SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 1/8 (Prologue) by Jill Selby
(jillselby@socket.net)

Archiving Note: Do not archive at Gossamer.  The text of this
story will be housed exclusively on the author's homepage.
Permission to link will be cheerfully granted upon request.

Author's Notes:  I'm cautiously climbing down from the
relationship fence to do a little reconnaissance on the MSR
side. I'm trusting my readers to tell me if I should retreat
back to the fence for good, or if I'm allowed to play over here
from time to time.

Thanks to Leyla, who was the loudest and most persistent of the
voices trying to persuade me to write an MSR, and who bolstered
my confidence when it was flagging.  Thanks also to my editors,
Meredith, Rebecca and Jo-Ann -- you guys make one hell of a beta-
reading team.  And my sincerest appreciation to all those people
who followed this story as a work-in-progress, and kept me on
track with their suggestions, praise, encouragement, and threats.

Disclaimer:  Characters from the X-Files are the property of
Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network.  All
others are the author's creation.  Any similarity to any person,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.  No infringement is
intended.

Summary:  Scully becomes dangerously obsessed in her search for
the truth behind a shocking piece of evidence from the past, and
Mulder, recognizing an all-too-familiar pattern of self-
destruction, is determined to save her.

Classification:  XRA

Relationship:  MSR

Rating:  PG-13

Spoilers:  None

E-mail me with requests for missing parts or to be added to my
story mailing list.  This story is available in its entirety at
http://members.aol.com/msselby1013/index.html

**Feedback always sincerely appreciated.** ____________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE

Prologue

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

The truth.

It has been the guiding star of my life.  I look to it
constantly to gauge my progress, to determine the course I must
set, to calculate the distance I should maintain between myself
and others.

And yet, for me, the truth has remained as far removed as that
star.  

Always visible.  

Never within reach.

Or so I had led myself to believe.

I've been doing some soul-searching of late.  I'm not very good
at that sort of thing.  I have this nearly overwhelming urge to
devalue myself, so it was a difficult exercise to look at myself
objectively.  

I found as I tried to make tidy columns of my positive and
negative attributes, that many of my traits could fall into both
categories.

I'm intelligent.  

A positive thing, yet it carries a burden.  Being best and
brightest rarely means being popular.  Not in grade school.  Not
in college.  And not in the FBI.

I'm tenacious.  

But even I recognize that tenacity can evolve into a dangerous
obsession.

I'm paranoid.  

Despite its poor reputation, paranoia isn't all bad.  It has
kept me alive on more than one occasion.  It keeps those who
have the power to wound me at bay.

Unfortunately, it also separates me from those who would care
for me.  From those I might otherwise allow myself to love.

If this introspection had been undertaken merely to satisfy
personal curiosity, I might have abandoned the pursuit as soon
as the disclosures became uncomfortable.  But there is something
--*someone* -- more important than my peace of mind.  Someone
who means enough to me that I choose to make this journey
through the risky terrain of my own psyche just so I can guide
her safely as she follows the same path.  I find comfort in such
a goal.  It eases the disquiet and pain my self-study evokes.

The most astonishing revelation to emerge from my self-analysis
was that for a man whose life has been a testament to the truth,
I'm a remarkably accomplished liar.  Saddest of all, I've been
lying to myself.

I lied when I said I was unlovable.  

I am not.  

I lied when I told myself I cannot love.

I can.

The truth is that I do love, and I'm inclined to believe that
those feelings are returned.  Yet so many things, not the least
of which has been my all-consuming quest, served as efficient
camouflage behind which such treacherous emotions could hide.

Paranoia kept me blind.  I'd been so preoccupied with squinting
through its haze in search of that distant glimmer of truth,
that I failed to notice when the truth took up residence at my
side, blazing with light and warmth.  Close enough to touch. 
Thawing the coldness of my heart so slowly that I didn't
register the change.

I'm not the most perceptive man when it comes to other people's
feelings.  But I'm not so obtuse that I could miss the change
that occurred this week.

That warmth I had neither noticed nor acknowledged began to
withdraw.  

I was left in the cold and forced to watch as my partner donned
the mantle of truth-seeker and rushed off on a quest no less
noble than my search for my sister.  She closed herself off,
wrapped herself in the false protection of distrust, and severed
the lines of communication.

No one else would recognize the dangers in that.  But I know,
and with the knowledge comes a fear for her such as I've never
felt for myself. 

Of all the terrifying things I've seen, this frightens me most.  

Dana Scully is becoming me.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

End part 1/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"
_________________________________________________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 2/8

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

For 25 years I've pursued the truth like a pilgrim struggling
toward an elusive mecca, persecuting myself along the way with
questions about my sister's disappearance and my father's
integrity.  Three days ago, Scully was baptized into the same
religion of self-destruction.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

She hadn't said anything in over an hour.  Not that extended
silences between them were anything unusual.  When they were
both concentrating on their work, they could go the better part
of a day with only nominal pleasantries exchanged.  

But this time it was different.  Her mind wasn't on work at
all. It was on the phone call.

She had been calmly explaining to him the medical
impossibilities of a woman giving birth to a 60-pound baby girl,
and reiterating her insistence that he stop believing the
stories he read in "Weekly News of the Bizarre."  He was all set
to turn to the next page in the tabloid and ask her opinion
about the "Man-Eating Toad Terrorizing Salt Lake City," when the
phone rang.

The teasing smile she had been wearing had faded as she
listened to the caller.  "What kind of problem?" she had asked.

Subtle traces of worry began to show themselves on her face as
she listened.  "Well can't you at least tell me --"  Obviously
the caller had interrupted.  "9:00 tomorrow.  That will be fine."

Sliding from her perch on the edge of his desk, she had gently
replaced the receiver on the phone, and walked back to her own
side of the office.  She didn't immediately sit down; she just
stood at her desk, plucking at files and papers with her
fingers, looking at the bare wall in front of her.

"Scully?"

She didn't answer.

"Scully, are you all right?"

She had turned her head and had given what was intended to be a
reassuring nod of her head.  He found the distant look in her
eyes and the fact that she didn't actually speak to be anything
but reassuring.

He did, however, recognize the signals.  After working so long
with Dana Scully, he was well aware of the nonverbal message she
was sending:  she didn't want to talk about it right now.

And he had respected that wish for the next hour.  Not that it
was easy.  He had repeatedly quelled the impulse to go to her,
shake her out of that damned emotionally-detached fog she was
in, and demand that she tell him what was wrong.

A sigh from her side of the room finally broke the silence.  

"I'm not getting anything done here, Mulder.  I think I'm going
to head home."  She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her
briefcase. She was almost out the door before she spoke again,
although she didn't turn to look at him.  "I'll be late
tomorrow.  I have a meeting in Skinner's office."

"What's going on, Scully?"

She glanced back over her shoulder, throwing him another
expression of counterfeit confidence.  "Nothing.  Some sort of
glitch in my security check.  I just have to go in and answer a
few questions. I'm sure it's nothing."

Security alerts were rarely "nothing," but he couldn't imagine
anything in her past that would set off alarms.  She'd walked a
little close to the edge of regulations a few times since being
assigned to the X-Files, but those incidents and the resulting
censures were well-documented.  He tried to lighten the moment.
"Don't have any overdue library books, do you?"

He was inordinately pleased when she took the bait.

"Hmmm.  Now that you mention it, I don't think I ever returned
that copy of the 'Kama Sutra.'  Guess I'd better get home and
search for it."

"I'd be happy to lend you another pair of hands.  You know, for
the search." 

She let a genuine smile flit across her lips for an instant.
"No, but thanks, Mulder.  I'll see you tomorrow."  

He spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what event in
Scully's background would adversely affect her security
clearance, and whether or not she was serious about that overdue
book. ____________

"Please have a seat, Agent Scully."

Walter Skinner's manner was, as always, just on the polite side
of brusque, but Scully thought she saw something like concern
undermining his austere expression as he ushered her to a chair
at the conference table.  Once she was seated he moved to the
couch along the back wall of the room.  Obviously he was in
attendance as an observer but would not be participating in
whatever was about to take place.  

There were more people here than she had expected:  half a
dozen impeccably dressed bureaucrats, all holding expensive pens
in their well-manicured hands.  All ready to scribble their
notes and pass judgment on her for misconduct that, even after a
sleepless night of speculation, she could not identify.

She had always disliked the conference area in Assistant
Director Skinner's office.  It was too dark.  Made the people
around the table seem shadowy and untrustworthy.  As she scanned
the pasty, somber faces of those in attendance, she thought
perhaps the poor lighting was not entirely to blame for that
perception.

The curiosity and worry that had been sparked by yesterday's
phone call had now evolved into seething impatience.  It was at
times like this that she found herself wishing she'd gone off to
a small community to practice medicine.  Someplace where the
chain of command began and ended with her.  For someone as
innately forthcoming as Dana Scully, the procrastination and
furtiveness of tight-lipped middle managers was nearly
intolerable.

One of the men, a bland nondescript gentleman in a bland
nondescript suit, spoke.  His gaze had shifted between the paper
before him and a point somewhere behind her.  Never did his eyes
meet hers and for a moment she wasn't even sure that he was
speaking to her.  "Have you ever heard the name Vladamir
Joureva?"

She did not answer immediately, but waited until several at the
table looked up at her.  With that small sense of victory
bolstering her confidence, she spoke.  "Not that I recall.  In
what context should I recognize the name?"

"He may have been using an alias.  Does the name Paul Jordan
mean anything to you?"

"No.  I don't think so.  What is this about?"

"Do you recall if you've ever met Senator Warren Sullivan?"

Her supply of patience was rapidly dwindling.  Verbal cat and
mouse games might be enjoyable to some people.  Never to her. 
She was poised to launch herself out of her chair and demand an
explanation, but was pulled up short by a warning glance from
Skinner.  She willed herself to relax and draw a breath before
answering.  "My father mentioned him from time to time.  They
served together in the Navy.  I don't recall meeting him, but if
I did, I was a child at the time."

Her questioner nodded.  For several interminable moments the
room remained silent except for the scratchings of pens against
paper. The next to speak was a prunish woman who was trying to
counter the ravages of age with a trendy suit and too much eye
shadow.

"Agent Scully, some information has been brought to light
which, to be honest, we find disturbing."

Dana Scully was gifted at deciphering puzzles, but she couldn't
find any way to connect the hints they had given her so far -- a
Russian with an alias and an old Navy buddy of her father's who
had achieved success in politics -- much less determine how they
were related to her. 

"Two weeks ago," prune-woman continued, "a diplomat from the
Russian Republic was mugged outside his D.C. hotel.  He was on
his way to turn over some recently discovered Cold-War era
papers to the State Department.  In addition to the attache case
holding these documents, his attacker also stole his wallet and
jewelry. For that reason, the police determined that it had been
an amateur robbery and the papers, most likely, discarded.  That
assumption was incorrect." 

"What does any of this have to do with me?"

The woman continued as if Scully had not spoken.  "Yesterday,
Senator Sullivan's office, as well as the Bureau and the
Pentagon, received photocopies of the documents in question and
were given an opportunity to 'bid' on the originals.  We, of
course, have no intention of negotiating for the items, but the
Russian diplomat has verified that the materials we received
appear to be copies of the items he was carrying at the time of
the theft."

"What does this have to do with me?"  Scully asked again, but
without the sugar-coating of politeness she had used the last
time.

"Are you certain, Agent Scully, that you don't know Mr. Joureva?"

"Yes, I'm positive."

"And you don't recall making the acquaintance of Senator
Sullivan."

She growled the words, "No, not that I can recall."

"Apparently, according to these documents, your father, along
with the Senator, were quite friendly with Mr. Joureva and his
associates in USSR for at least three years, beginning in 1955.
To the point of selling American military secrets to the
Soviets."

Nothing in heaven or on earth would have kept Dana Scully
sitting demurely in her chair at that moment.  Not even the
overt cautionary head-shake of Walter Skinner.  "What the hell
are you talking about.  My father never, *never* betrayed his
country. How dare you suggest such a thing."  Scully's eyes
blazed with her anger and she looked at each individual at the
table in hopes that the truth of her words would burn into their
consciousness.  

Those who looked at her at all gave her only the most impassive
of stares.

"I understand that this news might be upsetting to you, if, of
course, it is news."  The accusation slithered from the woman's
mouth like a snake.

Scully planted her palms on the table and leaned forward toward
her accuser.  "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Agent Scully, that we have reason to believe that
your father was a traitor to his country.  I'm further saying
that until this allegation can be disproved, it casts a certain
. . . shadow, let's say, on your own integrity."

A tone of desperation was creeping into her angry voice.  "This
is preposterous.  Give me the information you have and I'll
follow up. I'll prove that you're wrong."

Walter Skinner rose from his seat in the back and moved around
to Scully's side.  He spoke gently, compassionately, but his
words were cruel.  "I'm afraid that won't be possible.  Until
this matter is settled, your security clearance is being reduced
to a clerical level. You're on desk duty pending further
review." 

She studied her boss, not trying to mask her expression of
shock and rage.  If anyone was being betrayed, it was her.  If
anyone was a traitor, it was the man who stood before her.  A
man whom she had respected and whom she believed respected her,
and who was now participating in the destruction of her late
father's reputation and her own career.  He seemed to shrink
back just a little at her scrutiny, and she hoped it was because
he was ashamed of what he was doing.  "Will that be all, sir?"

Skinner glanced at the committee members at the table and,
determining that no one had anything further to add, took Scully
gently by the arm and led her to the outer office.

