DISCLAIMER: For the most part, the characters included within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. I mean no infringement. Warning: Adult language and situations. This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes place within the same universe. You will find notable discrepancies between this piece and 12 Degrees as I have incorporated third season story developments into the canon of the 12 Degrees Universe. A special thank you to Kathy Nahill for her medical expertise-- if you see something wrong with the medical terminology, etc. it's MY fault, not hers. :) Now...on to the show.... 12 RITES OF PASSAGE #1: "Reevaluation" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com Part a: January 20th, 1998 Chevron Food Mart Washington, D.C. 7:22 p.m. He cradled her body tightly to his as they lay side by side on the floor. Gently supporting her neck in the crook of one arm, he pressed his other hand hard against her thigh, trying to stanch the flow of blood. "I can hear the sirens now," he murmured into her hair, hardly recognizing his own voice. "I'm c-cold...." He tucked her more firmly against his body, trying to envelope her in his own heat. "Just a little longer, Scully--almost there--" Fox Mulder was barely aware of the other people in the convenience store. He was barely aware of anything at all beyond the slow, shallow rise and fall of Dana Scully's chest, the hot, wet feel of her life seeping out between his fingers. Where the hell were the paramedics? "Here." A man crouched next to him, holding out a rough woolen blanket. Mulder spared him a grateful glance and a nod, and the man put the blanket over Scully's shivering body, tucking it tightly around her. Mulder touched his lips to the curve of her ear. "Better?" She didn't answer. "Scully?" He didn't feel her shivers anymore. And with the blanket over her, he couldn't tell if her chest continued to rise and fall. Fear as primal and shattering as anything he'd ever known shot through him. "Scully?" She stirred slightly, and he sucked in a long, shuddery breath. "Come on, Scully, you know the drill. Gotta stay focused, okay?" "Mulder...." Her voice was faint and thready. "Just a few more seconds, Scully--help's coming." He pressed his fist harder into her leg and she moaned. But he didn't release the pressure. It was the only thing keeping her alive. "I know, I know, Scully--you hate when I try to play doctor." He ventured a chuckle, but it was a wretched, watery sound. "Mulder...I don't think I can...." He clutched her to him more tightly. "Damn it, Scully, I won't put up with this bullshit! You hear me? I won't put up with it." He whispered the words into her hair, his lips brushing her temple. "I won't." Her hand fluttered under the blanket, finding where his fist crushed the make-shift compress against her spurting gunshot wound. She lay her palm over the back of his hand, her touch frail, her fingers cold. "I'm sorry, Mulder...." "No, Scully!" He looked around wildly, gaze barely skimming across the crowd of on-lookers, the toppled candy display, the broken bottles of soda still fizzing quietly across the dirty tile floor of the food mart. "Where the hell are the EMTs?" His hoarse shout broke through the low, excited buzz from the crowd surrounding him. "What's taking so long?" He'd been hearing sirens for what seemed like hours but the EMTs were no closer to arrival. Damn it, Scully, he thought, turning his attention back to his dying partner, why did you do it? Why'd you take my bullet? The kid had aimed the .22 at him, not Scully. The bullet had his name, his fate, his shit-for-karma written all over it. She could've gone for her gun instead of diving into the line of fire. Hell, knowing Scully, she probably could have apprehended the shooter AND saved his own life without breaking a sweat. "Why did you do it, Scully?" He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard her soft, raspy wheeze. "I had to...." She tightened her hand over his convulsively, and he realized she was in the throes of great pain. His own body spasmed in empathy. "My....job...." He pressed his lips into the soft hair at her temple, loving her in that instant with a power that blazed from him like pure energy. "Bad call, Scully." His voice caught, choking him. "Gotta learn to prioritize better. Cover your own ass first--it's the better ass." She made a soft, strangled sound that he could swear was an attempted laugh. A coughing fit seized her immediately, and her tiny body racked, her breath coming in horrible, wheezing gasps. The sirens he heard grew exponentially louder and louder, and he lifted his head toward the