meeting with Mulder's father in Boston, William Scully had died quickly and unexpectedly of a heart attack? He'd been in great health, Mulder knew--despite carrying a few extra pounds, William Scully had been in excellent physical condition. Both Scully and Mrs. Scully had mentioned that fact at different times, expressing the utter unexpectedness of his death. What if-- He shook his head again. "Mulder?" He looked at her, saw the dawning suspicion in her eyes. She picked up the newspaper clipping and looked down at it, her eyes welling up at the sight of her father's photograph. He swallowed with difficulty and said the words aloud. "What if your father didn't really die of a heart attack? Mulder's question hung in the silence between him and his partner, thick and harsh. He stared at Scully, watching the slow transformation of her expression from puzzlement to realization to dawning horror. She shook her head. "How could that be?" He didn't have an answer, he realized. He had no idea how or why someone would murder Scully's father, and he should never have spoken the stray thought aloud. "I'm sorry, Scully--I didn't--I don't--" He broke off with a sigh of frustration. "I'm sorry. You're right--there's no reason to think such a thing." He looked away, feeling like a jerk. It was one thing to indulge in wild speculation--and another thing altogether to talk about Scully's father as if he were just another corpse to be examined and dissected. "We don't even have solid evidence linking him to anything but a meeting with your father, and that could have been perfectly innocent." Scully's low, raspy voice was steady but thick with hurt. "I know." He nodded, moving away from her, pacing toward the detritus of the photograph he'd thrown against the wall. He stooped and pulled the face-down photograph from the wreckage, shaking off loose shards of glass. He turned it over. His own face stared back at him--ten years younger, a quirky smile instead of his usual world-hating scowl. His hair was a little messy, rumpled by the wind coming off the water of the Long Island Sound. He could remember the exact day that photograph was taken--Mother's Day, 1988. He was between Oxford and the FBI Academy--between being screwed over by Phoebe and being screwed over by his own government. No wonder he'd been smiling. He used the photograph as a makeshift dustpan, scooping the broken glass and splintered wood onto the flat surface. He cleaned up as much of the mess as he could and tossed the whole pile into the garbage can by the dresser. When he turned around, he found Scully staring at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "About blowing up before--about what I said about your father--" She waved her hand, blowing off his apology. "We can speculate all day long, Mulder, but it means nothing without proof. I think we need to concentrate on the contents of this trunk--see what we uncover. When we have a clearer picture, then we can speculate." He nodded, aware that she was right. He and Scully often clashed about how to interpret what they uncovered in their investigations, but she was always right about the method. She had taught him valuable lessons about the need for thoroughness and tangible evidence, lessons that had saved his job--and his ass--more than once. He sat down on the foot of the bed and reached into the trunk sitting between him and Scully. When he withdrew a handful of papers, she reached into the trunk and did the same. With quiet determination born of unified purpose, they continued mining the secrets of the past. * * * * * By eleven a.m., they had been through every scrap of paper in Bill Mulder's trunk. Scully's eyes were beginning to ache from strain; she had left her reading glasses in her purse and hadn't wanted to stop long enough to retrieve them. She lay the final piece of paper on the bed in front of her and looked up at her partner. He had remembered his glasses, she noted with a faint smile. She'd never really liked glasses on men until she'd met Mulder. On him, glasses were nothing short of-- What, Scully? Nothing short of what? A turn-on? She steered her mind away from forbidden thoughts, promising herself that when it was all over, when they found Sarah and uncovered the secrets hinted at in Bill Mulder's trunk, she and Mulder would take the time to sit down and consider the possibilities of their relationship. But not now. Not when fifty years of lies and treachery lay spread out on the bed between them. Mulder closed the notecard, looked up and met her gaze. "So, what do we have now?" She looked down at the papers she'd culled from the sea of correspondence in the trunk. Besides the itinerary of her own activities from August of 1994, she'd also found several newspaper clippings about a submarine disaster that had taken place April 10, 1963--and a copy of a cryptic State Department memo dated April 11th, 1963, referring to an "incident" involving a Russian submarine off the Pacific Coast. She showed the items to Mulder. "Could they be related? And if so--is there anything significant about them?" He glanced over the articles and the memo. "The Thresher incident. I remember reading about this once--the crew and several civilian observers went down with the sub. The USS Thresher sprang a leak a thousand feet underwater. Water started spraying a panel with the main electrical connection to the reactor. There was a short circuit, fuses were tripped, fission shut down, the turbo-generators stopped and the sub started