Once the door was closed behind him, he spoke to her in a
whisper. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully.  I know how much your father
meant to you."

She matched his quiet tone, but only to avoid giving the
secretarial staff a lunchtime gossip topic.  "You don't know
anything, sir.  I would have expected more from you."

"I tried to stall this meeting until we could get more
information, but --"

"You evidently didn't try hard enough.  What am I supposed to
tell my mother?  That the man she loved, the father of her
children, was a traitor to the very country he was supposedly
serving for all those years he was away at sea?  Wouldn't she be
justified to wonder if he had betrayed her as well?  God knows,
that sort of man would have been capable of anything.  What's an
affair or two along the way for a man who would sell his country
for a few bucks?"

"Agent Scully, that's enough."

"Have you checked that out, sir?  Have you determined whether
or not he was a faithful husband?  Because the message I'm
getting here is that if a man will betray his country, so surely
will his children.  You'd better make sure he doesn't have a
couple of illegitimate kids secreted away out there.  Given
enough Scullys, we could bring this country to its knees."  She
was ranting, saying too much, and she knew it, but her anger was
overriding her sense of decorum. 

"Stop it!"  Skinner clenched his jaw tight to keep from yelling
at her and held up a silencing finger between them.  "Just stop
it. I'm not your enemy, Scully."

The disbelief shone on her face.

"I'm not, no matter what you choose to believe right now.  If
your father is innocent --"

She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head at her and
continued.  

"If your father is innocent, the proper investigative branches
will find the truth.  What you *do not* need to do is go off on
some kind of crusade.  Your position is tenuous right now. 
Don't make matters worse for yourself.  You can continue to
work, just not in the field, and don't test me on that.  If you
screw up, I won't be able to help you.  Let me do my job.  Do
you understand?"

"Perfectly.  May I assume that it is all right to apprise my
partner of the situation?"

"That's fine, but this investigation is hands-off for Mulder as
well.  Don't let him do your dirty work."

"No, sir.  I wouldn't do that."

She pivoted on her heel and strode out of the office, fully
confident of only one thing.  That nothing -- not regulations,
or Skinner's pleas, or her own future in the FBI -- would stop
her from clearing her father's name.

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

The first signs were apparent as soon as she walked in the door
the morning after her meeting with Skinner, and I damn hindsight
for torturing me with the knowledge that I did nothing at the
time.

She has this air about her when she's walking through the halls
of the headquarters building.  A stony expression of self-
assurance that tells everyone "I know where I'm going.  Now get
the hell out of my way."  I hear people talk about her
sometimes.  They misinterpret her professionalism as arrogance
and assume that she's unfriendly or inaccessible.  I admit that
I've never attempted to persuade them otherwise.  I've selfishly
enjoyed keeping the warmer, gentler Scully all to myself.

So I should have immediately sensed just how deeply wrong
things were when it was the stone-cold touch-me-not agent who
returned to our office after the meeting.

I made a few subtle attempts to get her to tell me what had
transpired, but she wasn't talking.  She wasn't working either.
She just sat and stared at the family photo on her desk.

One of the things I've always liked about Scully is that she
doesn't ever try to cajole me into expressing my feelings.  She
is keenly attuned to my moods and knows when to give me some
space to sort things out for myself.  I was pretty proud of
myself that day for being sensitive enough to do the same for
her.

Only I'm discovering it wasn't so much sensitivity as
cowardice. She scares the crap out of me when she's angry.  I'm
not afraid of any bodily injury she might inflict -- well, not
much.  I'm pretty certain I could gain the advantage in a
physical fight.  But I've always been a little frightened that
one day I would do the wrong thing at the wrong moment and she'd
pack up her belongings and take one of those promotions that's
always being waved in front of her face.  She has to have been
tempted by the thought on countless occasions.  There are any
number of times when I've said or done things which were
counterproductive to the partnership.  But I swear I never did
those things to hurt her or to push her away.  

That day, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would be
the one pushing me away if I tried to pry into her business.

In retrospect, I should have stood up and let her push and push
until she was utterly exhausted.  Then I could have drawn her
into my arms and held her there until she knew that there was
nothing in the world so strong as the two of us together.

I should have forced her to push.

Instead, I let her pull away so slowly that I didn't notice the
distance between us until it was too late.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

End part 2/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"
_________________________________________________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 3/8

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

Scully relies on facts.  When we're on a case she makes lists
of them.  She keeps a small notebook in her pocket that she can
whip out at any time and read to me "the facts."

Before Scully and I became partners, I often ignored, or at
least skated around, the facts if they interfered with my
theories. That's not to say I wasn't right from time to time. 
It's just that now, with her to keep me grounded, I'm challenged
to mold my theories to fit the actual facts of the case.  She
balances me, and with her I'm more successful than I ever was
without her.

When it relates to our work, Scully doesn't omit details.  But
in matters concerning her personal life, Scully is intensely
private.  Regardless of the significance of the events unfolding
in her world, unless it directly affects our work, I'm likely to
remain oblivious unless I stumble upon the information by
accident.

It should have come as no surprise to me then, that when she
told me about the investigation into her father's alleged acts
of treason, she was only telling me half the story.  She shared
what the committee had told her about the Soviet documents.  She
informed me of her restricted status.  She told me of Skinner's
pledge to continue investigating the matter.

She did not tell me how angry she was.  How desperate.  She
left out the part about conducting her own inquiry, despite
direct orders to the contrary.  Those things, evidently, were
personal.  

It hurt to discover she'd been shutting me out, and it is poor
consolation to realize that I've often done the same thing to
her.

I could tell she was distracted, but she maintained her
composure so convincingly that I couldn't see the turmoil
boiling just below the surface.  I might have gone on believing
that she was patiently waiting for word from Skinner on the
investigation's outcome had I not been the one who answered the
phone when Senator Sullivan returned her call.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

"The coffee was fresh, so I brought you another cup."  

"Thanks, Scully."  He didn't glance up, but took the cup from
her hand and set it in a small clearing on the cluttered work
surface. He continued his pretend-study of the file on his desk
and listened as she made her way across the office and sat down
at her own desk.

"By the way, there was a call for you while you were gone."

"Oh?"  He thought it amazing that she could convey both
hopefulness and wariness in one syllable.

"Senator Sullivan returned your call."

"Did he leave a number?"  Her attempt at nonchalance was
laughable.  He wondered if she really believed he wouldn't push
for an explanation.  

"No, but he left his address."

"What?"

He turned to face her at last.  She was attempting to remain
expressionless, but he knew her well enough to detect a hint of
panic.  "We've been invited to have dinner with him this
evening. Very posh neighborhood.  Remind me not to slurp my
soup."

"That won't be necessary, Mulder.  *We* are not going.  Give me
the address."  Panic was quickly replaced by fury as she rose
and swiftly crossed back to his desk.

"No can do, I'm afraid.  Did I forget to tell you?  I've
decided to save a tree so instead of writing down messages, I'm
just storing them up here instead."  He tapped his forehead in
demonstration.

"Okay then."  She grabbed a legal pad from his desk, ripped off
the top sheet and handed it to him.  "You write the address
down, and when I come in tomorrow I'll return the paper so you
can recycle it."

He stood and pulled the piece of paper from her fingers,
letting it drift to the floor.  Then he reached further and
closed his hand around hers.  She made a fist, as if by
clenching her hand she could close herself off from the probing
questions that were coming.  Undeterred, he cradled her fist in
one hand and caressed it with the other.  "What are you doing,
Scully?" 

She watched their hands instead of looking him in the eye.  "I
just want to ask him some questions."

"You know that Skinner told you to keep out of this.  Just
calling Sullivan could get you into a lot of trouble."

"That's rich, Mulder."  She made a little derisive noise that
was part chuckle, part sniff.  "You're a great one to give
advice on walking the straight and narrow with Skinner."

"No one knows better than I what pisses him off, and I can
guarantee that your little tete-a-tete with Sullivan will do it."

She pulled her hand from his and started pacing around the
small office.  "If it does, it does.  I've waited for two days.
Nothing is happening."

"Give it time."

"How much time should I give?  Long enough for them to destroy
my career?  Until they drum my brother out of the Navy? Should I
wait until they take away my mom's retirement benefits?"

"I won't offer you platitudes, Scully, because we both know the
truth doesn't always prevail.  But it's barely been 48 hours.
Maybe in a few more days --"

"I just need to do something."  She stopped.  For a few seconds
she kept her eyes downcast as if studying the pattern in the
carpet, but slowly those eyes lifted to meet his.  He was nearly
knocked backward by the impact.  "I have to do this. All I ask
of you is that you not stand in the way.  Please, Mulder."

He had to turn away.  She didn't look at him like that very
often, and for that he was grateful, because it rendered him
completely powerless.  When she chose to wield that particular
weapon, there was nothing he could deny her.

"All right, Scully."

He heard her move up behind him and felt her hand tug at his
shoulder, persuading him to turn around.  "Thank you."  All
traces of her anger and frustration, the fear that he would try
to stop her, had vanished.  Bathed in a fluorescent glow, her
upturned face took on the peaceful beauty reserved for
Renaissance paintings of the Madonna.  

He was loath to shatter the moment, yet that was exactly what
he had to do.  "But I'm still going with you."

She drew back from him as if he had slapped her.  "Damn it,
Mulder.  This doesn't concern you."

"It does if it concerns you."

"This is my fight.  I don't want you involved."

He walked up to her and planted himself in her personal space.
"Too bad."  

When she tried to step away, he snared her with an arm and drew
her back to him.  He felt tremors running through her body that
had nothing to do with the intimacy of his embrace.  If the
rigidity of her frame and the coldness in her eyes were any
gauge, they were more likely the manifestations of a temper on
the verge of exploding.  He met her accusing stare
unflinchingly.  He was willing to stand there with an armful of
angry Scully all night if that's what it took to crumble her
defenses.  Of course, there was a certain added appeal in the
fact that her breasts brushed against his chest every time she
inhaled.  Finally she bowed her head in concession and he
released her.

"Dinner's at seven o'clock.  I'll pick you up at your place
about 6:15.  And I promise to be on my best behavior.  You won't
even know I'm there."

Scully gave him a doubtful look but returned to her work.  She
shouldered a grudge through the rest of the day, and yet he
basked in the glow of victory.  Even if she wasn't speaking to
him, she hadn't left the office to seek refuge from his
presence.  Coming from Dana Scully, that was tantamount to a
love letter. ____________

She'd been in some lovely homes in her life, but no residence
she'd ever seen could compare to this.  This was the essence of
opulence and excess.  The kind of home that had an air of "old
money." The grounds were impeccable down to the last detail. 
The flower beds lining the walk were a perfect mix of color and
texture.  The lawn was lush and green, even while most other
yards in the area were withering in the summer heat.  Towering
white columns graced the front of the house and framed a huge,
solid mahogany door. 

She knocked, and as she awaited an answer, found herself
regretting that there was such an unpleasant reason for the
visit. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed
strolling around the grounds, touring what would undoubtedly be
an exquisitely decorated interior, and hearing stories about her
father's Navy days from his old friend.  

Certainly she couldn't have asked for a more handsome escort
for the evening, although she kept that observation to herself,
lest Mulder suspect that the attitude of resentment she was
maintaining at his intrusion was not genuine.  Even though he
was dressed in clothing comparable in style to his regular
workaday attire, he had chosen his finest dark suit and a
tasteful tie.  His shirt was pressed and pristinely white.  She
wondered if he might have purchased it just for the occasion. 
It looked brand new.  

She herself wore a suit, but unlike her typical choices which
were made with durability in mind, this had been selected
because she liked how the midnight blue shimmered in the light
and the sensual feel of silk when she slid her hand over the
fabric.  It had been a foolish and impulsive purchase, because
she had never found an opportunity to wear it.  Standing at the
entrance of this mansion, she was very glad it had been
available to make its debut this evening.  Mulder seemed to
appreciate her appearance, even if he hadn't actually said as
much.  He had looked her over rather carefully when she answered
her door, and he'd found more than the usual number of excuses
to touch her.  Perhaps he enjoyed the feel of the silk as much
as she did.  Perhaps it was for an entirely different reason,
but that was something she wasn't equipped to ponder at the
moment. 

Scully had expected the door to be answered by a tuxedoed
butler, not by Senator Sullivan dressed in a short-sleeve shirt
and chinos. Fortunately, she had seen him often enough on the
news and in magazine photos that she didn't embarrass herself by
mistaking him for a servant.

"Good evening, Senator.  I'm Agent Dana Scully, and this is my
partner, Fox Mulder."  She extended her hand to him and he took
it enthusiastically.

"My God, you're Bill Scully's little girl?"  

"Yes sir."

"It is certainly a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Scully.  Your
father was a very dear friend to me."  He released her hand and
reached to shake Mulder's.  "Mr. Mulder.  Please, come in."

As expected, the interior of the house was a showplace.  The
furniture, the artwork on the walls, the accent pieces placed
here and there, were all perfectly suited to their environment. 
No dust or clutter encroached upon the perfection.  She and
Mulder took the seats the Senator offered on an antique sofa in
his study, even though Scully felt guilty for squashing the
plumped-up cushions. No doubt some servant would come running to
repair the damage as soon as they stood again.  