sound, excitement surging through his tense body as he realized he could see the flashing strobe of the paramedic van's revolving red bubble light. "Here's the cavalry, Scully. Must be your lucky day." A pair of Emergency Medical Technicians crouched beside him, equipment and supplies in hand. "Whadda we got?" the female queried, lifting the blanket. "Gunshot wound, upper thigh--I think it nicked an artery. .22 caliber semi-automatic--" Mulder recited the words like he was reading a script, while a huge, relentless part of him shrieked with mindless, wordless terror. God oh God she's dying and I can't stop it and what if they can't stop it either oh God don't let anything happen to her take me instead take me and leave her oh God if you're listening listen now I can't lose her I can't can't can't can't.... The male E.M.T. pushed Mulder's rigid hand away from the bullet wound. The paramedic whistled softly through his teeth as a gout of blood spurted from the wound, his face almost expressionless as he glanced at his partner and shook his head slightly, even as he went to work controlling the blood flow. Mulder had the inexplicable urge to knock the paramedic's teeth down his throat. Didn't he know what he was so blithely implying--what he was seeing as Dana Scully's lifeblood gushed away heartbeat by heartbeat? Didn't he know he was watching the whole world come to an end? * * * * * N.E. Georgetown Medical Center 8:38 p.m. Margaret Scully burst through the front door of the Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, her air somewhere between purposeful and panic-stricken. She ignored the information desk and headed toward the corridor leading to a bank of elevators. Eyes darting from side to side, she looked for someone--anyone--who looked like he knew what was going on. She caught sight of a dark-haired young woman in a white coat turning the corner. She took a couple of steps toward her, oblivious to the nearest elevator sliding open or the tall, powerfully built man emerging. Only his voice, tight and commanding, stayed her from her intended course. "Mrs. Scully." She stopped, her head whipping around to look at him. She recognized the strong, handsome features behind wire-rimmed glasses, the impressive width of his shoulders and imposing bulk. Dana's boss, Mr. Skinner. "Where is she?" "In surgery." He put a hand under her elbow and gently drew her back toward the elevator he'd just vacated. Her stomach flip-flopped, and she could barely draw a breath. "What's her condition?" "We don't know yet. She's lost a good bit of blood." She pulled away from him, sagging against the wall of the elevator as he pushed the button for the fifth floor. She'd felt a tight, scared feeling all afternoon, just as she had at other times when her family was threatened. The frantic dream that had awakened her in time to hear her husband's gasping goodbye the night he died. The horrible dream that had eventually led her to Dana's apartment in time to see a stunned Fox Mulder standing amid the broken glass and detritus of a life interrupted. The horror that preceded her vigil at Melissa's deathbed.... "What happened? An accident? A...." She swallowed convulsively, unwilling to voice her fear, her certainty that what had happened to her daughter had been no accident. She told herself she was inured to the dangers her daughter and Fox Mulder faced daily, but the truth was, she'd never get used to it. She wasn't SUPPOSED to get used to it. Walter Skinner stood across the elevator from her, studying her through slightly narrowed eyes. "Your daughter and Agent Mulder walked in on an attempted robbery of a gas station, Mrs. Scully. Dana was shot in the upper thigh. I'm sorry--I don't know much beyond that." She looked up at him, sensing there was something more he wasn't saying. "How did she get shot? What happened? Did she try to take the robber into custody?" He sighed. "Details are sketchy--" "She took a bullet for Fox, didn't she?" A faint, curling sensation rippled through her stomach. She didn't need to see the confirmation in Walter Skinner's dark eyes. Instinctively she knew the truth. "I'm sure he wouldn't--" She waved off his attempted defense of Fox Mulder. "I know he'd never have put her in danger willingly." The elevator reached the fifth floor with a muted "ding." The doors swished open and Mr. Skinner glanced at her, obviously waiting for her step through the doors first. She put out her hand, clutching his thick forearm. "Wait...." He looked down at her, his expression a mingling of expectancy and wariness. "How is Fox?" He stared at her a second, his lips parting slightly in surprise. "Not