The Story of Our Lives

By Toniann
ts19@cornell.edu


CATEGORY: XRA.
KEYWORDS: M/S UST. Casefile.
RATING: PG-13, for language and described violence.
SPOILERS: Everything up through season seven, but
nothing specific from later episodes.
SUMMARY: "The ties that bound them together were
unbreakable, it was true. But as the years went by,
he found it harder and harder to pretend he couldn't
see her struggling against them."

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them. But don't let that stop
you from reading.
FEEDBACK: Is welcomed, always.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: To KatyBlue, for dropping into my
life with the best piece of feedback I've ever
received, and then for doing such a wonderful beta of
this story. And to Shawne, for being my original and
forever cheering section.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was inspired by the work of
a great poet, Mark Strand. The title and various
passages included are from his poem, "The Story of
Our Lives". Since it is far, far too long to include
here in its entirety, I've posted it on my site, for
your convenience:
http://home.earthlink.net/~hiraeth/strand.html
Please do read it, not only for the sake of my story
but for your own enjoyment as well.

Web site:
http://home.earthlink.net/~hiraeth/fanfic.html


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**
We sit beside each other on the couch,
reading about the couch.
We say it is ideal.
It is ideal.
**

Buffalo Niagara International Airport
4:25 PM
September 13


"I don't understand this."

"The case?" Scully asked absentmindedly, not pausing
to look up from the file open in front of her. "Which
part do you not specifically understand? Because I
have to confess to you, Mulder, there's a lot here I
don't get."

"No, I mean, yes, there are certainly many aspects of
the case that defy conventional thinking," Mulder
replied. "But that's not what I was referring to."

"What else baffles you, then?"

Mulder sighed with frustration, trying unsuccessfully
for the hundredth time to rearrange his frame into a
more comfortable position. "What currently baffles me
is why we're still sitting on this plane."

"Because they haven't told us to disembark yet.
Because the plane is still moving." In the small
silence that followed, she smiled slightly, turning a
page. "Feeling antsy, Mulder?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. There's a double order of
wings with our name on them, waiting out there in a
seedy bar in downtown Buffalo."

"You mean, in suburban Amherst, Mulder, which is
where we're headed. Strictly middle-class, white-
bread, and undoubtedly nary a seed in sight," she
reminded him.

He snorted. "Ah, suburbia. Are you aware, Scully,
that Amherst, New York was voted the Safest City in
America last year?"

"Yes, Mulder, it's right here in the file-- which
I've been reading for most of the flight, so
naturally I picked up that bit of information," she
told him dryly.

"This is where Roche abducted that girl from, the one
whose body we found," he mused. "Years ago. Not so
safe then."

She spared him a quick glance, but seemed to come to
the conclusion that his mention of that particular
case was simply commentary, not the ghost of a
painful memory. "I gather the police got better at
doing their job."

"Well, looks like they're going to have to give up
the title this year."

Scully shuffled the papers back in order, glancing at
the case summary on the first page. "Since a
prerequisite to winning that prize is a clean no-
homicide slate, I'd have to agree with you. Three
murders already, all in the same location, all with
the same characteristics, all baffling local law
enforcement."

"And us," Mulder added. "At least, for now."

"And us. Three young women raped and murdered, all in
the vicinity of the same jogging path, all in broad
daylight, all within a mile of the local police
station. All three victims left naked and their
clothes missing," she read out loud.

Mulder glanced at his watch, still impatient. "So
apparently someone's spent a little time planning
these murders out."

"Apparently. And apparently, someone also found a way
to lure each of these victims off the well-populated
path without causing a disturbance, without sign of a
struggle. Barring the physical evidence of rape,
there's little to show that these encounters were
particularly volatile," Scully observed.

"Aside from the murders themselves, of course," he
added. "Strangulation."

She flipped through the pages quickly. "Despite all
of that, Mulder, I'm not sure I see an X-file here."

"Did you get to the part about strange lights in the
sky at night?" he asked.

"No."

"That's because it's not there. I don't think it's an
X-file either, but it is currently frustrating local
law enforcement, and it reached Skinner's desk. He
figured you might pick up something from the
autopsies, something they'd missed," he told her.

She smiled briefly. "That's flattering, I suppose.
How did Skinner get involved?"

"If I understand the political maneuverings
correctly, the Chief of Amherst Police, Thomas
Goodwin, is Senator Braun's cousin. Chief Goodwin
called in a favor to Senator Braun, and Senator Braun
opened his FBI phone directory and picked the name
Skinner out of a hat. Skinner, knowing your love for
Western New York cuisine and your fine forensic
skills, felt you were the woman for the job."

"And you?"

"Me? The Bills are playing the Redskins this Sunday.
I'm *there*." Scully closed the file, tucking it into
her briefcase, and turned slightly to face Mulder in
the cramped confines of the plane. "So, out of
curiosity, which puzzles you more: the case, or the
fact that we're still on this plane?"

"Frankly, the latter. We've been taxiing around this
runway for over thirty minutes. At this rate, we
could've walked from DC," he complained, craning his
neck to peer out the window.

"I'm sure our gate will free up soon," she murmured,
closing her eyes and leaning her head back. Truth be
told, she was too tired to care about the delay; what
did it matter, catch a few moments of rest here, or
at the motel?

Mulder turned away from the window finally, feeling a
dull headache begin from watching the late-afternoon
sun glare against the endless glide of runway
pavement. He noted Scully's closed eyes and dropped
the conversation. She was exhausted, he knew, from
their last case and from a particularly virulent bout
with the flu. She still looked pale and tired, but
even now, her lids closed and her head nestled
against the headrest, she wasn't relaxed. He could
read the tension in her shoulders and posture, could
see the low buzz of stress etched across her face as
it always was these days.

He sighed resignedly. This had become familiar to
him, so much so that he had begun to take her
constant state of mild agitation as a given. But to
say it worried him would be to imply that he didn't
know its cause, on a subconscious level. That he
couldn't read the frustration in her, and know it
began somewhere in his vicinity. The point was, he
wasn't trying to figure it out anymore. It was just
there, between them, like an unspoken agreement.

Ironically, these days, they worked so well together.
Their cases ran so smoothly, it was like clockwork.
They got a case, they investigated, they figured out
the root of the problem, they caught the bad guys,
and they went home. Their partnership, seven years in
the developing, had become seamless. The time they
spent together flowed in an unmistakable rhythm, and
he, at least, found that time just as stimulating as
it had been on their very first case together in
Oregon. If anything, they were better, now; gone were
the squabbles over who was right and who was wrong,
and who had the best theory, and who got to drive the
car. He didn't really care anymore. He just wanted to
talk to her, just wanted to turn to her with those
theories, just wanted to hear what she had to say. He
just liked being with her, frankly. In the midst of a
life filled with lies and confusion, blind alleys and
unknowns, working with Scully had become the one
island of peace in Mulder's existence.

As for Scully... Sometimes the agitation that ran
through her like a low-level fever simply manifested
itself as enthusiasm, as an eagerness to attack the
next case, to explore all avenues of investigation,
to prod him along on the path to completion. She
would tilt her head back and smile at him, waiting
almost impatiently for his next theory, next
sarcastic comment, next attempt at wry humor. In
those moments she seemed to be always a step ahead of
him, looking back over her shoulder, urging him to
catch up.

Mulder ran a hand over his face, wondering how much
longer he could possibly stand being on this plane,
wondering why on earth flying the friendly skies was
invariably such an unfriendly experience.

"Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. We
are pulling into Gate 14, and in a few moments, we'll
begin disembarking. Those of you continuing on to
Chicago may wish to stretch your legs and exit to the
terminal as well; feel free to do so, but please take
any valuable personal items and your tickets along
with you. Again, thank you for your patience, and to
those of you getting off in Buffalo, we hope you
enjoy your stay there."

Scully stirred, quickly gathering her few carry-on
belongings and running a hand through her hair. She
stopped, noticing Mulder's gaze. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied casually, and she turned away,
forgetting him for the moment, lost in her thoughts.

Sometimes. Sometimes, she seemed impatient. And other
times, she seemed something more like resigned.


Scully drove. Ever pragmatic, she'd spent the time at
the car rental desk studying a map and now navigated
the thruway with ease, weaving in and out of traffic.

"Shouldn't we stop at a motel first?" he asked.

"Feeling frisky, Mulder?" she replied dryly, and
without much real enthusiasm behind her innuendo.

He sighed. "Just thinking ahead."

She chuckled slightly. "I guess there's a first time
for everything. No, I thought we'd head straight for
the police station, conveniently located a short walk
from the crime scene. I don't think we need to worry
about getting rooms in advance; suburban Buffalo is
hardly the tourism capital of the northeast."

"We can always just stay at the place from last
time," he suggested.