to sink." "And the next day, you father receives a memo, unsigned, mentioning a run-in between an unnamed U.S. Navy submarine and an unidentified Russian submarine--" She shook her head, frustrated. "I can't imagine your father holding onto this memo if there wasn't SOMETHING significant about it-- but what? Could the Russian sub have sunk the Thresher? But why cover that up? To avoid a confrontation with the Soviet Union?" Mulder's eyes lit up from the inside, the way they always did when his mind made a leap. "What if the 'Russian' sub was really the USS Thresher?" She arched her eyebrows. "Are you suggesting that another U.S. Navy sub SANK the Thresher, and the government has covered up that fact for over thirty years?" Mulder merely cocked his head and made a little face at her. Of course, that's what he was suggesting. After all the treachery they'd witnessed over the past six years, what was one sunken sub? "Okay. We'll assume that an American sub accidentally sank the Thresher and our government covered up the incident. But how does it tie in with Carter Christopher and his consorts?" Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe we could ask my mother, see if she remembers anything." Scully stifled a twinge of sadness at the look of doubt on her partner's face. He obviously didn't expect his mother to be much help. Scully couldn't blame him for his lack of faith--Mrs. Mulder had been precious little help to him over the years. Her memory was conveniently spotty, and though Scully tried to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, she was deeply grateful to have a mother as wonderful as her own. Margaret Scully would walk across glass to help her children-- "We should talk to my mother, too," she said aloud. Mulder's left eyebrow quirked. "My father was a lieutenant j.g. in the early sixties-- aboard a Navy submarine for a good part of that time. I'm sure that the sinking of a Navy submarine must have come up at least ONCE in a conversation between them. Maybe my father heard rumors--" Mulder nodded. "Okay. We'll check with her tonight after we get back. But I think I'd like to ask my mother about it, anyway. Maybe she'll remember something." "Maybe." She tried to look hopeful. He wasn't buying. He made a little shrugging gesture and picked up a 3 1/2 inch floppy disk. "While I'm talking to Mom, why don't you fire up the laptop and see what this is?" She took the disk from him. It was a standard high density floppy, unlabeled. "Was it attached to anything?" He shook his head and stood, gathering the papers spread out before them on the bed. Scully stood as well, dropping the disk into the pocket of her slacks. "I'll be in your mother's study," she told him. She touched his arm as she passed him, and he turned his head to look at her, his gaze intense. He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "About what I said before about your father--about the things we found--" She shook her head. "I know my father, Mulder. I know who he was, what he was capable of. There's an explanation, and I'm sure when we talk to my mother tonight, everything will be cleared up." He nodded, his expression gentle but his eyes sad. She realized that his sadness was not pity for her but a deep, aching regret for his own lost faith in his family and in himself. The urge to take him into her arms was almost more than she could resist. She contented herself by sliding her hand into his and giving his fingers a strong squeeze. A little smile flirting with the corners of his mouth was her reward. She retrieved her laptop and set up the computer in Mrs. Mulder's small, sunlit study. Settling herself in the quaint Victorian side chair in front of the dainty writing desk, Scully booted up the computer and tried to access the disk. A dialogue box popped up, asking for a password. She didn't have a clue. She'd guessed Mulder's computer password in record time, but then, she knew him better than anyone else in the world. She'd never even met Mr. Mulder. She tried all the obvious ones--Samantha, Fox, Caroline--all without success. She tried 8-letter variations of Purity Control and Paper Clip, also with no success. She was almost out of ideas when Mulder finally stuck his head into the study. "Any luck?" She shook her head. "It's password protected. Any ideas?" He shrugged. "I get the feeling I didn't really know my father any better than you did, Scully." She sighed and ejected the disk from the floppy drive, then shut down and packed up her computer. "How about you? Could your mother add any information?" "No." He shrugged, trying but failing to hide his disappointment. "She says the stroke erased a lot of her memories of those days--and that she didn't really know all that much to begin with. I don't know--I suppose that's probably true." She touched his arm, gently guiding him toward the front of the house, where they had left their overnight bags after packing up earlier that morning. "I'm sure it is." "I'm sure your mother will be more help than mine--" Mulder stopped short as he and Scully rounded the corner of the hallway and came face to face with his mother. Caroline Mulder stared at her son, pain creasing her face. Obviously she'd heard her son's words, Scully realized. Scully felt Mulder go tense beside her. "Mom--" "I'm sorry, Fox." She lifted her chin slightly, her lips trembling as if she wanted to say so much more. But in the end, she merely looked away and stepped aside to let them pass. Mulder lowered his head and