"Can I get you a drink?"  Sullivan gestured to a small bar in
the corner, but both agents declined the offer.  As he went
about preparing a drink for himself, Scully studied him.  He was
in excellent shape, especially for a man in his late sixties. 
In fact, if she hadn't known better, she would have guessed him
to be at least ten years younger.  His greying hair was thick
and wavy and the lines on his face enhanced rather than
detracted from his appearance.  

Scully was struck by how down-to-earth the man seemed.  She
could understand why her father had liked him.  For all his
wealth and influence, Senator Sullivan didn't give off the
impression of a man spoiled by success.  But she reminded
herself that politicians were adept at manipulating their
audience and, despite her impulse to trust her father's friend,
she decided to reserve judgment for a while longer.

Sullivan settled into a leather chair opposite the agents and
leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  Whether it was
by accident or design, his body language was expressing his
anxiousness to discuss their mutual problem.  "I must tell you,
Agent Scully, that I was very glad you called."

"Dana," she corrected.  

"Dana.  This thing is just a nightmare.  I know you already
know this, but there is absolutely no truth to this allegation."

Scully nodded.  She had never doubted the fact, but it was
still nice to hear Sullivan's reassurance.

"You may not be aware of this, but the party is seriously
considering me as a candidate for the Presidency in 2000. I
suspect this is all part of a carefully designed plot to
dissuade me from running.  Unfortunately, your father's name
somehow got mixed into the whole mess to make the story sound
more convincing.  I suppose it would have been too convenient a
story if mine was the only name mentioned.  I can't tell you how
sorry I am about that."

Mulder, true to his promise, had remained silent.  Scully slid
a glance in his direction, hoping to read from his expression
whether or not he believed Sullivan's story.  Her partner,
though, seemed more interested in the painting above the mantel
than in the conversation.

"You say this may be politically motivated.  If so, why would
the individual with these documents be trying to blackmail you? 
Why not just publish the information?"

"I've thought about that, Dana.  They've offered to sell the
documents to the State Department and to the FBI.  Now anyone
with an ounce of sense would know those agencies would never
agree to that sort of deal.  I, on the other hand, might be
tempted to pay to suppress the evidence, rather than let that
kind of information go public.  If my political enemies had
proof that I paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to cover up
evidence of my treason, my career would be over in an instant. 
Once these people, whoever they are, become convinced that I
won't succumb to their blackmail attempt, I've no doubt the
information will be offered up to the press."

His story sounded plausible, even likely, given the volatile
atmosphere of politics.  It seemed as if there was always some
juicy new scandal in the papers diverting the public's attention
from the more important issues of taxation or welfare.  She
wished there was some consolation she could offer, but she
couldn't even promise to expend her best effort as an
investigator.  Not as long as she was trapped behind a desk in
the Bureau basement.  "I'm afraid I haven't been given much
access to information about the case, but I'll certainly keep
you informed of any progress made." 

"I appreciate that.  Justine -- my wife -- she's been terribly
upset by this.  It's difficult being married to a public figure
under the best of circumstances.  I thought about not telling
her at all, you know, until everything blew over, but she
figured out right away that something was wrong.  I got the
whole lecture about not keeping secrets from the people who love
me."

Scully sensed without looking that Mulder's attention had
rejoined the conversation and that he was watching and waiting
for her response to Sullivan's last statement.  "Well, I'm sure
you were handling things the way you felt you needed to, and I'm
sure she respects that."

"I'm not so certain respect for me actually entered her mind
when she was calling me a stubborn, pig-headed fool."

Mulder chuckled a little under his breath, just loudly enough
for Scully to hear.  

"Speaking of Justine, she'll be wanting to get on with dinner.
Shall we?"  The Senator stood and motioned for the agents to
precede him out of the study and down the hall to the dining
room. ____________

Justine Sullivan was prime First Lady material.  She was
gracious, poised, charming and beautiful.  Scully guessed that
she was younger than her husband by at least twenty years, but
she wasn't a bimbo that Sullivan had selected as a wife merely
for her decorative appeal.  The statuesque brunette possessed a
keen intelligence.  Her every word and gesture painted a picture
of the perfect, devoted mate.

Scully wasn't convinced.  There was a vaguely perceptible air
of falseness surrounding the woman, as if she were performing a
role for her guests rather than reacting sincerely.  It was a
kind of artificiality that seemed to beguile men, but that
another woman could sense almost immediately.

During dinner, Mulder and the Senator had discovered their
shared interest in basketball, and the Senator had offered her
partner a viewing of his prized collection of autographed
basketball memorabilia.  Sullivan had displayed a little of the
chauvinism common in men his age when he suggested that she and
Justine stay behind to enjoy some tea and gossip.  In truth,
Scully was glad for the opportunity to speak with the woman in
the Senator's absence. Mulder had seemed surprised when she
agreed to the arrangement so readily, but eagerly followed the
Senator from the room, lured by the temptation of a basketball
utopia.  

Settling back in her chair, Scully adopted a more casual
demeanor for their chat. 

"You have a beautiful home, Justine.  Did you decorate it
yourself?"

Scully noticed Justine visibly stiffen when her husband left
them alone, but the woman answered politely.  "For the most
part, yes. The house has been in Warren's family for
generations.  We're fortunate that our home state is adjacent to
D.C., so we can live here year round and don't have to maintain
two households.  I've been able to put all my time and design
experience into fixing up this place."

"So, you're a designer?"

"For ten years, before I met Warren.  In fact, I met him when
he contracted my firm to update this house."

"What made you give it up?"

Justine smiled, but it was more condescending than sweet.  "You
have no idea what it's like being married to a politician, do
you?"

"Can't say that I do."

"It becomes your life.  There's no room for anything else."

"Do you ever regret it?"

Justine looked questioningly at Scully.  "Sometimes.  Wouldn't
you?"

"I'm not sure it's a choice I ever could have made in the first
place.  My career means a great deal to me."

Justine's chin raised in a gesture of aloofness although her
words lacked the confidence she meant to inflect.  "There are
more important things than a career."  

"Yes, there are."

"I came to that realization when I met Warren, and I knew that
I needed to share my life with someone.  Otherwise whatever
success I might find was meaningless."  

Now it was Scully's turn to cast a speculative eye on Justine.
She recognized the well-rehearsed proclamation of "love above
all else" for what it was:  a public relations sound bite.  

"What about you, Dana?  Is there anything for which you would
be willing to sacrifice your career?"  What a polite little
dance: both women, acutely aware of their mutual distrust,
trying to learn each other's weakness through small talk.  

"I'm sure there are any number of things.  Right now, though,
the most important thing to me is finding out who is behind the
lies about my father.  I won't be able to rest until I know."

"And if it costs you your career?"

"I hope that it won't come to that, but if it does, it will be
worth the loss just to be able to prove that my father wasn't a
traitor."

Justine raised her cup in salute.  "Well then, here's hoping
your search for the answers doesn't exact too painful a
sacrifice."  

Scully ignored the thinly veiled warning and swallowed her
retort along with the last sip of her tea.  She heard Mulder
returning and excused herself, anxious not only to part company
with Mrs. Sullivan, but to get home so she could research the
woman's background.

With as hasty a farewell as courtesy allowed, she bid the
Senator a good evening and ushered her partner out the door.

She was practically jogging to the car when Mulder caught up
with her.  "Wait up, Cinderella.  It's not even close to
midnight yet. What's the hurry?"

She forced herself to slow down.  "No hurry.  I just think we
got everything we could from the Senator.  Have to get home and
get my beauty sleep if I'm going to tackle another mountain of
paperwork tomorrow."

He hooked her elbow with his hand and pulled her around so he
could see her face.  "Are you sure there isn't something else?"

"I'm sure, Mulder.  Really.  Now let's get going before our
coach turns into a pumpkin." 

She walked ahead and sensed that he was hesitating.  Damn him
for knowing her too well.  She just prayed that he'd let it go. 
She needed to get home, get comfortable, and start her
investigation on Justine Sullivan.  With nothing more than
intuition guiding her, she felt certain that the path to the
truth would lead her right back to Justine.  Involving Mulder at
this point, she told herself, would be premature.  Once she had
more to go on, she'd share her suspicions with him.  Propped up
by her self-deception she was able to cast a teasing look back
at her partner.  "Coming, my prince?"

He launched himself forward and was at her side in two quick
strides.  Taking her hand and laying it in the crook of his arm,
he squired her down the brick pathway to the car.

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

I knew she was keeping something from me as soon as we left the
Sullivan mansion, but I let her get away with it.  I'm not sure
why.  Maybe it was because we'd spent the better part of the day
at odds, and I sensed she was finally warming up to me again. 
If I'd tried to force an explanation from her that evening, she
would have withdrawn.  

Naively, I had thought that if I was patient, she would come to
me with whatever was bothering her.  She was quiet during the
ride home.  Quiet, but not relaxed.  She was concentrating on
something and I assumed she would share whatever theory she was
concocting when it gelled into a cohesive whole.

I blame myself for what happened next.  I had allowed myself to
become too distracted in watching her as she stepped gracefully
from my car, and not vigilant enough in watching *out* for her
as she crossed the street.  

Perhaps if I'd been more observant of the surroundings and not
lost in visions of how beautiful she'd looked that night, I
might have seen the danger approaching.

Instead of letting my imagination whisper its fantasies in my
ear, I should have listened for the squealing of tires.  

My mouth, tingling from a daydream about what she would have
done if I'd kissed her goodnight, should have been shouting a
warning.

So in the end, I'm as much to blame as the driver of the car
that hit her.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

End part 3/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"
_________________________________________________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 4/8

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

My heart stopped until I was certain that hers had not.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ 

Even as she was trying to sit up, he was gently pushing her
back to the ground.  "Scully, stay still."

He reached for his cell phone with one hand while the other
held her shoulder in an effort to keep her immobile.  Twisting
from his grasp, she pulled the phone from his hand before he
could dial the first digit.  "I'm fine, Mulder.  I told you."  

By her tone he could tell she was getting angry, but he was
more interested in preserving her health than her mood.  "We'll
let the paramedics decide that."

"I'll thank you to remember that I am a doctor.  I would tell
you if I needed to go to the hospital."  

"Scully --"

She laid the phone beside her and reached up to brush a hand
across his lapel.  "Please.  I just want to go inside."

It was too dark to adequately assess her condition, but the
streetlight afforded enough illumination for him to see the
pleading look in her eyes.  "Still, I should call this in.  It
was a hit and run.  We have to report it."

"Did you get the license number?"

He shook his head.

"Then I'm not sure what good it will do to call."

"Someone tried to kill you."

"It could have been an accident."

"Is that what you believe?"

She didn't have to answer.  In their profession, and especially
because of their involvement with the X-Files, it was always
safer to assume that someone was out to get them.  The phone
call could wait, he decided.  And if she was going to be
obstinate about getting medical attention, he at least wanted to
get her to a more comfortable environment.  He pocketed the
phone and tried to slide his arms beneath her so he could carry
her into the building.

She squirmed angrily away.  "Damn it, Mulder.  Let me go."  

He stood back and let her manage on her own, even though it was
difficult to watch her struggle to her feet.  He made a mental
note of Scully's aversion to being carried, deciding not to try
it again unless circumstances gave him no other choice.

Mulder followed behind his partner as she limped toward the
building entrance.  Although it was evident from the careful way
she was walking that she was in pain, he didn't offer any
further assistance.  He decided to wait until she asked.

True to form, she didn't ask, even as she made an achingly slow
climb up the entry stairs.  It wasn't until they reached her
door and her shaking hand refused to still long enough to insert
the key into the lock, that she surrendered a little of her
control and handed the key to him.  Another time he might have
teased her for her stubbornness.  It hardly seemed appropriate
in the wake of the near-tragedy only a few minutes before.

She led the way into the apartment and switched on the overhead
light.  The brightness revealed what had been hidden by the
darkness outside and the dim lighting in the hallway.  

Scully was a mess.  Her clothing was torn; there was blood
staining the sleeve of her jacket.  A long scrape, which started
somewhere on the portion of thigh hidden by her skirt, ripped
down to her ankle.  

Mulder took it all in as his gaze swept down her body, but
since she was turned away from him, he was seeing only half the
picture.

"You can go home now, Mulder.  I'll be fine."

"You don't look fine."  She remained standing with her back to
him and he had to walk around her to see her face.  Her
exquisite features had been spared the insult of scrapes and
bruises, but her eyes reflected the terror of being lifted into
the air and tossed back to the ground by a ton of speeding
metal.  

Mulder was sure that fear shone vividly from his own eyes.  The
image of her motionless body lying in the street was forever
burned into his vision.  

"Did you hit your head?"

She lowered her face and shook her head.  "No.  I don't think
so. I just need to get cleaned up and I'll be okay."

Unconvinced, he lifted her chin with a gentle finger so he
could more closely examine her.  There was a tiny bruise right
at her hairline that he'd missed at first glance.  He touched it
lightly and she flinched.  He whispered the words: "I'm sorry."  

His fingers drifted back into her hair and he delicately traced
them over her head, ostensively to check for hidden injuries.
But there was another reason.  As he stood before her, feeling
her hair caress his hands, watching as her body relaxed under
his touch until her eyes drifted closed, he was exorcising the
terrible demon that had forced him to watch as a car slammed
into her, hurling her to the pavement before speeding away in
the darkness.  He was reliving those eternal seconds that he'd
spent urging his weakened legs to run through the quagmire of
his own fear to reach her side. 

In a gesture meant to comfort her and reassure him, he pulled
her forward until she was pressed against him.  One hand
continued to stroke her hair and the other slid down her back to
draw her even closer.