"When?"

"You know, that time with that little girl, Michelle,
and the insurance scam thing. Barbala."

Scully frowned, trying to remember. "The one who fell
out the window?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head, smiling. "Mulder, God, that was
years ago. And I think the place we stayed is
somewhere on the other side of town."

"Whatever," he agreed, since it really didn't matter
to him. Every motel room was pretty much identical to
the last, right down to the Gideon Bible in the
nightstand.

Bored, he fiddled with the radio, trying to come up
with something worth listening to. Having little
success, he gave up and was about to turn it off when
Scully moved to push his hand away from the dial.

"Leave it on," she said, not taking her eyes from the
road.

\Life is a highway\ a voice blared from the speakers,
\I want to ride it all night long.\

Scully abruptly put her directional on and swung into
the right lane, coasting down the exit ramp. "Sorry,"
she mumbled. "Almost missed it."

"Better than I would have done, Chief."

The Amherst Police Station was a newish building, red
brick and tall dark windows. It shared its grounds
with a public library and a senior citizens' center
with identical architecture. All in all, it looked
like something straight out of "Suburban Living": How
to Plan and Centralize Your Community Center. Mulder
could almost compose the article himself and yet, at
the same time, he couldn't help but imagine a
frustrated old coot, bored with bridge and Pinochle,
wandering over to the local library, downloading some
porn, reading up on how to make a bomb, and
subsequently ending up in jail. All without having to
give up his parking space.

Following Scully up the steps of the building, he
found himself wondering if he had just described his
own inevitable future.

"Mulder?" her voice said at his side, quizzically,
and he looked down at her briefly before answering.

She was wearing that new shirt he liked, the one that
stretched across her body so comfortably, gaping
casually at the top, several buttons undone. She wore
clothes like that now, unexpectedly, and he
remembered, with an odd clarity, how differently
she'd dressed in their first years together. She'd
worn suits, of course, but soft, businesslike suits,
in a vast array of colors, with soft creamy blouses,
sometimes a scarf, or some other accessory. Her hair
had been longer, and her face fuller. She'd been
pretty, back then, pretty, possibly beautiful. But
just that, just pretty, just beautiful, just
attractive, the way so many women are. Now, though...
Now, she almost always wore black, and instead of
rounded lapels and soft collars there were sharp
corners and jagged edges, hair that was sculpted
around her skull instead of brushing her shoulders,
features that cut through him like a knife in their
elegant simplicity. Scully was still beautiful, still
pretty. But she was so different now, so much more
mature, so confident. It was as if, sometime during
the last year or so, she had shed those last
lingering issues of self-esteem and self-doubt, that
need to hide behind pretty colors and accessories. It
was as if she had woken up one day and said, to hell
with all of it, I don't need it. I don't need to try
to be pretty. I don't need to pretend I'm still in my
twenties, not when my thirties look this good.

He smiled, knowing his thoughts were getting somewhat
carried away. Dana Scully was a confident woman,
sure, but she wasn't vain. Undoubtedly, he had just
spent more time contemplating her wardrobe than she
had in the past seven years combined.

"Sorry," he told her. "Just thinking."

She shrugged and moved away, approaching the desk
sergeant and quietly giving him the name of their
contact. Mulder wandered off to the side, glancing
around the room-- it reminded him disconcertingly of
the FBI bullpen they'd so recently escaped from. This
place was brighter, though, the walls a newly-painted
white and the floor actually carpeted, the mini-
blinds pulled up and the sunlight streaming in. A
radio played in the background and the phone rang
intermittently, voices passed in the hallway. A group
of uniformed cops were clustered around a desk in the
back of the room, talking animatedly. Overall, Mulder
thought to himself, this place had everything your
well-organized police station could possibly need--
except criminals. Not a single degenerate in sight.
But maybe, like the Tower of London, they weren't
allowed through the front door.

Scully was moving in his direction, followed by a
tall, middle-aged man in a gray suit. "This is my
partner, Agent Mulder," she was saying.

"Detective Paul Sheehan," the other man responded,
shaking his outstretched hand. Sheehan was blond and
fit, with a young face and a firm grip. "Homicide.
But I have to confess to you, we don't get a lot of
that around here, and certainly not a serial case
like this. Frankly, I'm in a little over my head and
I'm glad for the help. From what I hear, you two are
pretty good at what you do."

Mulder grinned at Scully. "Isn't it nice to be so
highly regarded?"

She rolled her eyes slightly, clearly not wanting to
offend Sheehan. The detective had just more or less
admitted that this case was beyond his capabilities--
which, Mulder conceded, was more than most local law
types ever got around to doing.

"We'll do what we can, Detective," Scully told him.
"Let's start with the crime scenes."

Sheehan led them through the building and out a side
door. A paved bike path led into a wooded area
surrounding a small pond, really just a stone's throw
away from the station. The whole thing struck Mulder
as incongruous, this taking a stroll to the scene of
a brutal murder, but he remained silent as they
followed the detective.

"There's another pond like this one, closer to the
residential area," the detective was telling them as
they followed the curve of the path. "Both are man-
made, I think. And the bike path was built about
twenty years ago. It's part of a larger trail that
crosses Amherst. Real popular around here. You'll see
families out for a walk in the middle of a weekday.
Gets crowded on the weekends. But it's peaceful, too.
Or at least it was, until this."

"You patrol it, I assume?" Scully asked.

Sheehan hesitated just a moment before answering.
"Sure, but there's never been any trouble before. On
the other hand, there are signs posted all over this
place telling people not to jog or ride alone, but
they do. Frankly, you see a lot of young women out by
themselves on this path. I guess it feels safe. You
can't go more than a couple of minutes without seeing
someone else."

"Seems empty now," Mulder remarked.

"Well, we've officially closed it off to the public
for the time being, of course. Which doesn't stop
some people, so we're still patrolling it."

They came to the other side of the pond. The trees
were more tightly packed here, and the ground was
covered with fallen branches and unchecked growth. It
didn't have the pristine, cared-for look of a park at
all; it was as if an asphalt path had simply been
laid down in the middle of a forest. As they stepped
through leaves and debris, Mulder could just make out
a group of buildings in the distance. He caught the
detective's attention and asked what they were
looking at.

"Houses. This area leads right up into the backyards
of the houses in the Audubon complex." At their blank
stares, he continued, "It's a planned community, I
guess, with this whole thing about architecture that
blends in with nature."

Mulder heard Scully snort under her breath, but
didn't dare glance her way. "That would explain why
these woods have been left to grow wild."

"That's it. You know the kind of thing, there are all
kinds of rules about what color you can paint your
house, and what kind of fence you can put up. That
kind of set-up. The streets are all named after
birds, Hummingbird Lane, Robin Road. They call this
Walton Woods. It's real family-oriented, nice,"
Sheehan reassured them.

"I'm sure it's a lovely place to live," Scully
replied in her oh-so-pleasant voice-- which fooled,
Mulder always thought admiringly, everyone but him.

They came upon an area marked off by cones and tape,
despite its innocuous appearance. The detective led
the way, lifting the barrier for them to pass under.
"This is where we found the first body. Look around
all you like, our forensics people have been over
this area with a fine-toothed comb already. Nothing."

Scully wandered to one side, peering first at the
leaf-strewn ground, then off in the distance,
seemingly lost in thought. Mulder watched her for a
moment, then shrugged and turned away. There wasn't
really anything to see; the ground had been dry, no
trace evidence that could be linked to the crime had
been found. The only blood on the scene had been the
victim's. Though there was clear evidence of rape,
there'd been no semen and some traces of latex; it
was to be assumed the suspect had been wearing a
condom. The first victim, Mulder recalled, was Katie
Blocher, a twenty-seven year-old grad student at the
nearby university. She'd been out jogging alone,
early one Saturday morning. When she wasn't back at
noon, her boyfriend had gotten worried and come
looking for her. But she wasn't found until the next
day, when the police got involved.

Mulder turned slowly in place, scanning the horizon.
This particular spot was out of sight from the path,
and too far from the nearby houses. Not out of
shouting range, though; if the victim had screamed
loud enough, someone would've heard. Which led him to
believe that she hadn't had a chance to scream, that
the killer had surprised his victims and rendered
them speechless in a hurry.

Scully finished her inspection and they left,
traipsing through the woods as Sheehan outlined
details of the other two victims. Cora Raines,
thirty-three, a lawyer, married, lived in the
adjacent residential community. Cora was on her way
to the library, opting for a brisk walk instead of a
short car ride. The scene of her murder was nearly
identical to the first, though in a different spot:
secluded, just far enough from both path and houses
not to be visible, and yet heart-wrenchingly close to
safety. Then, just this past week, Elizabeth
Hollander, thirty-two, an elementary school teacher.
Single, lived alone. An officer on patrol found her
even before anyone knew she was missing. This time,
the crime scene was at the edge of the second pond,
much closer to the populated area.