walked stiffly toward the door, gathering up Scully's bag as well as his own. Scully, however, paused and put her hand on Mrs. Mulder's forearm. "Thank you so much for your hospitality and your help, Mrs. Mulder." Caroline Mulder couldn't meet Scully's eyes. "I don't feel I've been very helpful." "I believe you've helped us as much as you could." Scully wondered if she sounded insincere. She felt a bit fraudulent, for she couldn't help but compare Mulder's mother to her own and find Mrs. Mulder wanting. But was that really fair? Would Mrs. Mulder have been a different person if she hadn't married a manipulative, power-hungry man like Bill Mulder? No doubt. Mrs. Mulder still wouldn't meet her eyes, but she flashed a small smile in Scully's direction. "Thank you, Miss Scully, for the good care you take of my son. I know I owe you a great debt many times over." "It's my job, you know." "I think, perhaps, it's also your pleasure." Scully didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't try. She squeezed Caroline Mulder's arm once more and went out to the car, where Mulder was packing the trunk of her car. He sandwiched his father's brass and leather trunk between their overnight bags to keep it from sliding around, then closed the trunk. Scully held out her hand for the keys, and he relinquished them with an amusing display of masculine reluctance. "My car," she reminded him with a small smile. He pushed back the passenger seat so that he would fit, while she pulled up the seat from where he'd slid it back to drive the night before. Within ten minutes, they were headed south on I-95 toward Washington D.C. Like the trip up three nights earlier, the trip back to D.C. was quiet and uneventful. Right up until they came upon a traffic tie up about twenty miles south of Wilmington, Delaware. Seeing the brake lights flashing red several hundred yards ahead of her, Scully applied her brakes. And nothing happened. She pressed the brakes again, pumping them. The brake pedal went all the way to the floorboard with no effect whatsoever. "Scully?" Mulder's head jerked around as he saw them barreling up on the cars ahead of them. "No brakes," she gritted, jerking the car into a lower gear, then jamming her foot onto the emergency brake pedal. The car shimmied and slowed, but it was becoming frighteningly clear that her efforts weren't going to stop the car in time to keep from slamming into the cars jamming both lanes of the interstate. "Hold on!" she warned Mulder as she jerked the wheel to the right, pulling the car onto the soft shoulder. The change in surfaces was apparently what did them in. The car slithered across the loose sand and spun off the road. On the first roll, the driver and passenger air bags engaged, plunging Scully into a sightless, claustrophobic realm in which the world spun wildly and her body jerked and bounced against the restraints that kept her from flying out the shattered windows. After what seemed like an endless nightmare rollercoaster ride, the car came to a stop in what felt like a relatively upright position. Scully felt something pressing against the top of her head and realized it was the partially caved in roof of her car. After the riotous chaos of the previous few seconds, the ensuing silence in the car was deafening. Scully blinked, realizing that the air bag had already begun to deflate, returning her sight to her. Immediately she looked to her right. And gasped. Mulder sat with his head lolled back, blood streaming down his face and all over his shirt. "Mulder?" She fumbled with her seatbelt, ignoring the twinges of pain sparking through her own bruised and battered body. "Mulder, can you hear me?" He made a soft groaning sound and shifted into a more upright position. He lifted his hand to his head, where a long gash was bleeding copiously. He wiped the blood away from his left eye and turned to her with a grimace, giving her a baleful look. "And you wonder why I never let you drive?" * * * * * February 15, 1998 Christiana Hospital Wilmington, Delaware 1:45 p.m. "The brakes were tampered with." Scully blew into Exam Room 3 of the Emergency Department, her eyes blazing with anger. Mulder watched with amusement as she brushed past the startled nurse who was taking his pulse and came to stand by the side of the exam table. "What--did they cut the brake line?" he asked. "Perforated it, actually. Ensuring a slow leak. The mechanic said it could have been done anytime during the night. We could've been leaking brake fluid ever since we left New York." She glanced around the exam room, eyes wary as if any moment she was expecting to have to duck and run. "The mechanic said that whoever did it knew exactly what he was doing." Mulder frowned. "And now the mechanics have obliterated any evidence--" "Not necessarily." Scully shook her head. "I made them wear latex gloves and take precautions. A Delaware State policeman was to oversee the whole procedure, taking photographs and recording all the findings for the official record. And they were under strict orders that once they found evidence of tampering, they were to cease all activities and secure the car for transport to the FBI lab at Quantico." "Ooo." Mulder gave her a look of unabashed admiration. His Scully was nothing if not thorough. She cut her eyes at him, then turned to the nurse. "So, how is he?" The nurse smiled a cool, professional smile. "Dr. Atkins should really be the one to fill you in--" Scully glanced at the woman's i.d. tag. "Kathy Nahill, BSN," it