"Mulder."  She spoke his name on the breath of a sigh:  a
softly uttered prayer.  There was gratitude there, colored with
a hint of request.  Although he heard her, he chose to pretend
otherwise just to revel in her presence for a few seconds longer.

"Mulder, I'm getting blood on your clothes."

When he considered all he could have lost, but that
happenstance or divine intervention had chosen to spare, he
couldn't help but smile.  "I don't care, Scully.  It's just a
suit."

At that, and only for a moment, she doffed the armor of
professional distance, leaned into his body, and allowed him to
shelter her in his arms.  He was bathed in the sweetness of the
rare intimacy.  The insistent, nagging voice in his head that
warned him of the dangers inherent in needing her too much, was
for once, hushed.  Mulder buried his face in her hair and
unthinkingly tightened his embrace.  At her slight hiss of pain,
he immediately released her and stumbled back.  

He opened his mouth to apologize, but she spoke first, her
voice roughened by pain and, he wondered, if maybe by a bit of
suppressed emotion.  "I'm okay, Mulder.  Just a few cuts and
bruises.  I'll feel better after a shower."  She walked toward
her bedroom, leaving Mulder standing in the middle of her living
room, unsure of whether he should leave or stay.

She made the decision for him when she stopped at the doorway
and turned around.  She looked uncharacteristically timid and
kept her focus away from him.  "Could you . . I may need some
help bandaging the cuts on my back.  Do you think . . ?"

Mulder fought the temptation to bound across the room and kiss
her until the pain was a distant memory.  For some reason, her
asking him for first aid seemed a major breakthrough in their
relationship.  Deciding it would be prudent not to appear
overeager, he stayed put.  "I'd be happy to.  Do you want
anything to drink?  I could fix us something while you're
getting cleaned up."

"No, thanks.  But help yourself to anything I've got."

He was glad for her unintentional innuendo.  It transplanted
the heightened awareness of each other to more familiar ground. 
She did look at him then, in time to witness his overtly comic
leer. She shook her head, softly groaned at his absurd display,
and left the room. ____________

He breathed a sigh of relief when she returned.  Her wounds,
once cleaned of blood and dirt, appeared much less serious. 
Smears of ointment covered the abrasions on her arms and legs. 
Small bandages dressed the deeper cuts.  She had managed to
competently tend to those injuries, but he was still anxious to
check her back.  He needed to do that for her, perhaps even more
than she needed to have it done.  The emotional wound that began
tearing at him the instant she hit the ground, would be healed
only when he was convinced she was well.

"So, did you bring the bandages?  You know, you're mighty lucky
I make house calls."

"That's okay.  The cuts aren't as bad as I thought they were."
Apparently, at the same time she was treating the physical
damages, she was also repairing the barriers he had temporarily
destroyed.

Not to be dissuaded, Mulder took her by the hand and led her to
the sofa.  "You know I have great confidence in your ability as
a physician, but even you can't see your own back."  He
positioned her so that she was sitting sideways on the couch,
facing away from him.

"Mulder, I don't think --"

"Shhh.  Let me do this."

She acquiesced, although the tension in her body was
unmistakable. She had put on a pair of loose shorts and an old,
soft t-shirt after her shower.  It was apparel chosen for
comfort rather than allure, and yet Mulder's heart sped up a
little as he lifted the hem of her shirt.  

The sensation of arousal, while not surprising given that he
was, for all intents and purposes, undressing a woman he found
to be particularly beautiful, was unwelcome under the
circumstances. He stomped down on the urge to touch her in any
but the most clinical of ways, and concentrated on the task at
hand.

As he uncovered her lower back, he found a red mark on the
right side that would likely darken into a bruise, but the skin
had not been broken.  Inch after inch of bare, pale skin was
revealed as he pulled her shirt slowly higher.  The perfection
was interrupted by an occasional small scratch or bruise, but he
thought perhaps she had been correct:  that her back had
received only superficial injuries.

Attempting to lift the fabric a bit higher, he felt some
resistance and realized she was tugging her shirt down in front.
He assumed it was for modesty's sake.  After all, she wasn't
wearing a bra. He recognized her vulnerability in that
situation, even though he knew she trusted him not to take
advantage. 

But the real reason for her protest became clear when he
uncovered what she had been trying to hide.  An angry, jagged
laceration tore across her shoulder blade.  The bleeding had
stopped, and she had somehow managed to clean it, but it would
be physically impossible for her to apply the bandage it so
obviously needed.

"Damn it, Scully.  You should have told me it was this bad. 
Are you sure you don't need stitches?"

She was still trying to pull her shirt down.  "It's fine."

"If you say so, but you do understand that I won't leave here
until I've taken care of that cut, so you may as well save
yourself the trouble of arguing."  He let go of her shirt and
stood, positioning himself so he could see her face, and more
importantly, so she could see how absolutely serious he was. 
"Now.  Where are the bandages?"

Surprisingly, she didn't seem all that angry with him.  He
suspected the perturbed tone she used to direct him to the first
aid kit was a pride-preserving mechanism.  That was fine with
him. He would allow her that.  Just as long as she allowed him
to play "doctor" for a while longer.

Once the cut was bandaged, Mulder spent a few uncomfortable
minutes playing "cop."  He insisted that she try to recall the
details of the incident while they were fresh in her mind. 
Unfortunately, her recollection, while clear, did not provide
any clues to the identity of the driver.  And while there were
any number of people who might harbor some resentment toward her
-- from Ted in Accounting whose dinner invitation she had
refused, to the men and women who were serving extended prison
sentences thanks to her skill as an investigator -- not one of
them stood out as the most likely suspect.  

They discussed the possibility that it could be related to the
treason investigation of Senator Sullivan and her father.  Given
the fact, though, that she had no official access to the case
and her extracurricular investigation had resulted in little
more than a pleasant dinner with the Senator and his wife, there
was no logical motive for anyone to target Scully.

Mulder tried a few other questioning techniques, in the hope of
jarring loose some memory that might give them a direction to
follow, but her patience wore thin and she made it clear that
she had told him all she remembered.  If she recalled anything
else, she vowed he would be the first to know.  Out of respect
for her, and because she looked completely exhausted, he dropped
the subject.

By 11:30, he'd run out of excuses to stay, so after making her
promise to go to bed as soon as he left, he bid her goodnight
and went directly to their office to begin what was ultimately a
night of fruitless database searches.

If she hadn't been so weary from her ordeal, she might have
have taken the time to inquire about his plans.  She never would
have assumed he was going straight home for a good night's rest.
She was rarely that imperceptive, and the fact that she let him
out the door without some sort of admonishment was proof of how
badly she'd been shaken.

While he had intended to spend the night tracking down the
person responsible for Scully's injuries, he quickly discovered
it wouldn't be easy.  The darkness would have made it difficult,
even without the distraction of his fallen partner, to determine
the make or model of the car.  They were both fairly certain it
had been a black sedan, but with only those sketchy parameters,
the vehicle locator had found tens of thousands of cars matching
that description in the D.C. area.  It would be impossible to
glean any sort of suspect list without more specific details.

He did recall one significant feature of the car; its license
plate had been removed. That confirmed that the responsible
party wasn't some drunken businessman who had fled the scene in
fear of the legal reprisals of his actions.  Whoever had hurt
Scully had done so deliberately. 

From there, Mulder was able to conclude something else.  The
driver of the car hadn't been trying to kill her.  The measures
that had been taken to thwart identification were hallmarks of a
professional hit.  If this person had wanted her dead, she would
be lying in a morgue right now, instead of safely tucked in her
own bed.

No.  It wasn't a bungled attempt at murder.

It was a warning. ____________

She turned off the alarm ten minutes before it was set to ring.
The drag of starchy sheets over the raw flesh of her leg had
been more than a sufficient wake-up call.

Running through a quick assessment of her condition as she
hobbled toward the bathroom, she noted that the sting of the
cuts and scrapes had lessened overnight, but now her muscles
were bitterly complaining about the abuse they had sustained. 
Even the most innocuous of movements was difficult, as if she
had to put extra concentration into getting her limbs to do her
bidding.  

Despite efforts to keep to her regular morning routine, Scully
found herself falling behind schedule.  In her opinion, her
body's lack of cooperation couldn't have come at a more
inopportune time. She had much she wanted to accomplish,
including some excavation into Justine Sullivan's past.  That
task was her first priority. In spite of what she had indicated
to Mulder, intuition was telling her that Justine, while not
necessarily the driver, was the driving force behind last
night's incident.

Forgoing her normal breakfast of toast and fruit, Scully sat
down only long enough for a few sips of coffee and to peruse the
headlines of the morning paper.

But what she discovered when she opened the newspaper radically
altered her plans for the day.

For the first time in her professional career, Dana Scully was
lying when she called in sick. ___________

The woman behind the counter appeared utterly unimpressed with
Scully's credentials.  No doubt this matriarch of the reception
desk had daily encounters with angry subscribers, persistent
salespeople and pushy young journalism students looking for a
job.  Her sour disposition and stern countenance would be
effective deterrents to all but the most determined of visitors.

"Who'd you want to see again?"

"Barry Lucerne."

"And I assume you have an appointment with Mr. Lucerne?"

"No.  But it's urgent that I speak to him."

"I'm sorry."  She didn't sound at all sorry.  "Mr. Lucerne
doesn't see anyone without an appointment."

"I don't think you understand, Miss . . ."

"Mrs.  Mrs. Nadine Pollard.  And I do understand.  You're going
to tell me this is an official call and Mr. Lucerne should drop
everything to accommodate you.  I'm sure the badge frightens
most people into doing just that.  But, of course, as an
investigative journalist, Mr. Lucerne is used to being badgered
by the police and he is well aware of when it is in his best
interest to speak with them, and when it is not."

The instinct was the grab this unpleasant woman around her
skinny little neck, and demand that she point the way to Barry
Lucerne's office.  If her years with Mulder had taught her
nothing else, though, Scully had learned the art of restraint. 
"I certainly appreciate that Mr. Lucerne would want to be
cautious, but --"

"Nadine?"

Scully was interrupted when a handsome sandy-haired man leaned
up against the counter beside her.  He was speaking to the
receptionist, but his appraising eyes never left Scully.

"Are you trying to keep this lovely woman from seeing me?"

"I was explaining to Agent Scully that --"

"Agent?  As in FBI?  I'm impressed.  Usually law enforcement
agencies send some burly guy who looks like he's OD'd on
testosterone.  Probably just to shake me up.  But I have to tell
you, this is a much better tactic because I'm shaking already."

Her restraint reserves were perilously close to depletion, but
she managed to keep the disgust out of her voice when she
responded to the reporter.  "I'd like to ask you some questions
about the series you plan to publish next week.  It will only
take a few minutes."

"I'll probably regret this.  Nadine, give the lady a visitor's
pass."

Scully felt a measure of satisfaction at having evaded the
troll at the reception desk, although she wasn't particularly
pleased that it was her looks and not her professionalism that
had given her the advantage.  The defeated Nadine made a last
ditch effort to humiliate her, pushing the pass at Scully so
forcefully that it slid off the edge of the counter.  For the
first time that day the agent's sore muscles obeyed her wishes
without argument and she was able to snag the piece of plastic
before it tumbled to the floor.  She clipped the visitor's tag
on her lapel, smiled sweetly at the glowering Mrs. Pollard, and
followed Barry Lucerne through the busy hallways of the
Washington Chronicle.

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

It was a line I thought she wouldn't cross.  

I was so certain she understood the turning point we had
reached the day before.  We had agreed that it was okay to ask
for help; that it could be given and accepted without fear of
rejection.  I was sure she knew that whatever she was feeling
about the accusations against her father, she could express it
to me.  And that any further nosing around in the case, however
ill-advised it might be, should be done together.  

No, we'd never actually spoken the words, but I hadn't thought
they were necessary.  We had always communicated that way --
letting looks and touches say what we were afraid to verbalize. 
It is, sadly, not the flawless system I had believed it to be.

Scully had called in sick.  Scully *never* calls in sick -- not
for a cold, not for the flu, and certainly not for a few bumps
and bruises.  A call like that, coming while her father was
under investigation for treason, made the timing of her illness
suspiciously convenient.  That, combined with the fact that she
had a personnel clerk deliver the message rather than call me
directly, set off all the alarms.

I'm a man with a reputation for operating on instinct, but this
time I desperately wanted to be wrong.  Even as I drove to her
apartment, I was trying to convince myself that she hadn't done
it.

I was so determined to believe her, that I stopped on the way
and bought her some chicken soup as a get-well gesture.  Only I
think I needed the soup more than she did, because when I
arrived at her apartment, the truth of the situation was
nauseatingly clear.  

I had been ditched.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

End part 4/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"

____________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 5/8

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

If this is her idea of payback, the timing stinks. 

Maybe there's never a right time for being left behind to wait
and worry.  All I know is that her absence leaves me alone with a
myriad of unpleasant emotions, each one visiting me like a ghost
from a Dickens tale and leaving its mark on my soul.

Anger came first.  When I arrived to find her gone, I was livid. 
Here was incontrovertible proof that the person I trust above all
others had lied.  The damp towel by the shower, the cosmetics
strewn on the counter, the half-empty cup of coffee on the
kitchen
table:  these were evidence of her deceit.  Not only was she well
enough to leave the house, she was well enough to drink a cup of
that awful hazelnut blend she prefers.