good," he said finally. She closed her eyes for a second, sucking in a deep breath. Then she stepped out of the elevator. She let Walter Skinner lead her toward the surgical floor waiting room. On a Tuesday evening, the place was almost deserted--a young couple sat huddled together at one end of the room, while an older woman and two middle-aged men sat together on the bench by the picture window overlooking a small courtyard garden. And in the middle of the room, with an edgy energy that was exhausting to behold, Fox Mulder paced back and forth in a tight half-circle. He stopped immediately when he caught sight of them. His gaze met hers, haunted eyes glittering like smoky jewels for one taut moment before he looked away, shame and fear wrestling for dominance over his features. She closed her eyes for a second, interrupting her silent, unceasing prayer for her daughter's safety long enough to lift a prayer for this dear, haunted man who loved her daughter so. Opening her eyes, she abandoned Skinner's side and went to Fox Mulder, stilling his renewed pacing with a gentle hand on his arm. "Fox." He couldn't meet her gaze. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully--I'm so sorry--" She squeezed his forearm. "Mr. Skinner told me most of what happened." He shook his head, his features like stone. His mouth worked silently as if he were trying to find words to utter something that burned like fire inside him. But in the end, he simply shook his head again and looked down at the rust-colored spatters staining the dark brown leather of his shoes. She resisted the urge to pull him into her arms. He wasn't ready for her forgiveness, much less her comfort. And he was in no condition to offer her any comfort of her own. Everything was too fresh, too raw. She looked him over, taking in the rumpled, stained shirt and dusty trousers, the redness that covered his right hand from fingertips to mid- forearm. Dana's blood on his hands-- She pushed away the unbidden thought as quickly as it had arisen. None of this was Fox Mulder's fault. He'd have given his life a hundred times over to prevent even one of the events that had plagued her family over the past few years. He loved her daughter, even if he and Dana wouldn't see it, wouldn't admit it. They were connected, integrated halves of a dynamic whole. She knew that if her daughter died, Fox Mulder wouldn't survive the year. Fate and maybe something more divine had brought them together, set them on a path that had led them to a truth more profound than any they sought. Margaret wouldn't allow herself to contemplate the idea that her daughter might not live to recognize this truth. "I'm so sorry." Fox's voice was broken and breathy like a child's. She touched him again, not offended by his instinctive flinch. She tried to relax, tried to let the right words come into her heart and mind so that she would know how to comfort the young man. But before she could speak, the doors to the waiting room swung open and a handsome black man in pale green surgical scrubs entered. All heads rose to greet the doctor. After a second, the other two clusters of people sharing the waiting room looked away, obviously not recognizing the young surgeon. He didn't spare them a glance as he closed the distance between himself and Fox Mulder. Fox stared at the doctor, his eyes wide and panic-stricken in a face that was as cold and expressionless as stone. "How is she?" The doctor waited until Margaret and Walter Skinner closed the circle. "The bullet was small. It didn't hit a bone and didn't do much damage beyond the entry wound and the nicked artery. She lost a lot of blood prior to her arrival--the artery was pretty compromised and it was touch and go, trying to repair it before she bled out." Fox's lips tightened with impatience. "Is she going to be all right?" The doctor met his wild-eyed gaze with admirable calm. "We were able to repair the damage and replenish Agent Scully's blood supply with relatively little difficulty. She's going to be very weak and very sore for a couple of weeks, but barring any complications, she should be all right. I'll send someone to get you as soon as she's out of recovery and into the intensive care unit." Margaret expelled a watery sigh, weak with relief. To her left, Mulder sagged, groping for the back of a waiting room chair to steady his balance. He closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the ceiling as if offering up a benediction. The surgeon started to leave, then turned back to Fox. "You were the one on the scene, weren't you? You administered first aid." The surgeon's dark eyes took in Fox's