read. "Ms. Nahill, I'm a medical doctor as well as Agent Mulder's partner. I am perfectly able to assess his medical condition myself if need be. I was just hoping you could save me the time." Kathy's eyebrows rose slightly, and her dark eyes met Scully's steady gaze without flinching. "Look, ma'am, there are policies in this hospital just like there are policies where you work. And one of our policies is that the doctors tell the patients what's going on, not the nurses. Besides which, I'm not an E.R. nurse--I'm a psychiatric nurse. I'm only here to take Agent Mulder's vitals because we're short- handed and the E.R. nurses are all busy with critical care patients. So even if it WERE our policy that nurses be allowed to update patient conditions, I couldn't do that." Her face softened suddenly. "Look, I can see that you're worried about your partner. If it makes you feel any better, he doesn't appear to be on the verge of death, and as a psychiatric nurse, I can also assure you that while he's an unrepentant flirt, he's not a rampaging psycho. Okay?" Mulder watched Scully's face, wondering how the hell she was going to react to THAT. He was slightly surprised when she grinned at the nurse. "Thank you, Ms. Nahill." Kathy turned and winked at Mulder. "I'll give you my assessment of HER later," she murmured. She folded up the blood pressure cuff, jotted down some information on Mulder's chart, and left the exam room. Scully picked up the chart and looked it over. "Well, you don't appear to have a concussion, although this indicates that you should be watched for a while to make sure. I think they'll probably release you as soon as the doctor comes to talk to you." "Did you get to get our stuff out of the trunk of the car?" She put down the chart and nodded. "It's in the trunk of the car I just rented." "All of it?" he asked, thinking of his father's trunk. "All of it." He lay back against exam bed, closing his eyes. His head hurt like hell, and other parts of his body weren't exactly feeling so hot, either. "So much for a nice, relaxing weekend in Connecticut." She chuckled, making him open his eyes. For a second, he thought he saw something very much like adoration in her eyes. But he blinked and it was gone, replaced by gentle concern. "How's your head feel?" "Like I just headbutted a concrete wall." She winced. "Another nice scar to add to your collection, huh?" He nodded and immediately regretted it. The world swam for a moment and he felt a rush of nausea. Oh, God, he thought, please don't let me puke on myself in front of her. She went into action immediately, grabbing a bedpan and thrusting it under his chin, just in time. Pain ratcheting through his head with every spasm, he emptied his stomach into the pan. When he was through, he lay back against the bed, tears of pain and humiliation squeezing from the corners of his eyes. She quietly, efficiently disposed of the bedpan and its contents in the nearby bathroom, then returned to his side, a wet handkerchief in her hand. Gently she wiped his face and mouth. "Better?" He started to nod again, then remembered what had gotten him into this position in the first place. "Yeah. Thanks." "Now we're even." She smiled slightly. Not hardly, he thought. He was so far behind in the debt department, he might as well stop counting. "You're not going to make me stay here at the hospital because of this, are you?" She shook her head. "No. But you're not staying by yourself at your apartment tonight, either. You'll stay at my place. Then, if you're feeling better in the morning, we can go see Mom." He wasn't about to argue. Even if he were in better condition, he would have insisted on staying at Scully's. Over the last 72 hours, someone had tried to kill her at least twice. He wasn't about to let anyone get close enough to try it again. * * * * * Dana Scully's apartment 5:57 p.m. Mulder sat on Scully's couch, his feet propped up and a glass of orange juice in his hands--the only concession to her nagging, she thought, watching him with a mixture of affection and resignation. He had her laptop in his lap, tapping at the keys in an attempt to figure out the password to his father's floppy disk. "I could call Pendrell," she suggested. He looked up, scowling slightly. "Or we could call the Gunman." "Maybe both?" she added, arching her eyebrows. His eyebrows rose in response. "Wouldn't THAT be a sight?" "Pendrell's trustworthy, and the guys at the GUNMAN are too paranoid to be security risks." The idea was starting to sound good, she realized. "I'll call Pendrell; you call Byers." She pulled her cellular phone from her coat pocket \ and dialled Alan Pendrell's cell phone number. "You have Pendrell's phone number?" Mulder asked. She shot him a quick look before Pendrell answered. "Alan? This is Dana Scully." "Alan?" Mulder muttered. "His name is Alan?" "Oh!" On Pendrell's end of the line, there was a loud crashing sound and a muttered oath. "Sorry--dropped the phone." She stifled a smile. "I was wondering if you could help me out with something, Alan. On an unofficial basis." There was dead silence. "Alan?" "Un-un-unofficial?" "Can you meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes?" She gave him her address. "I'll explain everything." "Okay. Yeah. Sure." Pendrell sounded stunned. It wasn't until Scully hung up the phone that she realized she might have given him a wrong impression. "You call him Alan?" She looked at Mulder, nibbling her lower lip. "Mulder, can I tell you something?" He