I spent the next half-hour cleaning up the soup I had angrily
thrown across her kitchen.  That's when the guilt set in.  Very
little of my self-blame had to do with the fact that soup was
dripping down the front of her cabinets onto her spotless tile
floor.  It was focused on the disturbing realization that I'd
never
given her a reason to come to me with a personal concern.  Is it
any wonder she might doubt my dedication to her, when I've only
talked about my dedication to the X-Files and the search for my
sister? 

But worst of all was the fear I felt when I overheard the message
being left on her answering machine.  I heard the phone ring,
then
Scully's clear voice politely ask the caller to leave a message,
but I couldn't reach the phone before the caller, in a menacing,
distorted voice, delivered his threat and hung up.

A stranger has put into words my worst nightmare and I can do
nothing but sit and wait and try for the twentieth time to reach
her on her cell phone.  In the meantime, I have plenty of time to
contemplate the possibility that Dana Scully is out there
somewhere, dying from a gunshot wound -- alone -- while the man
who
should have been protecting her was wiping up chicken soup.

How could I have been such a coward?  I've never told her how
deeply I care for her for fear that if I did, she would leave
me. 
Yes, she lied to me today.  So what?  I've been lying to her for
years.

It might cost us our partnership, our friendship, or it might
bring
us together in a way I dream about nearly every minute of every
day.  Most importantly, it might save her life.  Whatever the
outcome, the pretense is going to end the moment she walks
through
that door.  Whether she likes it or not, Dana Scully will know
the
truth.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

The average reporter at the Washington Chronicle worked at a
small
desk in the midst of a sea of other small desks in the middle
of a
huge, noisy newsroom.  A select few occupied the offices on the
newsroom perimeter, but only the "stars" had windows.  Barry
Lucerne had the corner office.

Scully knew of his reputation for no-holds-barred reporting;  it
hadn't won him any friends in Washington power circles, but it
had
won him countless journalism awards.  Lives had been shattered by
Barry Lucerne's words, and now she was at his mercy.  There was
little comfort to be taken from the thought.

He cleared some papers from the guest chair and motioned for
her to
sit.  "Coffee?"  

Thus far Mr. Lucerne had been a solicitous host.  Certainly he
was 
attractive with his tanned skin, light hair and green eyes in
mesmerizing combination.  Yet there was an air of lechery about
him
that Scully instantly despised.  Her typical response would be to
hold him at bay with the same chilly detachment that worked so
well
for her in similar situations.  In this case, however, she
found it
necessary to swallow her pride and smile prettily, even if it
made
her face hurt.  "No, thank you."  

"Wise decision."  He purposely raised his voice so as to be heard
by the young man sitting at the desk just outside the office. 
"The
intern makes coffee that tastes like toxic sludge."

"Up yours, Lucerne," was the intern's reply.

The reporter closed the door and settled into the leather chair
behind his desk.  "They love me around here."

"I can tell."

"So, you said you wanted to talk to me about next week's
column?" 

"Today's advertisement implies you've discovered evidence that a
powerful U.S. Senator was once a spy for the Communists.  May I
assume the 'spy' to whom you refer is Senator Sullivan?"

"Somehow I don't think that was just a lucky guess."  His voice
lost some of its slippery charm.

"I have reason to believe he's being set up."

"There are documents that say he's a traitor."

"Could I see those documents?"

"Look, Agent . . . what was your name again?"

"Scully.  Dana Scully."

"Agent Scully.  Unless you have something to . . ."  His voice
trailed off and he leaned forward, looking at her intently.  She
knew the game was up.

"Well, I'll be damned.  This isn't a Bureau matter at all, is
it?"

"The Bureau is conducting an investigation."

"But something tells me you aren't on the team.  Of course, it
could just be an incredible coincidence that the investigating
agent shares a last name with one of the co-conspirators
against the government.  Is that all it is, Agent Scully?  A
coincidence?"

"No, Mr. Lucerne.  William Scully was my father.  And I can tell
you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was never disloyal to
his
country."

"So this was your idea, or did Daddy send his sexy little
daughter
down here to persuade me to pull my column?"

She bristled at the suggestion.  "My father is deceased, and no
one
sent me.  I'm here because someone is using you, Mr. Lucerne, and
if you follow through with this column, a lot of innocent people
will be hurt."

"Including you, I'll bet.  The FBI probably frowns on employing
traitors, or their family members."

"My father was not a traitor."

"According to my source, he was."

"Your source is misleading you."

"Somehow, I don't think so.  I consider my source unimpeachable. 
Believe me, this person has as much to lose as you, maybe more,
yet
is providing me with proof anyway.  You, on the other hand, have
entirely selfish motives."

"You say your source is providing the proof?  Does this mean you
aren't yet in possession of this evidence?"

"I think I've said all I care to about the matter, Agent Scully.
I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  Lucerne stood
and gestured to the door.  "I would say it's been a pleasure, but
it wasn't nearly as pleasurable as I had hoped."

She handed him her business card as she passed.  "Be careful who
you trust, Mr. Lucerne.  There are very few selfless people out
there."

"I've managed to survive on my instincts for this long, Agent
Scully.  There's no advice you could give me that I don't already
know."

"So I guess I'm wasting my breath in reminding you to look both
ways before crossing the street.  Have a good day."

Scully left the reporter standing in the doorway of his office,
no
doubt trying to solve the riddle of her parting comment.  She
made
her way through the maze of desks, down the corridor and to the
reception area.  She unclipped her visitor's pass and slid it,
just
a little too forcefully, across the counter to Nadine.  She heard
it hit the floor as she exited the building.
____________

Barry Lucerne waited until the agent was out of sight before he
slipped back inside his office, closed the door, and dialed the
number he had been told to use only in an emergency.  He figured
this qualified.

The phone rang just once before it was answered.

"It's me.  I think we have a problem."
____________

When he heard the key turn in the lock, he immediately ran to the
door and yanked it open.  She stumbled forward in surprise.  

"Mulder.  What . . . what are you doing here?"

He looked her over.  She wasn't sick, nor was she injured -- just
her usual perfectly polished self.  No longer held down by the
weight of worry, his anger bubbled back to the surface.  "I came
over to see if you were feeling better."

She waved vaguely behind her.  "I was just --"

"But you seem to have made a miraculous recovery."

"This is not --"

"Not what, Scully?  Not what it seems?  I hope not, because it
*seems* like you lied about being sick so you could go off for
some
solo investigating."

She pushed by him and proceeded with her just-home-from-work 
ritual -- shuffling through mail, taking off her jacket, removing
her gun -- as if he wasn't even there, even after he kicked her
door closed with wall-jarring impact.  

"Tell me I'm wrong."  He took a step toward her and spoke in an
furious whisper.

At least, when she finally glanced up at him, she had the good
sense to look guilty.  "Mulder --"

Another step.  Louder.  "Tell me."

"I don't--"

Another step.  "Tell me!"   

"Then let me finish a sentence, for God's sake." 

"Why?  So you can lie to me again?"

"I didn't lie to you."

"No.  Not directly.  You sent a clerk to deliver your lie.  That
doesn't absolve you."

"Fine."  She crossed the short distance to her front door and
swung
it open.  "I was following up on a lead in my father's case.  Now
you know the truth, and now you can leave."

Although he had clearly been dismissed, he had no intention of
leaving.  They stared at each other for a time, playing a child's
game of seeing who would blink first.  Eventually, it was Scully
who ended it when she shut the door and resumed her busywork.

He said nothing else until she reached for the play button on her
answering machine.  "Let me save you the trouble.  Someone,
either
with a device to disguise his voice or with a real unfortunate
speech impediment, called to warn you off of your investigation."

"It could have been a prank."

"Oh, yeah.  I'm sure that's it.  Probably the same practical
joker
who tried to amuse you by running you down with his car."

Still turned away from him, she planted one hand on her hip and
tried to rub the tension out of her neck with the other.  "I
won't
go into hiding, Mulder, if that's what you want."

Moving in behind her, he nudged her hand out of the way with his
own and took over as masseur:  a peace offering of sorts.  "I'm
not asking you to.  I'm only asking that you not make yourself an
easy target."  He pulled her around to face him, softening his
admonishing words with gentle, smoothing strokes of his hands
over
her shoulders.  "What were you thinking, taking off today without
any sort of back up?"

"I was thinking that someone needs to find out the source of
these
lies about my father, and no one else is even bothering to look. 
So if the truth is ever going to be found, I'm the one who is
going
to have to find it."

"Alone?"

She stepped away from him again.  "This isn't an X-File.  It
doesn't have anything to do with you."

"You see, Scully, that's where you're wrong."  He felt like he'd
been chasing her around the room ever since she arrived home. 
Every time he got near her, she moved away.  This time he stayed
back, hoping words would close the distance.  "For the past few
days, I've been giving this situation a lot of thought.  Where do
I draw the line?  When is it okay for me to step aside and let
you
risk your career, maybe your life, on some renegade quest to
clear
your father's name?  You want to know what I've discovered?"

"You're giving me a choice?"

"No.  I'm not.  Whether or not you want to hear this, I need to
say
it.  I realize I should have said it a long time ago."

She leaned up against the arm of the couch.  Not quite standing,
not quite sitting, but making herself more comfortable in order
to
listen to him.  He was heartened by the message in her body
language.

"I've always been my own man.  Never too dependent on anyone
else. 
There were a few friends along the way, but I didn't let myself
get
attached.  It was safer. Less chance of getting hurt.  When you
and
I became partners, I tried to keep you at that same distance, and
the ironic thing is, until a couple of days ago, I thought I had
succeeded."

"Mul--"

He shook his head at her interruption.  "Let me finish, then
you'll
get your turn."  

She nodded slowly, giving him conditional permission to
continue. 
This was her turf.  She could, at any time, exercise her right to
pitch him out onto the curb if she decided she'd heard enough. 
In
truth, a small part of him was hoping she would call a halt to
his
confession before he reached the point of no return.

With all the thought and rehearsal he had put into this speech
while waiting for her, he had expected it to be easier to deliver
when the time came.  He found the only way he could keep the
words
flowing smoothly was to pace back and forth, and to look at
anything -- knick-knacks, pictures -- anything except her.  

"When I saw what was happening to you -- that you were shutting
me
out because you considered this situation with your father to be
too personal -- it hurt.  I didn't understand why at first.  I
wasn't sure I liked that you had so much power over me.  And yet,
I've concluded it was power I gave you willingly.  I allowed
myself
to need you, even when I kept telling myself I didn't."   

He stopped in front of her and reached out to caress her cheek,
to
tilt her face up toward his for a better view of her reaction.
"I'm not my own man anymore, Scully.  Part of me belongs to you."

"Mulder --"  His name came out more gasp than word.

"Last night, when I saw that car hit you, I felt the impact just
as keenly as if I'd been the one standing in the street.  My body
suffered the pain of every bruise and cut on yours.  And when you
left me behind today, half of my soul went with you and the rest
sat here in this apartment and worried that if you didn't come
back, that piece of me would be lost with you."

She brushed his hand away from her face and stood, ready to make
another escape.  "I can't hear this.  I can't deal with this. 
Not
right now."  

With a restraining hand around her wrist, he kept her from 
fleeing. "I was a bitter, isolated person.  You saved me,
Scully. 
I owe you too much to just stand back and allow you to become
what
I used to be."

He knew he'd chosen the wrong word as soon as it left his mouth,
and she latched onto it like a lifeline.  "You owe me?  So this
is what?  Your way of paying a debt?  I bet they love you down at
the phone company."

He leaned toward her and spoke softly in her ear. "You know what
I'm telling you.  Don't pretend that you don't."  

A shiver ran through her body -- he felt it -- and he took it
as a
sign.  He pulled her closer.  

She shoved him away.  

"I think you should leave now."

"Not until you've had your say.  I promised you a turn,
remember?"

"You won't want to hear what I have to say."

"If it's the truth, I want to hear it."

"All right then."  She took a deep breath and squared her
shoulders, and Mulder was hit with the full force of her anger. 
"You are a selfish, hypocritical man.  How dare you try to make
this about you."

"I wasn't --"

"Shut up.  How dare you try to make me feel guilty for leaving
you
out of my personal life, when you have never, *never* allowed me
into yours." 

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"And this new openness, Mulder, how long will it last?  Until
this
situation with my father is resolved?  Until we find out who is
behind these threats to my life?  I'll tell you when.  Until the
moment you get a lead on your sister.  Then you'll be gone and
I'll
be the one left behind and hurting."

There it was.  Fear of being hurt.  They had used it to build a
barricade on the border between friends and lovers.  He had torn
down his walls.  Now he had to convince Scully to dismantle hers.

"I wouldn't hurt you."  He meant it.  He had never meant anything
more.  And still she didn't believe him.

"But you would.  You do.  Every time you take off without me. 
Maybe this is a new feeling for you -- this pain you say I've
caused you.  Believe me, I know exactly how miserable it feels
because it's not new for me.  You say I have power over you. 
What
you don't realize, apparently, is that you've always had that
power
over me.  Why should I give you any more when it will only make
the
pain more unbearable the next time you leave."

"I won't.  You have to trust me."

"I do trust you with so many things, but --"

He closed the space between them and slipped his arms around
her. 
"Trust me with this."

"I can't," she protested, but her voice had lost its strength.

"You can."  He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the temple. 
The cheek.  The lips.  "I think you already do."

He drew back slightly to look at her.  Her eyes were closed.  Her
lips parted just slightly.  She looked for all the world like a
woman waiting to be kissed again.  And so he obliged her.  