"What I'm having trouble understanding, Detective
Sheehan, is why these women continued coming here
after the first murder. Surely the community was
aware of what had taken place, and how unsafe this
path had become," Mulder said finally, as they headed
back to the station.

Sheehan let out a disgusted sigh. "More than aware,
definitely. But a month after the first murder, we
had nothing. And it seemed like a tragic, but
isolated incident. Cora Raines lived here, this
probably seemed like her backyard. I went to school
with her brother, they even grew up in this general
area. Cora was just careless."

"And what happened then?"

"Well, obviously, we knew something much worse was
going on here. We closed the path indefinitely, we
stepped up patrols. Still nothing. Three months went
by, the entire summer. Normally, that time of year,
this neighborhood is full of activity. People started
to trickle back. I don't know why; I sure as hell
wouldn't let my wife or kids come here. But I guess
some people think they're invincible," Sheehan said
with a resigned shrug.

"Elizabeth Hollander, for one."

"I guess so."

They were almost back at the station, and Mulder
noted that Scully had not said a word almost the
entire time. She walked briskly at his side, eyes
hidden behind sunglasses, her expression unreadable.
He couldn't help but wonder what was going through
her mind. Was she mentally processing the information
they'd gathered, adding it to what she'd initially
learned from the casefile, anticipating the autopsy
she'd be doing tomorrow on Elizabeth Hollander? Was
she thinking about those three women, and what they'd
gone through, what terror they must have felt knowing
that help was such a ridiculously short distance away
and nevertheless out of reach? Was she coming to the
conclusion, as he already had, that the man who had
committed these crimes here had done so deliberately,
cruelly, in order to flaunt his audacity less than a
mile away from the police station?

Or was she thinking, as he was, of how often Scully
went jogging by herself, how often she set off in
solitude in the wee hours of the morning, how she
took her safety for granted as she left her weapon at
home, cranked up the volume on her headphones, and
tempted fate? Was she seeing herself as Elizabeth
Hollander must have, unwilling to bow to fear of the
unknown? Scully, a trained federal agent, surely had
more reason than these three women to feel safe, to
feel capable of protecting herself. But was she
thinking, as he was, how easy it would be for someone
to watch her, to follow her, to move in behind her
unheard, to strike her from behind with enough force
to knock her unconscious...

No, he concluded after allowing his mind to travel
too far down that line of thought. She wasn't
thinking that. Scully, he knew, refused to live her
life in fear. But Scully, practical, pragmatic
Scully, was also too smart to go jogging in a forest
straight out of Grimm's fairy tales, plus asphalt.
She ran, he knew, mostly on the sidewalks of public
streets, or at the gym. She knew the risks. She
respected them.

Scully finally spoke once they'd reached Sheehan's
office (a rather large room, Mulder thought, with an
unfortunate and depressing view of the woods). "Agent
Mulder and I will do our best to be of assistance to
the Amherst Police Department, Detective. I
understand arrangements have been made for me to
conduct Elizabeth Hollander's autopsy tomorrow
morning?"

Sheehan motioned for them to sit. "That's right, at,
um, ECMC. That's the Erie County Medical Center, it's
downtown. You folks staying someplace out here?"

"We've got the names of a few motels, yes," she told
him. "I'd like to look over the autopsy reports for
the first two victims tonight, plus any other
materials you have, relevant to the case."

"Of course. I think all of that's over in Chief
Goodwin's office just now. Just give me a few minutes
and I'll have a copy made for you," Sheehan offered,
excusing himself and leaving them momentarily alone.

Mulder slouched in his chair, impatient. He had a
feeling about this case. There was... something
obvious at play. Something purposeful. By choosing
the location he had, this killer obviously wanted to
send a message, to thumb his nose at authority, to
terrorize a community that stubbornly refused to be
terrified.

"Mulder, please," Scully's voice cut into the
silence, startling him from his thoughts.

"What?" he asked, perplexed.

She smiled, rolling her eyes slightly, then stared
pointedly at his right hand, clutched around a
pencil, drumming a fast staccato beat against the
detective's desk.

"This bothering you, Scully?" he asked innocently.

"Just wondering what it is about you and pencils,
Mulder," she told him, still smiling.

He smirked and looked away, conceding her the point.
So to speak.

"Any thoughts?" he asked her, as it belatedly
occurred to him that he'd had yet to express any
interest in her opinion on this case. In actuality,
he was always interested; he just rarely remembered
to tell her so.

"I don't know, Mulder. I don't think it's an X-file,
if that's what you're getting at."

He shook his head. "Neither do I. But, you know,
we're here to help."

"Well, sure, but I don't know how much help we'll
actually be," she replied ruefully. "I'll have to see
what turns up in the autopsy tomorrow. Otherwise...
the only thing that really strikes me, here, is that
I don't think this man is primarily interested in
raping and killing these women."

"What do you mean?"

Scully wrinkled her brow, uncharacteristically
searching for the words to convey her meaning. "I
think his actions are a means to an end. I think he's
trying to get someone's attention here."

"Trying to send a message," Mulder added, nodding his
head.

"You agree?"

He laughed mirthlessly. "Don't sound so surprised,
Scully. Lately there are days I feel like we share a
cerebral cortex."

She looked away and shrugged. "Would it make much
difference if we did, on top of everything else?"

Though her tone had been mild enough, Mulder couldn't
help but detect the slight twinge of bitterness,
of... what? But before he could question her further,
Sheehan returned, laden with files, and in the wake
of their departure, he decided to let it go. It was
easier that way, easier than asking a question he
possibly didn't want the answer to.



**
I lean back and begin to write about the book.
I write that I wish to move beyond the book,
beyond my life into another life.
I put the pen down.
The book says: He put the pen down
and turned and watched her reading
the part about herself falling in love.
The book is more accurate than we can imagine.
**


Travelodge Motel
9:15 PM

Scully was on the phone when Mulder knocked on her
door; she waved him in distractedly, saying into the
phone, "It's okay, Mom, it's just Mulder. Go on."

He stared at her in mock hurt; she rolled her eyes
and looked away. Moments later, though, she was
laughing, her face lit up in a genuine smile he
hadn't seen in weeks. Probably Matthew, he guessed.
Mrs. Scully always passed on the stories she heard
from Tara, and fairly often, Scully repeated them to
him. Mulder had only laid eyes on the kid once, and
then just days after his birth, but he had to admire
Matthew's frequent ingenuity.

She hung up finally, dabbing at her eyes and shaking
her head. "This one takes the cake."

"Spread the joy, Scully."

"Bill and Tara took Matthew to church last weekend.
And Tara decided to risk it and didn't go into the
crying room as usual, just sat with the rest of the
congregation. And at first, Matthew was perfectly
behaved. Quiet, sitting still, even paying attention.
Then the priest got to the blessing of the Eucharist,
and he sang the 'Through him, with him, in him'
chant, you know the one where the priest is singing
all alone?" she paused to ask. He nodded. "Well, just
as the last note died out, for one brief moment the
church was completely silent, you could hear a pin
drop, and that's when Matthew bellowed at the top of
his lungs, 'One more time, mister!'"

"I love that kid," Mulder replied, grinning. "What
happened?"

"Well, nothing, really. Priests get used to that kind
of thing, believe it or not. Bill was just mortified,
though, because a group of little old ladies came up
to him after church, and wanted to know if it was his
son who asked for an encore."

He gave her a blank stare. "Bill was mortified?"

"I guess so."

"Don't do this to me, Scully, it's like hearing I
missed the Second Coming," he told her, mock-
seriously. "I really wish I'd been there."

Scully smiled slightly and swung her legs up onto the
bed, pushing aside the papers and files spread across
its surface. Stretching slowly, she slid down until
her head nestled into a pillow, one arm thrown over
her eyes. "I wish I'd been there, too. Sometimes I
wonder what it would be like, if we all lived in the
same town, and I was a bigger part of Matthew's
life."

He watched her for a moment before answering. "I'm
sure you're a great aunt, regardless."

Her voice was slightly muffled. "Oh, I try. But
that's not what I'm saying, I just wonder what it
would be like, to take a regular part in his life,
instead of hearing about it second-hand."

Mulder found himself thinking of his father's sister,
Caroline. Aunt Caroline had been a big part of their
lives, growing up. Younger, unmarried, a
schoolteacher. Sam had been her favorite, definitely,
but she'd always had a soft spot for him as well.
Aunt Caroline always brought good presents, always
knew what the latest fad was, always took the time to
listen. She knew how to play the Us and Them game,
how to find moments alone with the kids, how to keep
anything they'd told her a secret, no matter how
trivial. When Aunt Caroline visited, it was like
having an older sister around, one you could trust to
be on your side, play on your team.