frowned. "Sure, okay." "I think Pendrell has a little crush on me." Mulder's face relaxed. "Of course he does. Every man at the Bureau has a crush on you." She stared at him, surprised. "Excuse me?" "Don't be so shocked, Scully. Why do you think they all stare at you when you walk down the hall?" "They don't." Did they? She was usually so preoccupied with work--and with Mulder--that she didn't really notice what went on around her at the office. Mulder just made a little face at her and turned on his cell phone to call Byers, Langly and Frohike. Scully put her own phone on the counter and walked back to her bedroom to start unpacking. At the bottom of her overnight bag, she found the pair of black pumps she'd worn to the party at the Waldorf. A circular splash of blood about the size of a dime was still on the toe of her left shoe. She sat on the bed and stared at the shoe, her stomach coiling. Even now she could see the scene unfold before her eyes, see Leigh MacGraw's body jerk, the spray of gore, the utter surprise in the woman's eyes, feel the hot wetness of the woman's blood spurting down the front of her dress.... She dropped the shoe from nerveless fingers and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memories. But the dark theater of her mind only provided a stark background for the vivid memories of fear and death. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when Mulder came into the room. She didn't open her eyes, even though she could feel his presence, the nearness of him. He was standing in the doorway. Watching her. If she opened her eyes, she would see a look of uncertainty, a question in his eyes. Should he disturb her? Should he invade the privacy of her thoughts? God, she knew him so well. "I'm tired, Mulder," she murmured. "Want me to go?" She shook her head and opened her eyes. "No." He crossed the room slowly, his gaze locked with hers. His eyes were gentle, concerned--but something else burned behind them, flickering like a flame in their murky depths. And for a moment, she wanted to throw herself into that fire, immolate herself, let the fire refine her like gold.... She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of him. He was too close-- The bed shifted beside her. Oh, God. He didn't say anything, and neither did she. She didn't even open her eyes for fear that the sight of him would snap any self-control left to her. She prided herself on strength and control, but right now she felt as if she were walking a tightwire, her balance gone, all her energy focused on putting one foot in front of the other to keep from plunging into the abyss. And the slightest touch might send her plummeting-- And then he touched her. His fingers brushed her forehead, lightly moving her hair away from her eyes. She shuddered at the little caress, her whole body tightening, focusing on the feel of his fingers against her skin. She opened her eyes and felt the air whoosh from her lungs. He was so close to her, his head lowered so that he was eye to eye with her, searching her face, his intense gaze ripping away the layers of self-protection in which she cocooned herself. They stared at each other, eyes locked, pulses pounding--she could hear the quickened pace of his respiration, see the rapid flutter of the vein in his forehead. His eyes darkened, and her limbs grew heavy and warm-- A muted rapping sound sliced through the haze of longing washing over her. Mulder made a soft, grumbling sound and stood, already turning toward the bedroom doorway. Scully followed him to her front door. He glanced through the peep hole, sighed softly, and opened the door to admit Byers, Frohike and Langly. The three men who oversaw the publication of THE LONE GUNMAN entered Scully's apartment as if they'd been there a thousand times. Which, for all Scully knew, they had. She doubted a standard dead bolt held much of a challenge for these guys. "So, what's up?" Frohike leered mildly at Scully. Mulder led them into the living room and quickly went over what they'd found in the trunk--leaving out the information about Scully's father's correspondence with Bill Mulder. Scully flashed him a grateful half-smile, and his eyes smiled back. "So, now you're looking to crack the password on this disk?" Byers held up the floppy. "Piece of cake. We can probably do it right here." As he was putting the floppy into Scully's computer, the doorbell rang. Scully crossed to the door and checked through the peep hole. Alan Pendrell's earnest face looked back at her. She opened the door. "Thanks for coming, Alan." He straightened his tie and ventured a wobbly smile. "Sure, Agent Scuh--Dana. Any time--" He stopped short when he saw the other men in Scully's living room. For a second, his eyes widened comically, and Scully had to bite back a sympathetic chuckle. Oh, dear, Agent Pendrell, what ARE you thinking? "Pendrell--glad you could come help us out." Mulder crossed and shook hands with the younger agent, gently drawing him away from Scully and toward the other men. "I want you to meet some friends of mine and Agent Scully's--Byers, Frohike, Langly, this is Agent Pendrell. A man after your own hearts." Byers motioned for Pendrell to join him at the computer and immediately launched into a technical description of what he was doing. Scully watched, amused and also impressed, as Pendrell's shy nervousness slipped away, replaced by the lightning intellect and boyish enthusiasm that had made him one of her favorite people at the Bureau. He drew up a chair