This kiss was longer, but not relationship-altering.  They could
kiss like this, and leave it there.  Go on as partners without
concern that the other was forever reliving the kiss.

At least, he figured, she could.  This moment would be eternally
ingrained in his memory.

His arms were still holding her, but hers were slack at her
side. 
She wasn't trying to get away, her lips responded to his, and yet
her body was completely non-participatory in the event.  Which
could mean one of two things:  either she was in shock, or she
was
mustering the strength to tear him into tiny bits and distribute
parts of him throughout the room.

Her reaction, when it came, was nothing like what he had
imagined. 
She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck.  She did
use
her strength all right, but only to drag him closer to her.  It
was
she who converted the kiss from friendly to passionate.  And even
beyond that.

Hungry.

Desperate.

His hands began to explore the relatively safe territory of her
back.  He kept his touch light on purpose, remembering, even
though
passion was clouding his reasoning, that she was injured.  

Then she escalated the touching as well, dragging his arm from
behind her and placing his hand on her breast.

And still her mouth seduced his with kisses. 

And bites.

He winced and jerked his hand from her breast to touch his lip
where she had bitten.

Mulder heard her startled gasp.  Apparently she was as
surprised as
he by her frenzied assault on his mouth.  She gently pried his
hand
from his face and moved in to kiss the hurt, dropping soft, sweet
kisses across his lip, and then his chin, and then his throat.

"Scully."

"Hmmm."  Her hands crept down from their resting place on the
back
of his neck, and began to work at the knot of his tie while she
continued to make a path of licks and kisses down his neck.

It took a few seconds for him to relearn the mechanics of
speech. 
"Stop for a second."

"No."

"Scully.  Stop."

She did, although her face remained nestled against his neck
and he
could feel her breath tickling his skin.  The warmth from her
hands
seeped through the front of his shirt.  Her voice, raw with
desire,
was nearly his undoing.  "I need you."

But her actual words, once they registered, doused his arousal
like
a cold shower.  

Need. 

Not want.  

Not love.  

Maybe he was reading too much into the word, but when coupled
with
her reckless, impulsive response to his kiss, reality began to
sink
into his lust-addled brain.  Scully was looking for an escape, an
excuse to forget that her father's reputation and her own career
were on the verge of ruin.  

If they were long-time lovers, he could give her this.  It was
not,
however, an appropriate foundation for a relationship.  No matter
how badly he wanted her, and God, did he ever want her, he would
not risk his future with her by using sex as therapy.

"I should go."  He lifted her hands away from his body.

"Don't go.  Please."  

His body responded eagerly to her pleas, and he found it
necessary to close his eyes.  His noble intent would never
survive if he looked at her.  Just the sight of her, flushed from
the heat they had generated, was too much for his peace of mind. 
"I'm going to leave now, but you have to understand that it's not
because I don't want you.  You know I do."

"Yes."  His eyes snapped open when she brought her hand back to
his
chest and began to trail it downward.  He thwarted its advance
before she progressed far enough to find the irrefutable proof
she
was seeking.

"But sex won't make your problems go away.  It would only
compound
them.  When all this is over, I want to make love to you.  I want
for us to make love with each other.  But only because we want to
share that part of ourselves with each other.  Not for any other
reason."

Her crestfallen expression stabbed him in the heart.  "I'm
sorry. 
I shouldn't have --"

"Nothing that happened here was a mistake.  I don't regret any
part
of it, and neither should you."  He gathered her into his arms
for
a goodbye embrace and touched his lips to hers for a brief kiss. 
He found it suddenly very difficult to carry through with his
honorable intentions to let her go.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Either go or stay, but make up your mind because you're
driving me
crazy."

Willing his arms to release her, he backed toward the door.  It
was
like swimming against a current that was intent on carrying him
to
her.  He wasn't sure how good sense managed to prevail, but
somehow
it did, and he was able to get himself out of her apartment.  

It took several minutes of just sitting in his car for his head
to
clear enough to drive.  He realized he should have reminded her
not
to do any more investigating without him, but now, with all that
had transpired between them, he was sure the reminder was
unnecessary.
____________

She was standing exactly where she had been standing for the past
ten minutes.  Exactly where she had been standing when Mulder
left
her apartment.

For the first time in her life, Dana Scully was experiencing
complete sensory overload.  She was evaluating whether or not
she could make it to the kitchen for a glass of water without
collapsing to the floor along the way.  Yesterday she had been
hit
by a car and it hadn't left her trembling like this.

The ringing telephone shook her out of her stasis.  She prayed it
wasn't Mulder, calling to ask if he could come back.  He had been
right to stop things when he did.  She knew that.  But she hadn't
regained enough control to deny him if he had changed his mind.

She lifted the receiver and someone started speaking before she
could even offer a "Hello."

"Agent Scully?"

"Yes."

"This is Barry Lucerne.  Listen, I think I'm going to need your
help."  His voice sounded different.  Shakier.  "Someone took
some
shots at me as I was leaving the office."

The Mulder-induced anxieties were quashed, and her professional
demeanor slipped into place.  "Are you all right?"

"One bullet grazed my arm.  I fell and hit my head on the curb. 
Doctor says I have a concussion."

"You said you needed my help."

"I think you may be right.  There's more going on with the
Sullivan
story than I thought, and I'm not willing to risk my ass if I'm
being played for the fool.  I was supposed to meet my source this
evening to get the original documents, but obviously I'm not
going
to be able to make it."

"Tell me who, where and when."

She scribbled notes as he relayed the details.

"And, Agent Scully, you were right about something else."

"About what?"

"About not trusting anyone.  Be careful."

She hung up the phone and looked at her watch:  only an hour to
get
to the meeting.  Not much time to decide whether her concern for
Mulder's safety outweighed her desire to have him as a lover, or
even as a partner.

Not much time at all.
____________

End part 5/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"
_________________________________________________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 6/8

She had expected a drinking establishment named "O'Reilly's
Pub" to have a bit of character.  A polished bar made of fine,
dark wood.  Gleaming brass.  A friendly Irishman tending to
customers and yelling out greetings to the regulars.  

This place had none of those things.  

It was unique only in that it was the most nondescript bar Scully
had ever seen.

The interior was drab with mismatched chairs and walls gone gray
from the discoloration of cigarette smoke.  The clientele was
mostly male, mostly white, mostly well on their way to drunk. 
She wondered how Lucerne's contact even knew about this
place, much less chose it for a meeting location.  Then she
decided it made perfect sense.  This was where people went when
they wanted to drown their sorrows without interruption. 
Everyone here seemed so deeply mired in their own despair that
they couldn't spare the energy to pay attention to anyone else.

She slipped through the crowd, still unnoticed by the woman in
the corner booth whom she had come to meet.  Unnoticed, it
seemed, by everyone except for one man who staggered into her
path and used his lack of balance as an excuse to grab her ass. 
She shouldered past him and he tumbled awkwardly into the booth
behind Justine Sullivan.

The Senator's wife, looking impeccable against the rumpled
contrast of the patrons, turned to investigate the disturbance. 
Her interest in the drunk sliding under the table quickly
diverted to the agent standing beside her.  The anxiety Scully
had been feeling about the legitimacy of this meeting was
assuaged by the look of utter shock on Justine's face.  While
Mrs. Sullivan might be a master of deception, there was nothing
feigned about her surprise.

"Agent Scully.  I . . . I wouldn't have expected to find you
here."

"I could say the same about you.  This hardly seems like the type
of place you would go to unwind."

The woman recovered her self-possession quickly.  "Warren and I
try to keep in touch with the constituency."

"Ah, I see.  Hobnobbing with the little people.  May I join you,
or are you expecting someone?"

"As a matter of fact, I am, but perhaps I should check to see if
he's waiting for me outside."  Justine slid toward the end of the
bench, intending to make her escape, but Scully moved up a step
to block her exit.

"Mr. Lucerne sends his regrets.  He asked me to pick up the
documents you were holding for him."  The agent settled into the
seat across from Justine, still maintaining a neutral expression
and forcing herself to speak in a civil tone.

Justine's was the first to abandon the polite affectation.  "That
son of a bitch."

"The documents, Mrs. Sullivan."  Scully held out her hand
expectantly.  

A dangerous light flickered in Justine's dark eyes and she shook
her head.  "No way. If Barry Lucerne doesn't want this story,
there are other reporters who will."

"Well, you see, there's a problem with that.  You are in
possession of stolen diplomatic property.  As a federal agent, it
is my responsibility to take possession of those documents and
bring you into custody.  Rest assured, I will do that.  But you
may finish your drink if you like, because I'm interested to hear
why you've gone to such trouble to destroy your husband's
career."

"A little 'girl talk'?"  Sarcasm dripped from her words.  "Sounds
delightful.  But afterwards I'm afraid I really do have to run. 
Regardless of what you may think of me, Agent Scully, I'm not a
stupid woman.  I had a contingency plan in place, just in case
something should go wrong in my meeting with Mr. Lucerne.  You
see the man across the room in the red windbreaker?"

Scully peered through the smoky haze.  A darkly handsome man in a
faded red jacket looked back.  He raised his beer bottle and
touched it to the bill of his baseball cap in acknowledgement.

"That gentleman is a very devoted companion of mine who is here
to insure my continued good health and freedom.  He has no such
allegiance to you, however, and at this very moment has a nasty
looking gun pointed right at your heart."

The man's right arm was indeed below table level so it was
impossible for Scully to determine whether or not Justine was
telling the truth.

"You must not be so devoted to him, if you're willing to let him
go to jail for murder."

"On the contrary."  Justine took a sip of scotch and then
continued.  "Who do you think bought him the silencer?"

"How considerate of you."

"I thought so."  The drunk who had plowed into Scully when she
came in now stumbled from his booth again, empty glass in hand,
on his way toward the bar.  The movement jostled Justine enough
to slosh scotch out of her glass and onto her expensive suit. 
She set the glass on the table and dabbed at the wet stain with
a napkin as she continued her conversation.  "So, you said you
want to hear my story."

"I have the time, since you've apparently canceled my other plans
for the evening."

"Tell me, Agent Scully, do you like my husband?"

"He seems like a nice man, but I don't know him well enough to
say
for certain."

"Very few people know him well enough to know the truth.  I think
Warren must have been nice once.  Maybe back when your father
knew him.  He can be convincing in the role, at any rate.  Had me
fooled up until the day after our wedding."

"If you're so unhappy, why don't you just leave him?  Why go to
all this trouble?"

"You don't understand.  Warren's only desire in life is to be
President of the United States, and he will not tolerate any sort
of scandal that might interfere with his chances.  He has a large
constituency with the conservative factions, and the last thing
he wants is a messy divorce damaging his reputation with that
group of voters."

"Still --"

"He would kill me before he would let that happen."

"Are you sure about that?"

"He has said so.  Numerous times.  He's even said it might gain
voter sympathy if his wife died unexpectedly on the eve of his
presidential campaign."

"So you masterminded this scandal --"

"To bring him down.  Once he's out of office, he'll have no
reason to deny me a divorce."

"Are the documents real?"

"As real as they need to be."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Justine glanced at her watch.  "I'm sorry to cut our little talk
short, but I really must be going."

"Just tell me this.  Were you responsible for the attempt on my
life last night?"

"While in hindsight that might have been a good idea, I give you
my word I had nothing to do with whatever you're talking about. 
I will take credit for the call on your answering machine.  Barry
Lucerne told me you were asking questions.  If you only would
have heeded my advice, all this unpleasantness could have been
avoided."

"What about the attempt on Lucerne's life?"

"What?  What attempt?"

"Someone took some shots at him this afternoon.  He's in the
hospital, but he'll be fine."

"I'm sure Warren had something to do with it.  He saw the blurb
in this morning's paper about Barry's column next week, and went
through the roof.  Like I said, he doesn't tolerate anyone
interfering with his agenda."

"That still doesn't answer the question of who tried to kill me."

Scully got her first glimpse of the folder containing the
incriminating documents as Justine picked it up from the seat
beside her and tucked it under her arm.  "I'd love to stay and
speculate with you, but I have to attend a benefit this evening. 
My friend will keep you company once I'm gone."

"I don't think so."

"I thought I made it clear, Agent Scully.  It is unfortunate, but
you will not leaving here alive.  My associate --"

"Is gone.  Look for yourself."

"Justine twisted around in the booth and was visibly taken aback
when she discovered the man was missing.  "I don't understand."

"You see, Justine, regardless of what you may think of me, I'm
not stupid either.  I decided to bring my own devoted companion
along this evening.  Do you mind if he joins us?"

Scully gestured to the man who was weaving his way back to the
booth behind them.  His drunken gait immediately evened out and
he moved smoothly up to their table.

"You remember my partner, don't you, Justine?"

Mulder nodded in greeting.  "Mrs. Sullivan.  By the way, your
friend somehow got himself handcuffed to the radiator in the
men's room.  Looks like he's going to be stuck in there for
awhile, so he suggested Agent Scully and I give you a ride."

"I don't suppose I could persuade you to take me home."

"That's a little out of our way.  We'll be stopping off at Bureau
Headquarters first, and then we'll talk about where you'll be
going from there."  Mulder pulled the file from her arms and set
it on the table.

Scully was pleased by how well things had gone.  Mulder had
blended into the crowd with ease and had managed to apprehend
Justine's protector without making the slightest disturbance. 
Never before had they made an arrest where all parties remained
so composed and polite during the proceedings.  Perhaps it was
that civility that caused her to relax her guard.

"Just let me get my purse."