When Samantha was taken, Aunt Caroline had clearly
been heartbroken. But she'd tried to reach out to her
scared and confused nephew, and she'd tried to be
there for his parents as well, Mulder realized now.
But Bill Mulder hadn't wanted his kid sister's help,
and Teena hadn't been willing to admit she needed it.
Slowly, Aunt Caroline drifted out of their lives,
just a distant albeit warm relative, a card on
birthdays, a visit during the holidays. During his
second year at Oxford, she'd been killed in a car
accident. He'd flown home for the funeral,
remembering the mischievous young woman she'd once
been.

It wasn't a stretch to imagine Scully being to little
Matthew what his Aunt Caroline had been to him--
someone to turn to, when your parents were too far
out of reach.

"You'd be wonderful," he told her, the sadness
evident in his voice.

Scully turned over on her side, staring at him
wordlessly, her expression unreadable.

"What?" he asked.

"Don't do that," she said quietly.

"Do what?"

She sighed. "Don't start making this conversation
about you."

He gaped at her in surprise. "What are you talking
about?"

"I won't play games with you, Mulder, you know what I
mean," she said, unflinching.

"I don't--"

"Just because I happen to muse out loud about my
relationship with my nephew does not mean you need to
turn this into an opportunity for you to air your
guilt," she told him calmly, her tone somewhat less
harsh than her words.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died on
his lips. "I'm sorry." She raised one eyebrow, and he
grimaced at his choice of words. "You know what I
mean. I just never want you to think that I don't
appreciate the sacrifices you've made to be here."

"We've both made sacrifices, Mulder," she told him
tiredly.

He shook his head. "I made mine willingly."

"And just what does that mean?" she snapped at him,
annoyance flashing in her eyes. "Am I somehow less in
control of my fate than you are?"

Mulder slumped in his chair and looked away. "That's
not what I meant."

"Explain yourself, then," she replied. "I'm all
ears."

He stared at the floor for a moment before answering,
unwilling to meet her unbending glare. "Lately I
feel... I feel like I'm one step away from quicksand
with you, Scully, all the time. And I don't want to
risk sinking. But I can't stop running after you
either. Wherever you're going, I have to follow.
Whether you wants me there, or not."

When she didn't answer, he turned to her, finally,
and the kindness in her eyes was nearly his undoing.
They held each other's gaze for a moment; when she
spoke, it was in a soft whisper. "I want you there,
Mulder."

"I know," he told her, and he knew they had said all
that either of them was capable of for the time
being. And yet, he thought sadly, they hadn't said
much of anything at all.

Scully sat up, searching through the papers at her
feet. "We need to go over a few things about the
case," she said. "I've finished looking over the
autopsy reports, and there's something here that
puzzles me."

"Which is?"

"The fact that there's nothing here to go on. Mulder,
you know as well as I do that forensic evidence is
all around us. Prints, fibers, debris, bodily
fluids... as human beings, we leave a trail behind
us, a trail that can identify us, given the right
combination and sufficient research."

He smiled. "Yes, Dr. Scully, I'm aware of all that."

"Well, not this guy. Oh, there are fibers, sure, but
their origin is completely undetermined. No prints.
No bodily fluids. There's latex residue, from the
condoms he used, but that's hardly a unique item.
Frankly, it's my opinion that there's nothing else to
be learned from these reports," she finished
decisively.

Mulder nodded, agreeing with her. "Do you want to
look at the bodies again yourself? We could arrange
for them to be exhumed, if you thought it would
help."

She shook her head. "No. Let's wait and see if I turn
up anything with Elizabeth Hollander. If I do come
across anything unusual, I suppose we can consider it
then."

"Fine."

"Which leads me to our next line of investigation.
Have you given any further thought to what we
discussed this afternoon?" she asked.

"Actually, yes," Mulder replied. "I think we're
right. This crime has a motivation beyond the
obvious. This guy is angry, he's angry at someone in
particular, someone or something connected to this
site. I think the obvious deduction is the police
department."

"So we--" Scully began, then stopped abruptly.

Mulder grinned, following her train of thought.
"Exactly. We, what, start looking around for someone
who might be pissed off at the local police? Boy,
*that'll* sure lower our pool of suspects. Still,
though, first thing tomorrow, I'm going to ask
around, see if there's anyone in particular we should
be looking into."

"I should be done by midmorning, so I'll get in touch
with you then and we can compare notes," Scully
suggested, smothering a yawn.

He stood to leave, nodding agreement. "I don't know
what it is, but something tells me we won't have to
look very far to catch this guy."


Mulder sighed, rubbing at his eyes ineffectually.
He'd spent the entire morning talking to cops,
looking through old files, and generally racking his
brain, trying to make a connection. Mid-morning he'd
gotten the idea that perhaps the three victims were
somehow connected. He'd cross-referenced and double-
checked, but had come up empty. They were local women
who walked or jogged alone, that was it.

"Hey, Mulder, want a refill on that coffee?" a
passing officer asked.

"Thanks, but no. I'm starting to hallucinate from
caffeine overdose as it is," he replied quickly,
feeling the four cups he'd already had slosh around a
too-empty stomach. "What I really need is food."

"There's a deli down the street," the other man told
him, "but I wouldn't exactly recommend it."

Mulder grimaced; if a cop wouldn't recommend it, it
had to be pretty bad. "Maybe I can convince my
partner to pick us up something. You interested?"

"No thanks, my wife made me a lunch, she'd kill me if
I didn't eat it. Hey, when you call Agent Scully, you
ask her real nice, hear? My wife, she gets touchy
about things like that. 'What do I look like, a
waitress?'" the cop mimicked, laughing.

"I'll just say please; that'll shock the hell out of
her," Mulder replied. "Anything more would make her
suspicious."

The cop left, chuckling, and Mulder reached for his
cell phone, hitting speed dial.

She picked up on the first ring. "Scully."

"Hello, you've been enrolled in the obscene phone
call of the month club--"

"Mulder, I saw 'My Best Friend's Wedding'. On a
plane. With you. Now you're plagiarizing Julia
Roberts movies?" she interrupted him.

He laughed. "Come on, tell me you weren't thinking
what a fabulous Christmas present that would be. For
me, I mean."

"I was just about to call you," she said, ignoring
him. "I'm pretty much done here."

"Anything?"

"Nada."

"Then there was nothing to find." She didn't answer,
but he knew she was smiling, pleased with the
compliment. "If it's any consolation, I didn't find
anything either."

She sighed. "No, Mulder, actually it's not. I'd much
rather have heard that you solved the mystery, caught
the guy, and we could go home."

"Alternatively, you could stop and pick up lunch on
your way over here. Maybe a turkey on rye, with extra
mayo and onions."

"What am I, a waitress?"

He chuckled. "Actually--"

"Agent Mulder!" Across the room, Sheehan was hanging
up a phone and pulling on his suit jacket. "We've got
another body."

"Same location?"

"More or less," Sheehan replied.

"Damn it," Mulder said into the phone. "Did you hear
that?"

"I'll be there as soon as I can," she replied.

Mulder stuffed the phone back in his pocket and raced
after Sheehan, cursing.


This time, it was a much younger girl. This time, the
victim was no more than eighteen. This time, someone
had heard her scream-- just once. Jessica Ramey was
in her backyard when she thought she heard someone
yelling for help. She'd called the police, and now
here they were-- again in the woods, again close but
not close enough to the nearby houses, again out of
sight from the actual path. This latest site, Mulder
thought, was close to the first one; frankly, it
wasn't that large a wooded area, and the killer
seemed to be running out of viable choices.

He followed Sheehan past the other officers, heading
towards the ambulance containing the latest victim's
still warm, but very much dead body. "Everything the
same on this one?" he asked the nearest officer.

The other man shook his head. "Not exactly. He was
probably worried someone heard her scream, knew he
didn't have time. It doesn't look like she was raped.
But the rest is the same-- her clothes are missing,
and she was apparently strangled."

"I want Agent Scully to do the autopsy," Mulder told
Sheehan. "As soon as possible. She's on her way over
here now, but maybe it would be better if she turned
around and went back to the hospital."

Sheehan shook his head. "I doubt it. They'll probably
schedule her for tomorrow. We'd definitely appreciate
it if Agent Scully conducted the autopsy, but the
coroner's got to be present, and probably the other
30,000 civil service employees, for all I know. You
know how it is."

Mulder nodded, unable to argue with the truth of the
detective's words. This wasn't a federal matter,
after all; they were just there to help. That being
the case, he wasn't running this show. He felt a
brief flash of irritation; another day, at least,
they'd be on this case, away from the X-files.