next to Byers and immediately tossed out a couple of suggestions. Mulder edged over to Scully's side and bent his head toward hers. "Maybe we could fix something to eat--looks like these guys might be here through dinner." She nodded and followed him to the kitchen. Without having to speak, they settled into a comfortable working rhythm-- Mulder making sandwiches while Scully opened a large can of vegetable soup. But even the simple, innocent activity of preparing dinner seemed to take on delicious, forbidden undertones these days--Mulder's body brushed past hers as he reached into the cupboard for a new jar of mustard, sending little sparks of awareness skittering through her; bending to retrieve a sauce pan from a lower cabinet, she pressed her hand against his back to steady herself and felt his body tremble beneath her fingers. How close had they come to changing things between them forever? she wondered as she ladled soup into bowls. Earlier in her bedroom, she had been utterly certain Mulder was going to kiss her, and she had wanted him to. So very much. Damn the consequences, damn the danger. But they couldn't afford to be reckless. Not now. Not when the answers lay in front of them, beckoning them to come and turn the last stone that hid the truth from view. And there was always the specter of Samantha, crying out for justice and closure. Raven had said that finding Sarah Chandler might help them answer the questions about Samantha. Scully wanted to believe. She wanted to know. And if that meant taking a few steps back from Mulder and forcing herself to focus on the work instead of this burgeoning, promising thing that lay between them, she'd find the strength to do it. Questions about their relationship would have to wait until they'd answered the bigger questions about all the lies and machinations of the last fifty years. She just hoped it wouldn't be too late. * * * * * February 15, 1998 Dana Scully's Apartment 7:38 p.m. Fox Mulder leaned over his partner's shoulder to get a better look at the computer screen in front of Byers. The dialogue box asked for the password, but so far they'd had no luck. "Try 101361," Mulder suggested. They'd already tried Samantha's birthday as well as the birthdays of his parents. Byers tapped in the numbers and hit enter. The error bell dinged, and the dialogue box changed, informing them that the password was incorrect. "Try 112773," Scully murmured. She glanced over her shoulder, meeting Mulder's gaze. Mulder's eyes widened slightly. Why hadn't he thought of the day Samantha disappeared? He hadn't realized Scully even knew that date--but why should he be surprised? Scully was nothing if not thorough. Byers tapped in the number. And the file opened. "Bingo," Pendrell murmured. A stream of numbers and letters scrolled down the screen. The symbols were obviously set up in paragraph form--but in code. "Damn it!" Mulder had a sickening sense of deja vu. Almost three years ago, he'd opened a file he'd been sure would be the answer to all their questions, only to discover it was written in Navajo code-talk. The repercussions of that discovery still haunted him today. "It's definitely encrypted," Pendrell noted. "But I'll bet it's nothing that our latest cryptography program can't break. I'll just take the disk--" "No," Mulder, Byers, Langly and Frohike said in unison. Pendrell looked up at them, startled. "Or I can download the program to Agent Scully's computer," he amended after a beat. "Since you said that A.D. Skinner okayed the 302--" "I'd appreciate that, Alan." Scully rested her hand on Pendrell's shoulder for a brief moment. Not quite brief enough for Mulder's tastes, but-- "What we'll have to do is put the file on an automatic cycle--it'll run the file through the various cycles of the cryptography program, which will hunt for patterns and hidden codes. The whole process will probably take six to eight hours." "Hours?" Mulder scowled. Pendrell's face fell, as if he felt personally responsible for Mulder's displeasure. "It's a time-consuming process, Agent Mulder. I'll see if there's any way to bypass some of the cycles, but I can't guarantee accuracy that way--" Scully shook her head. "No, we can be patient." She shot a warning look in Mulder's direction. Byers stood and let Pendrell have the seat in front of the computer. Pendrell logged onto the Bureau mainframe and started searching through the SciCrime database for the cryptography program. In a few minutes, he had the program downloaded onto Scully's computer and started running the decoding process. He turned around and stood, his smile directed at Scully. "That'll take care of you, I think." "I appreciate it, Alan." Byers leaned in toward Mulder. "We could probably have decoded that file by morning ourselves, but the young fellow seems to get such joy out of helping out Agent Scully that I couldn't deprive him of the pleasure." Mulder shot a glare at the bearded man. Thanks for the support, he thought. Scully and Pendrell had drifted toward the door, Frohike tagging along behind them. Mulder sighed and headed in that direction as well, catching up in time to hear Pendrell say, "Thanks for dinner, Dana. It was delicious." For God's sake, Pendrell, it was a ham sandwich and chicken noodle soup, Mulder thought, frowning at the young agent. Don't you know that overearnest act doesn't get you anywhere? Scully smiled at Pendrell, showing teeth and everything. Mulder's frown deepened. "The least I could do to say thanks for all your