Mulder opened his mouth to object when Justine reached for her
handbag.  It was Scully who first saw the tiny gun being drawn
from the purse, but she didn't have time reach for her own weapon
or even shout a warning before Justine pulled the trigger.
____________

"Scully, are you okay?"

"Yeah.  I just want to look at these documents again before I
take them up to Skinner."  Mulder found her sitting at her desk 
-- the same spot where he had left her two hours ago -- still
exhaustively poring over every word of the documents they had
seized.  She had managed to clean herself up a little after her
valiant but futile effort to save Justine Sullivan's life, but
her suit was splattered with the woman's blood.  "Did you get in
touch with the Senator?"

"It's not easy for a man to hear his wife has committed suicide,
especially not when accompanied by the news that she betrayed
him.  He was pretty broken up."

She sniffed in disbelief.  "I bet."

"You don't think so?"  He crossed the room and leaned up against
the file cabinet beside her desk.  Scully's statement surprised
him, and he was intrigued by her change of attitude toward the
Senator.

"Some of the things Justine said --"

"She organized an elaborate plot to discredit her husband.  That
doesn't exactly lend credence to her statements."

"Maybe not.  But it makes sense.  Why else would she take the
risks she did?"

Mulder was incredulous.  "You're defending her?  She was
threatening to have you killed.  Remember?"

She offered a wry smile.  "Understanding her motives doesn't mean
I condone her methods."

"I'm glad to hear that."  Pushing himself away from the
cabinet, he
moved to stand behind her chair.  He ran his hands lightly over
her
shoulders, a little fearful that she might pull away.  When she
didn't, he began to massage her tired muscles in earnest.  "Any
luck with the documents?"

"No."  She sighed, set the papers down on her desk, and dropped
her
head forward in a silent request for a neck rub.  "Only two of
the
letters implicate my father and Senator Sullivan.  They look
authentic.  The typeface is consistent with the other documents
of
the same period.  The paper appears to be about the same age.  I
know they're forgeries, Mulder.  I do.  But what if I can't prove
it?"

He swiveled her chair around so she was facing him.  "You don't
have to prove it.  Skinner's going to call in an expert from the
National Archives to authenticate the documents.  This guy is
tops in his field.  He'll be able to give you the proof you
need."

"It might take weeks to get the results.  You know how that kind
of testing goes."

"I'm sure this will be a priority."  He reached for her hand. 
"Come on.  Skinner's waiting for you."

"Just another minute.  Okay?"  She turned back around and picked
up the papers again.

"Even though you recovered the documents, Scully, you're still
not off the hook for disobeying orders.  Skinner told me to send
you to his office post haste, and he didn't sound happy."

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.  "He'll be unhappy
whether I go up there now, or ten minutes from now."

Leaning over the back of her chair so his face was near hers, he
waited until she looked at him.  "Ten minutes.  Promise me you'll
go in ten minutes."

She grumbled softly, "I promise."

He tapped his watch to remind her that he was keeping tabs on the
time.
____________

Even though he had left her side to sit at his own desk, she
could feel Mulder watching her.  His scrutiny added to the
tension she was already feeling as the minutes drained away and
her deadline neared.  She ran her hand over the velum surface of
the paper, tracing the incriminating words with her finger.  She
read both letters over and over again, looking for the flaw that
would prove her father's innocence.

At last she held one of the letters up in front of her.  The
light from her desk lamp shone through the yellowing paper and
threw the dark type into sharp relief.  It was then she noticed
something she'd missed.

A watermark.

The unadorned stationery was U.S. government issue with the
government's printing press watermark embedded in the fiber.  All
those treacherous deeds were inscribed on top of a ghostly image
of the American flag.  Something in the symbolism made Scully's
heart hurt.  She angrily tossed the paper back to the desk.

Mulder was immediately beside her again.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."  She tried to shrug off her disappointment, but she
knew he would see through the ruse, so she went on to explain. 
"This is definitely U.S. government stationery.  There's a
watermark."

"Is there a date in the mark?"

"No.  Just a picture of a flag and the words 'United States
Printing Services'."

He leaned over her shoulder and lifted the paper back up to the
light.

They both studied it for a moment and then Mulder moved in even
closer to examine the paper.  His voice was quiet, urgent when he
spoke. "Count the stars."

"What?"

"Count the stars on the flag, Scully."  

She did as he said, although she didn't understand the point of
the
exercise.  "Fifty.  So what?"

"And the letter is dated July 12, 1956."

"So?"

"When did Hawaii become a state?"

And then it dawned on her.  1959.  "Oh my God."  She jumped to
her feet, nearly colliding with her partner in the process. 
"I've got to show this to Skinner."  She rushed toward the door,
but stopped suddenly and turned around to look at Mulder.  The
happiness and relief he felt for her were expressed so clearly in
his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips.  Something -- an
almost-tangible cord between them -- tugged at her.  She let it
pull her into his arms.  "Thanks, Mulder."

"Anytime."  Her ear was pressed to his chest, and she could feel
the chuckle that rumbled through his voice.

She took a small step back so she could look up at his face, but
remained in his embrace.  "It's late.  If you want to head on
home . . ."

"I'll wait for you."

She shook her head, although there was no strength in the
objection.  "You don't have to."

"I know I don't.  Now go.  Your ten minutes is up."  He put his
hands on her shoulders, spun her around toward the door, and sent
her on her way with a gentle push.  
____________ 

The path seemed longer, the flowers less colorful, the mansion
less grand than before.  The tastefully understated wreath on the
door was there to inform visitors that this was a household in
mourning.  Perhaps if she truly believed that, she would feel
better about making this visit.

Her fatigue was beginning to catch up with her.  The physical and
emotional upheaval of the past few days had taken their toll, and
maintaining her composure through last night's two-hour
debriefing and stern reprimand by Skinner had depleted the last
of her reserves.  Once she was certain she still had a job, she
had pleaded with her boss to be allowed to deliver the news of
Sullivan's absolution in person.  She only wished she was doing
so with a few more hours of sleep behind her.

Even after she finally managed to climb into bed last night, her
thoughts had kept her awake.  Thoughts of her father, of Justine
Sullivan, of Mulder.  Mulder most of all.  He had followed her
home, walked her to her door, kissed her.  And then he had left. 
She had expected him to stay.  She would have let him.  But it
wasn't the right moment, and he recognized that, even when her
judgment had deserted her.

He offered to meet her this morning and accompany her to the
Sullivan mansion, but this was something she needed to do alone. 
She hoped he understood.  He said he did.

This time when she knocked, it was indeed a servant who answered
the door:  a formally-clad butler with a fringe of white hair who
looked every bit the stereotype.  "May I help you, miss?"

"My name is Dana Scully."  She reached into her pocket and
retrieved her badge to show the man.  "Agent Scully.  I'd like to
see the Senator for a few moments please."

"I'm sorry, but the Senator isn't seeing anyone.  His wife passed
away last night."

"Yes sir.  I know.  I was there when it happened.  If you could
just ask him, I'm sure he'll want to see me.  Tell him I have
some urgent news regarding the matter we discussed on Wednesday."

"All right ma'am.  You may wait in the foyer."

The entry foyer of the home was larger than her living room and
as she was waiting, she studied the paintings and antiques that
decorated the space.  Justine, for all her faults, had truly been
a talented interior designer.  

"Dana."

She pivoted to see Warren Sullivan walking somberly into the
room.  He greeted her with a brief embrace and a kiss on the
cheek.  "Thank you so much for trying to save Justine.  I
understand from the paramedics that you made efforts to revive
her well after all hope was gone."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more for her."

"Come.  Let's sit in the study."  He gestured her to a seat in
the room where they had held their first meeting.  As he sat, he
pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.  He
really was a consummate actor.  Had Scully not been studying him
closely, she would have been fooled into believing that there had
actually been tears there.  "I only have a few minutes I'm
afraid.  I'm supposed to appear at a news conference to announce
the tragedy.  My makeup people are waiting."

"I won't keep you then, but I wanted to let you know we
determined the letters were forgeries, at least the two that
implicated you and my father of treason.  Apparently they were
slipped in among the legitimate documents."

"And Justine admitted to being behind it?"

"She did."

His expression further crumbled into despair, and his voice was a
hoarse whisper.  "Did she say why?"

"She claimed that she was unhappy in the marriage, and that you
wouldn't agree to a divorce."

"I . . . I'm stunned."  Again, his face took on the expression
appropriate to the sentiment.  "As far as I knew, she was very
content.  This is the first I've heard of such a thing."

"All I can tell you is what she told me."

"You don't believe her, do you?"

"I don't see why she would lie and say she was unhappy if she was
not.  Nor do I see why a happily married woman would go to such
lengths to damage her husband's credibility."

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.  "Do you
think she was mentally ill, perhaps?"

"I'm not qualified to make that sort of assessment."

"Well, this has all been a terrible shock.  It's so difficult to
contemplate going ahead with the presidential campaign without
Justine by my side.  But I feel it's my responsibility to my
country to provide leadership, despite whatever personal
challenges I may face."  Scully was sickened by his mock grief --
so obvious in light of Justine's words.  She would not be
surprised to see Sullivan's popularity surge ahead in the polls
after the bereaved Senator appeared before the nation.

"That's a very noble attitude.  I have a feeling, though, that
you may have a rather vocal critic in Barry Lucerne, should he
come to suspect you were behind an attempt made on his life
yesterday."

"Oh, haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"  Even before she asked, she knew with dreadful
certainty what she was about to be told.

"Mr. Lucerne died early this morning of cardiac arrest while in
the hospital.  It was on the news just a few minutes ago."

Her anger flared and engulfed her sense of decorum.  "So
apparently all the loose ends have been secured?  Or do I need to
keep looking over my own shoulder?"

"What do you mean?"  Now he was using his exaggerated sincerity
as a weapon, trying to disarm her with the underlying threat in
his tone.

"Someone tried to run me down Wednesday night.  You don't know
anything about that do you?"

"Why would I want to see you hurt?  You were trying to help me."

"But you would want to see Barry Lucerne hurt.  Or dead."

He shook a finger at her, as if reprimanding her for trying to
trick him.  "I never said that."

"Excuse me, Senator."  

"Yes, Geoffrey?"

The butler stepped inside the room when Sullivan acknowledged his
presence.  "The driver is waiting to take you to the press
conference."

Sullivan turned back to Scully without dismissing his servant. 
"I resent what you are implying, Agent Scully.  Believe me, you
don't want to make an enemy of me."

If he could ignore the other man in the room, so could she. 
"Yes, I've seen what you do to the people you love."

"Justine killed herself."

"Only to save you the trouble, I think."

Sullivan leaned back in his chair and studied her carefully. 
"You know, you *are* just like your father.  Too stubborn for
your own good."  He lowered his voice to a whisper.  "I'll tell
you a secret."  And then, apparently deciding it wasn't a secret
after all, began speaking at a normal volume again.  "I was
responsible for sending that car the other night.  Not to kill
you.  Only to make you believe someone was trying to stop you
from investigating my case.  I figured if you really were Bill
Scully's flesh and blood, nothing would get you focused on a goal
like having an enemy tell you to abandon it.  Your father would
be proud of your tenacity."

She was stunned by his audacity.  "Do you really think I'll let
that go?  You just admitted, in front of a witness," she motioned
toward Geoffrey, "that you conspired to do harm to a Federal
Agent."

The Senators lips curved up in a feral smile.  "I didn't admit to
anything."  He looked to his servant for confirmation.  "Did I
Geoffrey?"

"No sir.  I heard no threat.  I did hear Agent Scully make a
rather lewd advance toward you, sir.  And with your beloved wife
dead less than 24 hours.  It was shocking. Perhaps you should
complain to her superiors."  If Sullivan was an actor, this man
had been his coach.

She was filled with a cold, hard rage that propelled her from her
seat.  "You son of a bitch."  

"I really must be going now."  The Senator rose from his chair. 
"Even though it will be terribly difficult to face the public at
a time like this, the country deserves to know that I'm a man who
can be strong, even in the face of adversity."

"You almost make me wish Justine had succeeded."

For the first time, she saw a genuine reaction from the Senator: 
surprise.  "She would have destroyed your father's name in the
process.  You would have wanted that?"

"My father would have willingly accepted disgrace if it would
have
saved his country from a man like you."

"So I take it you won't be volunteering for my campaign?"  He
threw a look at Geoffrey who nodded in approval of the Senator's
joke.

Scully stepped right up to Sullivan.  She wanted him to hear
every syllable as she spoke. "You won't be able to get elected to
dog catcher.  I'll see to that."

Her opponent didn't back down.  "You're playing a dangerous game,
Dana.  If you persist, you may find yourself grieving the loss of
people you love." 

Sullivan stepped back and waved her toward the exit.  "Geoffrey,
see Agent Scully to the door."

When she didn't move, the butler put a hand around her arm and
dragged her away from the Senator.  "And, Dana," Sullivan added,
conversationally.  "Give my regards to your mother.  And to your
partner, too."

His threat still echoed in her ears long after she had left the
mansion.
____________

End part 6/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"

_________________________________________________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 7/8

"Turn that off."

"Hey, Scully.  You just missed hearing the nice things he had to
say about you."

"I've heard more than enough from the Senator today, thank you
very
much."

Scully strode across the office to the small television in the
corner, and smacked the power button with her palm.  Punishing
the
TV because she was powerless to punish the man whose mournful
visage stared back at her.