"Hey Sheehan, I think we got an ID on the victim," an
officer yelled from one of the squad cars parked
awkwardly on the path.

The detective's brow furrowed in confusion as he and
Mulder crossed to the patrol car. "How's that?"

"I sent Bobby over to the parking lot, you know,
where we found the last victim's car? You know, where
everybody parks if they gotta drive here. Well, Bobby
says there's one car parked there, a Ford Escort, and
they're running the plates now."

Sheehan nodded. "Good."

"Bobby says there's a bookbag or something in the
front seat... okay, wait," the officer said,
listening intently to his radio for a moment. "Okay.
The car belongs to Heather Siegel, eighteen, lives
over on Heim Road. Not far. They got her picture
pulled up back at the station, Bobby's going to run
over there and see if it looks like a match to him."

A tall, heavyset man who had been listening intently
to the entire exchange crossed over to where Sheehan
and Mulder were standing. "Alright, Donnelly, keep us
informed," the man called out, then turned his
attention to the detective. "It's probably her. We
need to find out if she lived alone, or with family,
or what. Damn kid. This shouldn't have happened."

Sheehan looked away, clearly chagrined. "We've been
patrolling this thing every day, Chief, but there's
no way we can cover every square inch of it,
constantly. We put up fences and signs at the path
entrance, but people keep finding a way around them."

"I'm not blaming you, Paul, I'm just pissed off," the
older man replied, frustrated. He turned, sticking
his hand out at Mulder. " I'm Chief Tom Goodwin. You
must be Agent Mulder, I'm sorry we haven't had a
chance to sit down and talk yet. I really appreciate
the FBI sending you out here to lend us a hand."

He shook the chief's proffered hand, smiling
politely. "My partner and I are glad to lend whatever
assistance you require."

"I was just speaking to your partner a moment ago,"
the chief said, waving his hand back in the direction
of the crime scene. "Smart girl. I'll do everything I
can to make sure this autopsy gets scheduled for
first thing in the morning."

Mulder turned to look in the direction Goodwin had
indicated. He was surprised that Scully had gotten
there so quickly, and that he hadn't seen her arrive.
Usually he saw her well before she saw him. It was
something of a habit, he had to admit: those few
moments before she became aware of him, when he would
watch her, unencumbered. In some ways he counted on
those unguarded moments to measure her by, to measure
*them* by. Just now, she was talking to one of the
officers scanning for forensic evidence. Her hair was
still pulled back in a low ponytail, though strands
were escaping to frame her face, and a flash of white
indicated that she was still wearing her Keds from
this morning's autopsy.

She looked over at him, finally, and finished up with
the forensic team, crossing to stand at his side. "I
hear there's a possible ID on the girl?" she asked
Sheehan.

The detective nodded. "Looks like it. We're
confirming that right now, back at the station."

Scully glanced at Mulder before directing her next
words at Goodwin. "Sir, Agent Mulder and I feel very
strongly that whoever is committing these crimes has
some sort of grudge against your department. Choosing
this location, over and over again, despite the
increasingly stringent security and the risk of being
caught, indicates that the killer is, essentially,
thumbing his nose at your authority."

The Chief nodded. "That sounds pretty logical, Agent
Scully."

"Is there anyone you can think of that would fit the
bill?" Mulder asked him.

Goodwin thought for a moment, hesitated only briefly,
then shook his head. "No one in particular. I'm
sorry, but you realize, of course, there are any
number of citizens who might have some reason to
resent the local police. There's no way for me to
single someone out."

"I can certainly understand that, sir," Mulder
replied. "There's also the matter, of course, that
this man seems to know what he's doing. He knows not
to leave trace evidence, and how to pick each site.
He may even know the patrol schedule."

"Are you suggesting... I would certainly hope you're
not suggesting what I think you are, Agent," the
older man warned. "No officer of mine would do such a
thing."

Mulder shook his head reassuringly. "No, to be
honest, I don't think it's a police officer
committing these crimes. But I don't rule out the
possibility that it's a former officer, maybe someone
who was asked to leave the force, someone unstable.
Anyone fit that bill?"

Goodwin froze, and stared at Mulder with unconcealed
anger. "Absolutely not." He turned and stalked away
without another word of explanation.

Scully looked up at Mulder and shrugged. He knew her
thoughts; they were on to something, but Goodwin
wasn't the way to get it. A quick look at Sheehan's
face indicated that he knew the score as well.

"How about you, Detective?" Scully asked him.
"Anything?"

Sheehan looked away, and hesitated much the way
Sheehan had. He sighed finally, shaking his head.
"No, I'm sorry. I'll... see if I can come up with
anything, but off the top of my head, no."

"In the meantime, I'd like to take a look at your
personnel files," Mulder stated, adding, at Sheehan's
move to protest, "Just statistics and vital
information, if that's all you can give me for the
time being."

The detective looked relieved. "You'd have to see a
judge for the rest."

"If it comes to that, yes," Mulder reassured him, not
wanting to upset the clearly flustered detective
further. "In the meantime, we'll work with what we
have."

"Sure, I'll be happy to get you the files you need,"
Sheehan said, and gestured for them to follow him to
the nearest squad car.

As they walked, Scully tugged on the arm of Mulder's
suit, and he lowered his head to hear her whisper,
"Well, these gentlemen certainly protest too much, I
think."

Mulder suppressed a smile. Smart girl.



**
This morning I woke and believed
there was no more to our lives
than the story of our lives.
When you disagreed, I pointed
to the place in the book where you disagreed.
**

Travelodge Motel
6:38 AM
September 14

Mulder shot bolt upright in his bed, shuddering, his
body drenched in sweat.

A nightmare, he told himself. A nightmare. Just a
dream, just a simple anxiety dream. Predictable.
Common, even. Just a dream.

In the car. He'd been driving, in the car, down an
empty highway. Day. Blue skies. Sun. Driving, with
Scully beside him, with the radio on. Playing some
old Al Green tune, something about staying together.
Let's Stay Together, that was the name of it. He'd
been whistling along. And Scully's hand, reaching
over to turn the volume up. Happy. He'd been happy,
knowing that she liked the song too, knowing that she
wanted to hear it, wanted it to keep playing.
Driving, on and on. And in the dream, he'd said
something to her, talked to her, he didn't know what.
Something unimportant. Something mundane. And when
she hadn't answered he'd turned to her, repeating
himself, and the words had died on his lips. Because
she wasn't looking at him. She was staring out the
window, singing along to the radio, ignoring him.
Oblivious to him. He'd called her name, and she
hadn't answered. He'd tried to stop the car, but
found he couldn't, and besides, there were places to
go, things to see. And so he'd kept on driving, all
the while calling her name, talking to her, as she
looked away. In the end he'd been screaming, and then
he woke up.

Just a dream. And not even a very subtle one.

Once, his nightmares of Scully had been about her
being taken away. Helpless, night after night, he'd
watch someone hurt her, someone steal her, someone
pull her from his life, ripping his heart out in the
process. And those dreams never left him; he still
had them, occasionally. But then he'd had a new
dream, one where she walked away. One where she
wanted to leave. One where she didn't call out,
didn't look back.

And now she just looked away.

He knew she wasn't going anywhere. He knew she
wouldn't leave him, wouldn't give up on him, or their
quest. The ties that bound them together were
unbreakable, it was true. But as the years went by,
he found it harder and harder to pretend he couldn't
see her struggling against them. Not when, so often
these days, she seemed always to be looking out the
window, looking ahead, sometimes, still, glancing
behind. What if, someday, she stopped turning back
for him? What if she left him behind?

Mulder let out a ragged breath and shoved back the
tangled sheets, stumbling for the bathroom. Splashing
cold water on his face, he waited for the beating of
his heart to quiet from a loud roar. Glancing up at
himself in the mirror, he ran a towel over his sweat-
soaked hair and felt no pity for the haggard,
exhausted man before him.

That's enough, he told himself fiercely. That's
enough. It was just a dream, and it's over.


"I have to go, Mulder, I don't want to be late,"
Scully called from his doorway the next morning, just
as he finished brushing his teeth.

He emerged from the bathroom without looking at her,
heading for the dresser. "Let me guess, you were born
exactly on your due date, right?"

There was a small pause before she answered. "As a
matter of fact, yes."

"See, that kind of thing follows you your whole life,
Scully. Never early. Never late. Just right on time,"
he concluded, pulling on his shirt.

"It's my punctuality you admire, Mulder?"

He paused, wondering at her slightly...
flirtatious?... tone. "Always," he replied casually,
settling on the edge of his unmade bed and smiling
cautiously in her direction.

She returned his smile, for a moment, then gave him a
quizzical look. "You sleep okay?"

"Sure," he said, and looked away.

"You look like hell."

He whistled. "Whoa, don't hold back there, Chief."