help." Pendrell beamed, and Mulder thought he was going to throw up again. But the young agent's next action took him completely by surprise. Pendrell reached out and touched Scully's face. Scully's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pull away. Pendrell cradled her chin on the tips of his fingers and lifted her face to get a better look at the scrapes and bruises left by her ordeals of the last couple of days. "What on earth happened to you?" Mulder's eyes locked on the place where Pendrell's fingers met Scully's chin, and a surge of sheer, jealous anger rushed through him, heating the back of his neck and making his stomach curl into a knot. Pendrell had no right to touch her that way. Mulder stepped forward, fists clenched at his side. Scully moved away from Pendrell's reach, her retreat a gentle but unmistakable rebuff. The young techie turned beet red. "I'm s-sorry," he stammered. "I don't know what I was thinking--" "Don't worry about it, Alan." Scully smiled her reassurance. "I had a car accident, but I'm fine, and so is Mulder." Pendrell looked up at Mulder, his eyes widening a bit as if he had only just noticed that Mulder's forehead was half-covered with a gauze bandage. Missed that when you came in, did you, Pendrell? Too busy scoping my partner? Mulder took a few steps forward until he was close enough to touch Scully. He took his place at her side and met Pendrell's nervous gaze. He knew his body language was screaming, "Hands off, she's mine," and he also knew that Scully was probably going to ream him for his macho posturing, but right now, he didn't really give a shit. "Say, Pendrell, how about a quick tour of our place?" Frohike put his hand on the younger man's shoulder and guided him toward Scully's front door. He cut his eyes toward Scully and smiled his best deviant grin. "I have some photos I'm SURE you'd like to see." Scully's looked at Mulder, her eyes widening. Mulder shrugged, hiding a grin of amusement. Frohike was bluffing. Probably. Langly and Byers followed Frohike and Pendrell out, Byers darting a quick smile in Mulder's direction. The door closed behind them, leaving Mulder and Scully in silence. Only the soft whirring sound of the cryptography program at work broke the quiet. Then Scully murmured, "I feel like I just sent a lamb into a den of wolves." Mulder chuckled. Scully moved slowly away from him, headed toward the kitchen, where the remainders of their dinner littered the counters. He followed her, planning to help her clean up, but she turned and gave him a stern look. "I can manage this, Mulder. You're supposed to be resting." "I think I can handle washing a dish or two--" Her expression brooked no further argument. "Go find my deck of cards--I feel like whipping your ass at gin." He arched his eyebrow and immediately regretted it, as the movement shot a screech of pain through the gash on his forehead. He tried to hide his wince of pain. And apparently failed. "Better yet, why don't you go get my first aid kit out of the bathroom and I'll change your bandage when I get through cleaning up," she suggested. "Get it and go wait for me in the living room." He knew better than to argue. Obediently he went through the hallway to the bathroom and opened the wicker cabinet above the toilet, where Scully stored her first aid kit. It wasn't the small store-bought red, white and blue metal canister most people kept in case of emergencies. Not for Dr. Scully, oh no. Her kit was a large cardboard box of supplies--sterile-packaged gauze pads, surgical tape, antiseptic, pain relievers, antibiotic ointments, and the ever present bag of latex gloves, among other items. He tucked the box under his arm and went back into the living room to wait for her to finish in the kitchen. He sat back against the sofa, listening to the faint sounds of her movements. Hearing her soft footsteps, the barely perceptible sounds of her breathing, gave him a sense of peace and well-being that he'd never known with anyone but her. Not with his family, certainly not with Phoebe or the other women who'd passed through his life. Scully alone gave him this sense of security, the utter faith that as long as she was within reach, nothing could really hurt him. She wouldn't allow it. He realized suddenly that he could no longer hear her moving around. He turned his head, looking through the open bar that separated the kitchen from the dining room, but she was out of sight. He went to the kitchen and found Scully standing near the stove, her hands flattened out on the counter, her head bent. She looked so weary, so tense. He crossed to her, his sock-clad feet silent on the linoleum. When he put his hands on her taut shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her skin. "Sorry," he said quickly, squeezing her shoulders to steady her. She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. "I thought I told you to wait in the living room." "Since when do I listen to you?" he teased. She shook her head, lowering her chin to her chest again, as if stretching her neck. "You should, you know." "I know." He rubbed his thumbs in small, firm circles against her shoulder blades, kneading the knotted muscles he found there. "Come on." He tugged her with him through the kitchen and out to the living room. Positioning her in front of him on the sofa, he ran his hands soothingly over her shoulders, his touch light and undemanding. "I'm supposed to be changing your bandage," Scully murmured, her words slurred with weariness. "My bandage