Turning from the now-chastened appliance, she followed her usual
morning route -- dropping her briefcase beside her desk, grabbing
her cup, making the trek down the hall to the coffeepot -- but
every movement was abrupt and angry.  She knew Mulder would
want an
explanation.  She took her time stirring creamer into her coffee,
just to delay that inevitability.

The question came the instant she crossed the threshold of their
office.

"Is something wrong, Scully?"

She pushed the door closed, walked to her desk, and spoke without
looking at him.  "No."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."  She snapped out the answer almost before he'd asked
the question.

"Try again."

She turned her head toward him.  He was leaning back in his chair
with his arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing her as if she
were a piece of evidence.  

Tearing her apart.  

Studying her.  

Trying to get inside her head.  

Mulder was an amazingly gifted profiler, but she resented him for
using those gifts to get past her resistance.

No.  That wasn't entirely fair.  Mulder wasn't doing anything he
hadn't done a thousand times before when he suspected she was
withholding something.  It was the same game they always
played.  She would claim all was well.  He would look at her in
disbelief.  Then they would play a silent waiting game until she
came clean or he decided to drop the issue.  But now, while
seething with rage toward Sullivan, and still reeling in an
emotional whirlwind from Mulder's confessions the day before, she
found herself reacting differently.

She sat down and breathed deeply, trying to exhale some of her
pent-up hostility, none of which should be directed toward her
partner.  "I'm sorry, Mulder.  Everything's okay.  Really.  I've
just had a lot on my mind.  Did you get a chance to interrogate
Justine's friend from the bar?"

"His name is Tim Barth.  And he and Justine were more than just
friends."

"Oh?"

"That's his story, anyway.  He admitted to stealing the documents
for her and to arranging for the forgeries.  Your father's name
was
included to add some credibility to the document, and since he
was
deceased, they had assumed he wouldn't be the focus of any
attention."

"Guess they didn't count on him having an FBI agent for a
daughter."

"No.  I think that was most definitely a surprise."

"Why would Barth do all that for her?" she asked, more to herself
than to him.

He answered anyway.  "A man will do anything for the woman he
loves."

When Scully's eyes met her partner's, the electricity arced
between
them.  His intensity unnerved her, and she had to avert her
gaze. 
She tried to mask her discomfiture in nonchalance.  "So, um, what
did Sullivan say in his press conference?"

"The gist of it was that he was devastated over the loss of his
wife.  According to him, she suffered from severe depression
and he
blames himself for not making sure she took her prescribed
medication.  He was grateful to the two off-duty FBI agents who
were present at the scene when she died, and most especially to
Agent Dana Scully, for her efforts to save Justine's life.  He
announced that he will be setting up the Justine Sullivan
Foundation in hopes that someday there can be a cure for
depression, and others will be spared such a grievous loss."

She stood and started pacing.  "What a load of crap."

"It's what this city is built on.  Did something else happen at
your meeting with him?  You seem . . . I don't know . . . more
stressed out than I expected considering that your father has
been
cleared."

Yesterday she and Mulder had talked about trust.  The
importance of
honesty.  And yet, if she told him of Sullivan's insinuations -- 
that Barry Lucerne had paid with his life for believing Justine's
story, that her own injuries were part of a scheme to entangle
her
more deeply in the case, that no one she loved would be safe if
she
tried to stand between the Senator and his ambition -- Mulder
would
adopt this crusade as his own.

Her partner risked his life too often, fighting with a legion of
personal demons, in a war against an army of nameless enemies. 
Warren Sullivan was *her* adversary.  She would make any
sacrifice
required to see that the Senator was held accountable for his
deeds.  Any personal sacrifice.  First, though, she had to find a
way to protect those she loved.  The only way to shield Mulder
was
to keep him out of her battle.

"The meeting went okay, I guess.  It was just the usual
politician
double-talk.  Justine was driven to commit desperate acts by this
man, and all he cares about is how to put a good public relations
spin on her suicide."  Her pacing carried her across the room
until
she was standing directly in front of Mulder, looking down into
his
worried eyes.  His tender expression melted her bitterness and
she
was filled with a precious sense of relief.  "But I am glad
that my
father was cleared.  Very glad."  

Mulder reached for her hand and caressed it between his palms. 
"Me
too."  He lifted her hand to his lips, and placed tiny kisses on
each fingertip.  "And I'm glad it's all over."  Little nibbles
along her wrist.  "And I'm glad that you're okay."  He seized her
and pulled her into his lap.

"Mul --"  The rest of the word was captured by his mouth when it
closed over hers.  

Their kisses were slow and long.  There was none of the hurried
frenzy of the day before.  This time she allowed herself to revel
in the taste of him.  To let his scent surround her.  To feel the
tingling warm trail left by his hands as they stroked her back,
her
arms, her sides.  

His mouth left hers and he ran his open lips across her cheek to
her ear.  "Come home with me, Scully."

"But, it's, it's not, but . . ."  She was embarrassed to find her
vocabulary reduced to gibberish.  He didn't help matters any when
he began running his tongue around the rim of her ear.  She
reluctantly pulled back to regain her mental equilibrium.  "It's
not even noon yet.  I have to write my report for Skinner and I
promised he'd have it by the end of the day.  I don't think he's
going to be giving me much latitude for the next few weeks."

"I'll help you with your report, and then we can leave early." 
His
lips returned to hers, and his hands continued their exploration,
moving underneath her jacket to finger the silk of her blouse,
sliding up and down her spine, making occasional trips over to
her
sides, journeying farther toward the front each time.   

Her own hands clung to his shoulders; they were all that kept her
from tumbling out of his lap and onto the floor.  Although the
floor did have some appeal.  Her body wanted nothing more
than to have him on top of her, making love to her on the
dingy carpet.  She twisted and arched in his arms, guiding his
hands with her movements.

It wasn't until his hand closed over her breast that a coherent
thought pierced through the erotic fog in her mind, and she
realized what they were doing.  And where they were doing it.

She wriggled from his arms and managed to stand without her knees
buckling.  The sight of Mulder, sprawled back in his chair,
panting
to recover the breaths she had stolen, lips wet from their
kisses,
nearly stole her newfound willpower.  She was glad she couldn't
see
herself, but suspected she looked as ravished as she felt.

"Mulder, we can't do this."  Her voice was thready and raw.

His eyes widened slightly and he sounded a little wary.  "You
mean
we can't do this here."

"I don't know."  She turned and started to walk back to her
side of
the room.  Somehow it felt like safer territory.  An arm snaked
around her waist before she had moved more than a couple of steps
and Mulder pulled her against him.

"Scully?"

She let her head fall back against his chest.  "As much as we
want
this right now, and as good as it feels, what if it turns out to
be a mistake?  Where do we go from there?"

"What makes you think it would be a mistake?"

She turned in his arms to face him.  "Look at us, Mulder.  I say
poodle, you say werewolf.  We disagree more than we agree.  We
don't like the same kinds of food.  We don't read the same
books. 
I'm just afraid that, outside of work, we wouldn't be very
compatible."

His hand ran up her back and into her hair.  "We felt pretty
damned
compatible a minute ago."  Her eyes fluttered closed and she
leaned
into his body again.

"I'm not just talking about sex, Mulder.  For what it's worth, I
don't think we would have a problem with that part."

He brought his hands to her face and tilted it upward, leaning in
to steal a quick kiss.  "For what it's worth, I don't think we
would have a problem with the rest of it either.  You and I
aren't
so different.  We're two insanely intelligent people doing jobs
no
one else could possibly understand.  Honest.  Committed.  Loyal. 
We're alike in all the important ways.  Sure, we'll have our
problems, but no more than anyone else.  Relationships require
adjustment.  I'm willing to try if you are."

"What if that's not enough?  I don't want to lose you."  Again,
Sullivan's threat intruded in her thoughts.  Even if she and
Mulder
succeeded in building a solid relationship on their somewhat
shaky foundation, it would make her more of a hostage to Sullivan
than ever.

"You won't."  He made the untenable promise with such assurance
that she almost believed it.  "Look, Scully, if you're not sure,
then I'll wait.  I'll wait as long as it takes until you are
certain."

She shook her head.  "That's not fair to you."

"Maybe not, but that's just how it is.  You know me, Scully. 
When
I get my mind set on something, I'm not too willing to consider
other options.  Like it or not, I've decided that you are the
only
woman I want."  His sweet words called unexpected tears to her
eyes.  They glittered on her lashes until he kissed them away. 
"Do
you want to know what I think?"  He folded her into his embrace. 
Her ear was pressed into his chest and she could hear his
heartbeat
keeping rhythm with his words.

"What?"

"I think you're scared.  I know I haven't always been a model
partner.  I won't be the perfect lover, either.  But I promise,
as
both your partner and, hopefully, your lover, that I will not
abandon you."

She lifted herself on tiptoe and planted on soft kiss on his
lips. 
"Thank you."

Moving back a step, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and
turned her toward her desk.  "Now, I guess you should get busy on
that report.  I think I'm going to head home and take a nice cold
shower.  If you change your mind, you know where I'll be."

Guilt hit her hard.  She felt like the worst kind of tease.  "I'm
sorry, Mulder."

"Are you telling me there's no chance?" 

"No."

"Then there's no reason to be sorry."  He pulled out the desk
chair
for her in an overt display of gentility.  "I meant what I said
about waiting, if that's what you want.  But I'm not going to
pretend that you don't affect me.  Blame it on my years of self-
imposed celibacy, or chalk it up to the predictability of the
male
animal.  Whatever the reason, I want you so badly right now, my
hair hurts.  So be aware that if you do come over tonight, you'll
need to bring your overnight bag."

"And my jammies, too?"

"Pajamas are optional.  You won't be wearing them for long, at
any
rate."  He slipped a hand over her shoulder and ran it along her
collarbone to her neck.  He toyed with the edge of her collar,
finally tugging it aside so he could place a string of kisses
along
her neck and shoulder.

She groaned.  "This is cheating, Mulder."  

He punctuated his sentences with kisses and licks and nibbles. 
"I
didn't promise to play fair.  I'll use any means at my disposal
to
persuade you."

With every caress, it was becoming more difficult for her to
think
of reasons to refuse.

"I want to undress you."  He flicked open the top button of her
shirt.  "I want to touch you.  Everywhere."  His fingers slipped
inside her shirt and flirted with the lace edge on her bra.  "I
want to --"

Tugging his hand out of her blouse, she scolded it with a light
swat.  "Stop.  Go take your shower."

"Will I see you later?"  He breathed softly into her ear.

She turned to face him.  He looked so hopeful.  But how could she
give him an answer when she herself didn't have a clue what she
was
going to do?  "I don't know."  

He didn't even try to hide his disappointment.  "Well, if not,
have
a good weekend, Scully."

As his footsteps faded down the hall, logic and wisdom -- the
building blocks of her character -- cheered for the victory of
reason over passion.

Her heart quietly mourned its defeat.
____________

End part 7/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"
_________________________________________________

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE 8/8

Epilogue

/ / / / / / / / / / / 

My father took me to see the tree when I was a little girl.  We
hiked a long way to get there, and I had expected something grand
and extraordinary.  So I was disappointed when I finally saw it. 
It was scrawny.  Just a bush really.

I couldn't understand what made this particular tree special,
when
we had passed so many others that were larger and more beautiful.

And then my father explained.  This tree was more exceptional
than
all the rest because it had fought the hardest to survive.  And
it
was true.  While all the others grew in fertile, mossy soil, this
one had somehow taken root in the crevice of a stone.

For years afterward, I would revisit that place.  The tree
would be
a little bigger.  The crack in the stone wider.

I think my father recognized that I would never be content doing
things the easy way.  That for me, the achievement was made more
sweet by the struggle.  It was why I went to medical school.  It
was why I became an FBI agent.  It's why I've stayed with the X-
Files.  I could have flourished anywhere, but success without
challenge would have made me less than who I am.

I've never backed away from a challenge.  Justine Sullivan
realized
that too late.  The Senator will come to know it.

Yet when it came to Mulder, I nearly succumbed to my cowardice.
It
seemed foolhardy to cultivate a relationship on such inhospitable
ground.  Our personalities, our jobs, his quest for justice, and
now my own -- these are not obstacles to be taken lightly.

The rewards, though.  Pleasure.  Intimacy.  Love.  The promise of
those things led me to him tonight.  

I found those things in his arms.  

I found more.  

What happened between us tonight wasn't sex.  That term is too
small for the experience.  This was lovemaking in its purest
form. 
A part of my soul that had been sleeping, stirred at his touch. 
Awakened with his kiss.  His body and mine found joyful physical
release.  The spiritual release defies description.

Our bodies merged.  Our souls kissed.  And all the obstacles
became
less than nothing.  How could anything survive the force of
what we
are together?

We will be tested.  There will be storms.  There are truths I
haven't told him.  I suspect there are things he hasn't told
me.  

There is always the chance that our relationship won't survive.

But I find hope in a scrawny tree that pushes relentlessly
against
a rock.

One day the stone will crumble into dust and blow away.

The stone will be gone, but the tree will remain.

And still it will grow.

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

End part 8/8 of "Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone"


Endnote:  One can never be too rich, too thin, or receive too
much
feedback.  I appreciate *all* feedback, be it detailed or
concise. 
Sequel requests will be considered, but only if accompanied by 
chocolate. -- JS (jillselby@yahoo.com)

_________________________

Jill Selby
http://members.aol.com/msselby1013/index.html

"What is written without effort is in general read without
pleasure." -- Samuel Johnson
_________________________