"What's with this 'Chief' business, lately?"

"You don't like the new pet name?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes, turning to leave. "I
take it back, you're fine. I'm taking the car, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll call a cab. Try not to get another
speeding ticket," he called after her, and watched as
she shook her head and closed the door behind her,
not bothering to answer.

An hour later he found himself back at the police
station, its new red brick and smoky glass windows
beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar. He tried
not to resent this case. After all, women were being
terrorized, and killed. A predator was on the loose,
a cocky, egotistical predator who used these hateful
acts to exact some sort of revenge. And it would give
Mulder quite a bit of satisfaction to put this
bastard away. But it wasn't the X-files. It wasn't
how he'd chosen to spend his life. It was too much
like the years he'd spent in Violent Crimes, the
witness to too many brutal murders committed by sick
fucks like this one. He'd left that life behind him
the day he found the X-files, but the man-made
monsters still prowled the earth and it was still his
job to stop them when he could. And so he felt guilty
for wanting to get away, for resenting having to work
this case. And guilt, he thought ruefully, was
certainly something Fox Mulder did well.

He headed for Sheehan's office, greeting the officers
he recognized on the way. It was different, working a
Violent Crimes case away from DC. He wasn't Spooky
Mulder here, he wasn't some crackpot yelling out that
the sky was falling. He was just another guy on the
job, like they were, trying to catch the bad guy. It
wasn't so bad, really. And, he thought to himself for
not the first time, it was the kind of life Scully
should have, instead of the one he gave her.

"Hey, Mulder, you're here bright and early," said
Sheehan's assistant as he reached his destination.

"You know what they say about the early worm, Joe."

"Early bird."

"Depends on your point of view."

The officer chuckled. "Where you stayin', anyhow?"

"The Travelodge Motel," Mulder replied.

Joe looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed. "Oh
yeah, wait, the one on Niagara Falls Boulevard,
right? Man, that place certainly has a history."

"Really?"

"Yeah, well, they just came under new management, oh,
a year or so ago. Used to be the Blue Dolphin. Kind
of place that rents by the hour, if you know what I
mean."

Mulder grimaced. "Jesus, Joe, do me a favor and don't
tell my partner that. I get enough shit about motel
selection as it is."

"Don't worry," Joe reassured him. "It's not like that
now. But I know what you mean, my wife would probably
raise hell if I ever took her to a place like that."

Mulder paused, realizing that for the second time in
so many days someone had mistakenly compared Scully
to a wife, instead of just a partner. Just his
partner... with a mental shrug he decided not to
bother correcting Joe. It wasn't like it really
mattered, after all, and it wasn't like Joe would
appreciate the distinction. Such as it was.

Such as it was. What difference was there, really,
Mulder mused, between a marriage and what they had?
Well, other than the obvious. They were together
constantly. They shared the same objectives, the same
goals. They trusted no one else, they turned to no
one else. As for that missing element, well, there
certainly was no one else filling that role in his
life, either. Nor, as far as he knew, in hers.
Furthermore, he thought ruefully, it certainly wasn't
a lack of desire that had kept their partnership
unconsummated. At least, not on his part.

Shaking himself from the unexpected reverie, Mulder
knocked on Sheehan's open door to get the detective's
attention. "Anything new?"

"No, damn it," Sheehan replied, exasperated.
"Nothing. We were right on the victim's ID, of
course. Heather Siegel was away all summer, and she'd
only heard the barest of details about the murders.
And what she heard, she chose to ignore."

Mulder nodded. "Much as I hate to put it this way,
sooner or later, women are going to stop using that
path."

"God, you'd hope so."

"I'm just wondering what our guy is going to do
then."

Sheehan dropped his hands in his face. "Yeah, but I
sure as hell don't want to find out the hard way."

Mulder's phone rang, interrupting anything he could
have said to comfort the frustrated detective.
"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me." Scully's voice, always a balm to
cure all ills.

"You done already?"

"Maybe," she told him hurriedly. "I've got a print."


Mulder paced the bullpen anxiously, restless. He
turned a corner and approached the crime lab, a
question obvious on his face.

The technician glanced up at him and smiled
sympathetically. "Almost. It's a slow system."

"Sorry to be a pest," Mulder said.

"Hey, we all want to catch this guy. But this is just
our local database, you faxed this out to the feds,
right?"

He nodded, finishing off the coffee. "Yeah. But
that'll take even longer. Besides, I'm thinking
there's a good chance this guy's got a record
locally."

The other man nodded, agreeing. "You've got a point.
Wait, it's finishing up."

A silence feel over the room; Mulder couldn't see the
computer screen from where he stood, but he'd
recognize that tell-tale beep anywhere.

"What've we got?" he asked, impatiently.

The other officers glanced at each other briefly and
said nothing. Mulder frowned in confusion; something,
obviously, was up. He edged his way forward and
stopped, reading the match's description carefully.

GOODWIN, JOHN EDWARD
DOB APRIL 6,1962
CAUCASIAN MALE
EYES: BLUE
HAIR: BROWN
HEIGHT 6'1". WEIGHT 190 LBS.
CURRENT ADDRESS: 847 ROBIN ROAD, #C. AMHERST, NY
14228
CURRENT PHONE: 688-1476
PRIOR ARRESTS: NONE
STATUS: RESIGNED, JULY 16, 1998

Mulder straightened slowly and said, quietly, "His
son?"

"Yeah," Sheehan said from the doorway. Besides Mulder
and the technician, there were two other officers in
the room, both young. Sheehan turned to them,
speaking carefully. "Jeffreys, Wilder, listen to me
carefully. We need to exercise extreme caution here,
which means I don't want either of you breathing a
word of this to anyone. Go bring two squad cars
around front and I'll join you there in a moment."
Both young men nodded and left the room, and Sheehan
next addressed the technician. "Greg, that goes for
you too-- not a word. I need to handle this as
efficiently as possible, before the shit hits the
fan."

The technician left the room as well, leaving Mulder
and Sheehan alone. The detective checked the gun at
his side then stood awkwardly for a moment before
speaking. "Agent Mulder, I'd appreciate your
discretion as well. Yours and your partner's, of
course."

"No problem," Mulder replied. Over Sheehan's
shoulder, he spotted Scully and waved her in.

"Did you get a match?" she asked.

He nodded. "John Goodwin, age thirty-eight, no prior
arrests. Chief Goodwin's son. They're planning to
make the arrest as quietly as possible."

Scully's eyes widened but she said nothing.

Sheehan still didn't move, and a moment later slid
the door shut, closing them off from the rest of the
station. "I'd better tell you the story now, I guess.
John was a cop here. I mean, he was his father's son,
in a lot of ways... but not the man his father is,
when it mattered. I don't like to say that John made
it through the Academy because of who his father is,
but..."

Mulder shrugged. "It happens."

"Yeah. Well, so, he wasn't exactly at the top of his
class, you know? But, to add insult to injury, he
never let anyone forget that he was Chief Goodwin's
son, either. So you can imagine, he wasn't too
popular with the other officers. John would complain
about the way the other officers treated him all the
time, to anyone that would listen-- which didn't
include his father, I should make clear. Chief
Goodwin was, well, he wasn't too thrilled with his
son, let's put it that way.

"So after John's been on the force, oh, a couple of
years, he goes on a domestic call. With another
officer, of course. So the other cop takes the guy
out for a walk, to cool down, and John stays with the
woman. I guess they hit it off, because pretty soon
it became common knowledge around the station that
John was sleeping with her."

Scully shook her head, disgusted. "He was having an
affair with someone he'd met on a domestic call? Was
he married?"

Sheehan looked pained. "Yeah. The sick thing is, he
still is. His wife Susan, she's great. I mean, smart,
pretty, successful. Why she stays with that asshole
is beyond anyone's guess. Anyhow, as you can imagine,
things got ugly. The husband found out, of course,
and the end result is that the woman ended up dead."

"Strangled?" Mulder guessed.

Sheehan nodded. "Yeah. The husband went to jail, and
John lost his job."

"I should think so," Mulder said. "He's lucky he
wasn't brought up on charges."

"Yeah, well, he's Chief Goodwin's son."

"That's not going to help him now," Scully murmured.

Sheehan agreed. "No, it's not."

Mulder nodded, letting the pieces fall into place in
his mind. "Well, this explains how the murderer knew
how to cover his tracks so well. It's just our good
luck someone heard Heather Siegal, and he got
sloppy."

"His bad luck. And hers," Sheehan added morosely.

"So, I gather it's safe to say John-boy didn't handle
the forced resignation very well," Mulder asked.

"No, he didn't. Hired a lawyer to try to get his job
back. Susan stood by him the whole time. But he never
really had a case," Sheehan concluded. "Just a lot of
resentment. And he blamed his father for not taking
his side, as if Chief Goodwin could've done much else
for him."