is fine, Scully. Now, close your eyes. Think of somewhere safe and peaceful." She rolled her neck slightly, giving him better access to her shoulders. "You're very good at this, Mulder." "And you thought I was just another pretty face." "Silly me." She slumped a bit, her back brushing against his chest. She was hot and soft--his body tightened pleasantly in response to the feel of her. She was enjoying his touch, and it gave him a deep sense of satisfaction to know that he was pleasing her. "Not a bad way to pass the time until the cryptography program cracks the code, huh?" he murmured. "Beats the hell out of a game of gin." Her low, liquid voice ignited a little flame in the pit of his stomach. This is such a dangerous game we're playing, he thought. Skating right up to the edge of thin ice and daring each other to take one more step... He slid his fingers up the velvety column of her neck, his thumbs pressing against the little ridge of vertebrae where her neck met her spine. He apparently hit a nerve, because she released a low, guttural groan that shot shivering sensations straight to his loins. He closed his eyes, his fingers trembling against her neck as he fought the clamoring of his body. I did that to her, he thought. I made her feel that. And I can do it again. A sense of utter invincibility surged through him, giving him the courage to step up his seduction. That's what it is, isn't it, Mulder? Seduction? He wanted to hear her make that sound again. He wanted to hear it in his ear while his body surged into hers, while her arms locked him to her, while his mouth sought and found the secrets of her body. But for now, he stroked the spot at the back of her neck that had evinced her little groan of pleasure. "Good, huh?" "Mmm hmmm." She rolled her neck, her hair sliding over the back of his hand. It felt like cool silk against his flesh. "I've never known a woman whose g-spot was in the back of her neck," he teased, whispering the words into her ear. She chuckled softly, her body slumping more heavily against his. "Mmmm. Jack used to say the same thing." He froze. Jack used to say that? Jack Willis? Jack had touched her like this? Given her pleasure this way? A mean little voice answered in a soft taunt. Of course he did, you dumb shit. He was her lover long before you ever set eyes on her. Mulder dropped his hands away from Scully's neck, swallowing convulsively. Scully looked over her shoulder, her forehead creased in a little frown. "What's wrong?" He stared for a second, not knowing what to say. He could hardly tell her that the mere thought of her making love to another man tied him into a thousand painful little knots. Finally, he said, "My hands are starting to cramp." She twisted around, her eyes searching his face. He tried to keep his expression utterly neutral. He wasn't sure he was succeeding. After a moment, she merely nodded and pushed herself up off the couch. "I need a shower. I'll be back in a bit." He nodded, watching her cross to the hallway. She paused in the doorway and turned back toward him for a second, her gaze locking with his. Her eyes asked him a thousand wordless questions he didn't know how to answer. After an endless moment of heavy silence, she turned and continued into the bathroom. When she was out of sight, he slumped back against the sofa cushions, mentally kicking himself. Damn it, Mulder--what did you expect, that she'd be a virgin? But that wasn't the problem. Jack Willis wasn't even the problem-- he was dead and gone, and whatever he and Scully had shared had ended long before Mulder met her. The problem was, Jack Willis had known Scully in a way that Mulder never had. And that just wasn't right. He didn't like the thought that there was some part of Scully that he couldn't touch--or that there was a part of him that she couldn't touch. Despite the hazards, despite conventional wisdom, despite all the warning bells that went off in his head every time he and Scully neared the invisible line between their worlds, Mulder wanted to know everything about her--what made her laugh and cry, what made her writhe and what made her scream. The feel and smell and taste of her--he wanted to know all of that. So why'd you push her away, Mulder? She had been enjoying his touch, responding to his seduction. Why had he screwed it up? Because you realized that maybe she'd have responded to any halfway attractive man? Because any set of strong, warm hands could have elicited that sound from her throat? The little voice at the back of his mind was taut and dark. Because when a woman gets lonely, maybe any warm body will do? He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and pressed his face into his palms. He wanted to be special to her. He wanted to give her something nobody else in the world could give her. For a moment, he thought he had. But he'd been wrong. What if he were wrong about other things as well? Had he been reading things into their relationship all these years? Was that spark of attraction he'd thought he saw from the very first nothing more than wishful thinking? A figment of his overwrought imagination? Was he risking the best thing in his life--his friendship with this incredible woman--to tilt at another windmill? End of #6 ***End Notes: The U.S.S. Thresher incident is an actual event in American history. The Thresher sank on April 10, 1963 as noted. However, NOTHING remotely like the events I propose in this piece of fiction ever took place. I do not mean to suggest otherwise.