"Detective Sheehan, did John Goodwin cross your mind
as a possible suspect?" Scully asked in a quiet tone.

Sheehan looked away. When he answered, his tone was
filled with remorse. "Not until yesterday, when you
asked Chief Goodwin if he knew of anyone that fit
your profile. I thought of him then. I should have
sooner. And then I should have said something, but I
just didn't think... I mean, I hated that little
bastard. He was a shit to work with, and a disgrace
to the department. But I didn't think he was capable
of something like this."

"Sadly, Detective, people are capable of a lot more
horror than you'd ever imagine," Mulder told him.

The other man nodded slowly, then seemed to gather
himself together. "Well, before I make this arrest,
I've got to tell the Chief."

"What do you think his reaction will be?" Scully
asked.

Sheehan laughed bitterly. "He'll probably be less
surprised than I was, let's put it that way. Further
than that, who knows? He's a private man. He'll be
concerned about John's mother, and his wife, and how
this will reflect on the department. As for his
son... I have a feeling he gave up on him a long time
ago."

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked.

"Chief Goodwin tried pretty hard to straighten his
son out, you know? But one day he just decided he'd
done enough, and that it wasn't worth ruining his own
life and his own career over."

"I'm sure he did what he thought was best," Scully
murmured.

"Maybe," Sheehan shrugged. "I don't know. It's still
his son we're talking about here."

"Sometimes, the best thing you can do for everyone
concerned is to walk away," Mulder said, staring off
into the distance. "Even when it's someone you love."

Sheehan sighed. "That's easier said than done,
though."

"Well, I think this is where we get off," Mulder told
him, holding out his hand.

The detective shook it, turning to extend Scully the
same courtesy. "Thank you both, for everything you
did. I know the Chief will want to talk to you later,
once the dust settles. Despite all of this, we caught
the killer, and that's what matters." He turned to
shake Scully's hand and, with a final nod to them
both, left.


Mulder followed Scully into the parking lot, her
sunglasses back on and her stride determined, angry
even. She reached the car first and headed for the
passenger side, sliding the keys across the hood and
climbing in, without looking directly at him. He
slipped behind the wheel and fumbled with the keys.

"Mulder, is there some part of you that wants to
convince me to walk away?"

His head whipped around and he stared at her, his
mouth hanging open slightly. She was staring at him,
her face unreadable, her eyes hidden by the dark
lenses. "Why the hell would you think that?"

She revealed nothing, unflinching in the face of his
incredulity. "Subconsciously, even?"

"You're kidding, right?"

"'Sometimes, the best thing you can do is walk
away'?" she quoted, her face devoid of any emotion.
"You've said that to me before, after all."

He sighed. "I wasn't saying it to you now. The two
situations aren't even remotely similar, for that
matter."

"I'm aware of that," she snapped, then paused and
softened her tone. "I wasn't suggesting otherwise.
I'm just asking you if sometimes you don't try to
push me away for my own good."

"I really don't think I do, Scully," he told her,
exhaustion creeping into his tone.

She watched his face carefully for a moment, then
looked away, apparently satisfied. Mulder started the
car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading in the
direction of their motel. Quicksand, he thought to
himself, and I guess I've avoided sinking yet again.
But he felt like they'd taken a step in the wrong
direction, something they couldn't afford just now.
So often, in the past, he'd let these things go. He
didn't dwell so much on what was between them, he
didn't delve any further than their vague
conversations tended to go. Easier to leave things
unsaid, always, even when silence left room for
doubt.

But then again, in the past, he'd come too damn close
to losing her.

"I want you here, Scully," he said suddenly, not
taking his eyes from the road. "Don't ever doubt
that. I want you here. Always."

"I know that, Mulder," she replied tiredly, and when
he turned to glance at her she was still looking
away, looking out the window, watching all they
passed with unseeing eyes.


**
If there were a perfect moment in the book,
it would be the last.
The book never discusses the causes of love.
It claims confusion is a necessary good.
It never explains. It only reveals.
**

Travelodge Motel
September 15
3:32 AM

He found himself drifting awake as he so often did
this time of night, for no particular reason. On a
good night, he would simply roll over and return to
slumber after only a minimal hesitation. On a worse
night, it would take him up to an hour to fall back
to sleep, his mind churning too quickly for peace.
And on the worst nights of all, he simply didn't get
any more sleep, and eventually he got up, read a
book, watched TV, or even went for a run. Thankfully,
those nights were fewer these days, not because, of
course, he had achieved any peace of mind-- simply,
he was older, and more tired. No matter how much
noise his mind produced, his body demanded sleep. And
right now, he felt exhausted enough to be hopeful. He
sighed and slid his body around, rolling over onto
his left side.

"Mulder, it's me."

And of course he ran the predictable gamut of
emotions: for a moment, his blood froze at this
unexpected intrusion of someone else into not only
his room, but his bed, unseen and unheard. As any
federal agent would do, in the next moment his body
tensed and he began a quick mental search for his
weapon, the phone... but those were instinctual
reactions, involuntary, and as soon as his brain
processed those three words spoken in the black
silence, the fear and tension left him completely,
replaced by confusion.

There, in his bed, nestled under his covers, wearing
her favorite navy silk pajamas and propping her head
up on one hand, was, of course, Scully. Childishly,
he blinked, just to make sure she was real. Since she
didn't disappear, he had to assume she was.

"Well, I certainly hope so," he said somewhat
shakily, moving to sit up. She stopped him without a
word, placing her hand on his arm, applying the
gentlest of pressures until he reclined back on the
pillows once more.

She said nothing, and her face was unreadable as
always, which hardly surprised him. He admired so
much about her it was hard to begin a list, but if
asked, he had to admit that her stoicism and her
inscrutability were somewhere in the top twenty, at
least. She had an amazing capacity to hide her
emotions; he envied that, sometimes, when his own
always seemed to be crashing right at the surface.

"Scully, is something wrong?" he asked, unable to
avoid asking, unable to avoid, as always, that slight
bit of panic.

In answer she looked away and, twisting, ended on her
stomach, hands braced beneath her chin, staring at
the headboard. "Does there have to be?"

"I'm awake, right?" he asked.

She looked at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled
contemplatively.  "Why, do you often dream about
waking up and finding me in your bed?"

"Yes."

Her eyebrow arched. "But am I wearing pajamas in
those dreams?"

"No."

"Then you're not dreaming."

Mulder found himself laughing uneasily. Quicksand, he
thought. Both feet, no getting out.

"Apparently not," he replied finally, resigned to
follow her lead, whatever it was they were doing.
"So, okay. Nothing's wrong, I'm not dreaming, you're
wearing pajamas. I'll get a flashlight, we can tell
ghost stories."

"I didn't say nothing was wrong."

He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. This was
her scene to enact, and frankly, he didn't have a
clue where it was going.

Scully watched him, waiting. When she finally seemed
satisfied with his silence she curled onto her side,
hands tucked under the pillow. Despite himself,
Mulder felt sleepy, wishing he could just drift off
like this, with Scully beside him, alone in this
motel room amongst strangers, far away from DC and
the Bureau and conspiracies and viruses. So easy,
just to close his eyes and stay here with her, to
reach out for her during the night and then to wake
in the morning to find the world still waiting, still
far away.

As her silence continued, he let his mind follow that
path, something he rarely indulged in. How easy it
would be to hold her, and to be held. To wake up
tomorrow morning and say, the world has shifted. Our
world has shifted. Between us we have created this
new thing, something greater than either of us,
something that in the light of day can't be denied or
pushed aside in favor of the bigger picture. And how
easy it would be, then, to let go of the past and the
pain in favor of this new thing between them, to let
it all wash down the drain and turn away, turn to
her. Easy.

"Then, what's wrong?" he asked finally, accepting as
always that his was not the easier path, and probably
never would be.

"I'm not sure," she told him. "But something's
bothering you. Something's bothering me. And I'm not
sure how to fix it."

He sighed, staring at the ceiling. "We'll be fine,
Scully. We always are."

"I'm getting tired of 'fine', though. Aren't you?"

He chuckled a little at that. "But you're so good at
it, why mess with perfection?"

"Because I think I deserve better than 'fine'." She
paused, and added in a softer tone, "I think we both
deserve better."

Mulder didn't hear her, really, though; he was still
cringing from her first words, her putting voice to a
thought that had run through his head for most of the
last seven years. She deserves better. She's always
deserved better. Since the very first case they'd
worked together. In that brief span of days, she'd
supported him, challenged him, and encouraged him
more than any other human being alive. One case. In
just one case, she'd shown him what it could be like
to trust someone again. To need someone again. And
for giving him that, just that, he owed her. For
giving him everything since, he owed her more than he
was capable of paying. He owed her what she deserved.
Better than this.

But she stayed, through it all, and he knew by now
that there was no telling her to go, no telling her
to walk away while she still could. It was an insult
to her, to say that now.

"If I had a thousand lifetimes," he said into the
darkness, "I would spend them all trying to give you
back everything you've lost."

"Everything we've lost."

He shrugged. "You matter more."

"Why? That's ridiculous, Mulder. Your life has its
own infinite value."

"But only with you in it."

She didn't answer him then, as he knew she wouldn't.
He could hear her breathing softly beside him, still
awake, still waiting.

"Scully, what's wrong?" he asked again. "Because
something... something is wrong. I can feel it every
time I look at you, every time I hear your voice. And
I don't understand what to do about it. I feel like
you regret your life here with me, but I know you
made the choice to be here a long time ago. And I
can't stand seeing you unhappy this way. That's
what's bothering me, Scully. That's what I don't know
how to fix, not without your help."

"Mulder..." she sighed, and he sensed just the
slightest irritation in her voice. "Regret. You think
I regret this? You think I wish I'd chosen how to
spend my life differently, that I feel trapped?"

"I don't know what to think."

"I told you..."

"No," he interrupted her, "not in so many words.
That's just it, we've been dancing around this thing
for so long, I can't keep reading between the lines.
And you're so impatient these days, even when we're
on a case, I feel like you're racing headlong through
our life--"

"That's just it," she interjected quietly. "Our life.
It's not our life."

He turned to look at her, exasperated. "I... you're
right. But Scully, what can I say? Our lives overlap,
it's true, and I know you resent that intrusion--"

"Damn it all to hell, Mulder," she swore, flopping
onto her bed. "Resent it? Regret it? Do you even look
at me at all anymore? Do you look at us? How can you
lie here next to me and think I *resent* what we've
become?"

He waited, then, the need to listen to her
overwhelming him, wiping away any response he could
have made.

She let her breath out in a small huff and closed her
eyes. "I resent what we *haven't* become. I resent
what we're missing. And I worry that we'll never get
there, never move forward, never get any further than
this."

"You're worried we're standing still," he said
quietly, a question in his voice.

"I... yes, essentially."

Mulder shook his head, reaching over to enclose one
of her small hands in his. "We're not. We're always
moving forward. Sometimes so fast I feel like I can't
keep up."

"And that's the problem, I guess. That's what bothers
me."

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Are you sure you want to keep up? Keep moving
forward? Because I can't tell, Mulder," she said in a
voice that shook slightly. "I try, I do, but I can't.
I think I know where we're going, and then you... we,
we swing in the other direction. As if you haven't
made up your mind, and you're just trailing behind,
not sure."

"Scully."

"What?" she answered breathlessly, the distress
evident in her voice.

In answer he turned in one fluid movement, shifting
his body to cover hers, settling himself between her
legs, lowering his mouth to her lips.

She was surprised at first, not resisting him but
surprised, caught off guard, still distressed and
still unsettled. He waited, kissing her as softly as
possible, waited for her to decide, to catch up...
and then, suddenly, she did, and her mouth was warm
and alive under his. Her hand rose up to caress his
back, lightly, and he smiled, pulling away slowly,
gazing down into her eyes.

She looked up at him silently, and he saw as expected
that she was as inscrutable as ever, as changeless as
the sea her eyes so resembled. Her face, her hair,
they were burned into his memory and he knew,
suddenly, that no matter what happened to them, hers
was the image he would see, always, when he closed
his eyes at night. She was the vision he would look
to, at every turn, in every moment of doubt. She was
the one true and good thing in his life, no matter
what fate threw at them. And where she went, he would
always, always follow.

"Not trailing, Scully," he told her finally. "Just
letting you lead the way."

She shook her head, disbelieving him slightly. Slowly
he rolled onto his back, pulling her along with him
until her head rested on his chest, his arms still
wrapped around her. It was, he thought irreverently,
a completely unfamiliar experience. He found himself
unable to think about what he'd just done, what had
just happened, and instead found himself distracted
by how long it had been since he'd held anyone this
way. Since he'd wanted to hold anyone but her.

"Why?" she whispered finally.

"Because I can't," he replied, feeling defeated, as
always. "Because I can't give you everything you
deserve."

"Mulder--"

"Everything we deserve, then. I can't. Every time I
think of us, I can't help but hate the fact that our
life is sullied by so much pain and hurt and danger.
And then I think, we deserve better. We have to be
capable of better. And then I bury myself in work
again, and hope that one day the world will be safe
enough for us to be happy in."

Scully lifted her head, pulling away enough to look
into his eyes. "The world is never going to be
perfect for us, Mulder. It's never going to be the
Garden of Eden." She paused, considering him for a
moment before continuing. "But if you feel that way,
Mulder, why follow me at all?"

"Because I have this nagging tendency of being wrong
about two percent of the time," he replied, smiling
slightly. "And because I kept hoping that one day
you'd lead me here, and somehow or other, I wouldn't
give a rat's ass about the rest of it."

She merely nodded, looking at him seriously, before
turning in his arms so that he could no longer see
her face. Her voice, when she spoke, whispered softly
in a tone he'd never heard from her before, though it
was strong and true as always. "The other night I had
the strangest dream, Mulder. I dreamt that I lived my
life in a single room, a room with furniture and
walls and no door, no phone, no connection to the
rest of the world except for a window looking out
onto the street. There was nothing wrong with me, I
was healthy and alive and safe, I could read and
sleep and eat--I just couldn't leave the room. The
outside world kept going, though, and I could watch
it out the window. I could see the people coming and
going, and across the street I could see into another
house, where a man lived. A nice man. And as the
years went by, in my dream, I saw him fall in love,
and bring home a wife, and have children. I saw all
of it, right there from that window."

"And--" He couldn't finish; the dream seemed so
obvious, but they'd discussed this already, after
all. And Scully didn't need him to analyze her.

"No, Mulder," she replied to his unanswered question.
"No. I watched it all from that window, but not with
longing. It's true, I was stuck in that room. I
couldn't leave it, I had no contact with the outside
world. Each day was the same as the last. And there,
right in front of me, was the kind of life I was
being denied. But I didn't miss it. I didn't want it.
I didn't feel like a prisoner in that room. I liked
it there, I never wanted to leave."

He shook his head, surprised. "That doesn't sound
like you. Why? Why did you want to stay there?"

"Because you were there, too."

He felt the familiar millstone of guilt edging
perilously close to settling down on his chest. "So
you stayed because of me? Trapped, shut away from the
world? Scully--"

"No. I stayed because of us. That room wasn't a jail
or a punishment, Mulder. It was what we'd created.
That's why there was no link to the rest of the
world, because the room was only large enough to
contain what existed between us. It was made from our
thoughts, and our words, and our memories. It was
made from the story of our lives, and the story of
what we are, together."

"Minus the global conspiracies and aliens," he said
softly, pulling her even closer to him.

She ran her fingers lightly up and down his arms.
"Not minus them. Just beyond them."

Mulder ran his lips across her hair. It was still
pitch-black outside, not even remotely near morning.
They were catching a seven AM flight back to DC, back
to work, back to the Bureau and their lives, back to
everything. And he wasn't sorry about that. It was
the life he knew, the one he wanted, in a way. He
couldn't stop the car and walk away, even if Scully
wanted him to. There were places they still had to
go, and things they had to see. But she didn't want
him to stop; she just wanted to reach wherever it was
they were going.

He wanted that too. He'd wanted it for such a long
time, longer than she would ever imagine. And now
here they were, his arms tightly wound around her,
her hair beneath his chin, their legs tangled
together, ahead of schedule. Because the conspiracies
and the aliens and the monsters were still with them,
still part of their lives, still in that room in
which they lived.

"I love you," she said.

His eyes slid shut and he concentrated on the sound
of her soft, even breathing, the feel of her warm and
small in his arms, the smell of her hair, the taste
of his love for her overflowing from his lips. "I
would've waited forever to hear you say that."

"I'm sorry I made you--"

"No," he cut her off, "don't. Don't apologize. I
didn't doubt how you felt. I just wanted to hear it.
And I never would've stopped waiting."

"I know." She paused, and shifted slightly in his
arms. "Mulder, I'm tired."

"So am I," he confessed. "But stay."

"Okay." They were silent together for a few moments,
and her voice drifted over him like a blanket. "Do
you regret any of it, Mulder? Any of what it took to
bring you here, to this moment in your life?"

And into the night that enveloped them so completely,
so familiarly, he answered without pause, without
need for thought, and with more certainty than he'd
ever felt before. "If it took a walk through hell to
bring me to you, Scully, it was worth every step of
the way."



END