disheveled appearance, saw the blood staining his clothes and skin. Though Margaret could tell the doctor was well-schooled in maintaining professional detachment, she couldn't mistake the compassion in his voice. Fox nodded slowly. "You saved her life." The surgeon gave a little nod, the briefest of smiles, then turned and walked out the waiting room door. Fox stared at the doorway for a long moment, his expression void. Then he closed his eyes and slumped into the nearest chair, sagging forward as if every nerve in his body had gone suddenly, blessedly numb. Margaret's eyes stung with the tears she'd been fighting since she'd gotten the call to come to the hospital. She sat in the chair next to him, sliding her arm around his shoulder. He didn't resist when she gently drew his head against the curve of her neck, stroking his hair with gentle fingers. "Thank you for taking care of my baby girl." A soft, hitching sound escaped his throat. Margaret rocked him gently, murmuring sounds that communicated nothing but comfort and love. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Walter Skinner cross to the bank of payphones in the corner, moving with an air of confidence and power that was intriguing and comforting at the same time. Margaret added his name to the prayers she continued to lift to her God, grateful for Walter Skinner's concern for her daughter--and for Fox. After a few moments, Fox drew away from her, taking a deep breath as if to compose himself. Margaret left her hand against his back, soothing him with the same gentle caress she'd used to calm her children when they were babies. "Maybe you should go home for a little while, get cleaned up. Dana probably won't be out of recovery for another hour--" He shook his head with a violent side-to-side motion. "I'm not leaving 'til I see her." She rubbed his back. "At least you need to clean up a bit." He stared down at his right hand, where Dana's blood had begun to dry and darken on his skin. His eyes narrowed with a slight twitch, as if he could hardly bear the sight. Unbidden, a memory sliced into Margaret's mind--Fox Mulder with his hand outstretched to her, blood glistening on his fingertips as she stood, stunned and terrified, in the chaos of her daughter's wrecked apartment. She drew a sharp, shaky breath, reliving the horror of that first, fateful meeting with Fox Mulder. At the sound, Fox turned to look at her, his hazel-gray eyes haunted. Without words, they shared that moment again, understanding the import of what had happened the night Duane Barry kidnapped Dana, what truths it had revealed to them both. Fox looked away first, his gaze returning to his bloodstained hand. "I'll see if I can borrow some scrubs or something, get myself washed up. I don't want her to see me like this." He rose, his movements slow and stiff, and wandered over to the courtesy desk, where an older lady in a pink uniform sat. The woman lifted compassionate eyes to him, smiling and nodding at his murmured query. Margaret closed her eyes, trusting the attendant to help Fox. Adrenaline seeped away, enervating her, turning her limbs to jelly and her mind to fog. She felt the warmth of another person's body next to hers, heard the soft scrape of the chair against the wall as he sat, but she didn't open her eyes. "Are you all right, Mrs. Scully?" Walter Skinner's low voice tingled down her spine. She forced her eyes open, turning to meet his concerned gaze. "Yes. Just a little shaky." She sighed. "I can't tell you how sick I am of hospitals." An expression of pain flitted across his craggy face, tightening his jaw and darkening his eyes. Margaret felt a quick rush of embarrassment and regret, remembering that Mr. Skinner had lost his wife barely a year ago. A brain aneurysm, Dana had said--a complication from a severe head injury Mrs. Skinner had suffered in a car accident several months before her death. "I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner--I should have--" He shook his head quickly, his expression already back to normal. "I'm going to check on Agent Mulder--maybe I can go get him a change of clothes. Will you be okay?" He spoke in the same gentle, concerned voice he'd used almost three years earlier when he'd stood with her in another hospital, at another bedside. She closed her eyes against the fresh surge of pain from the old wound, then opened them again, meeting his gaze. "I'll be fine. Take care of Fox for me." A smile almost made it to his mouth before evaporating. "I'll do that." Margaret watched him leave the room, his broad shoulders and purposeful stride reminding her of another strong, complicated man she'd known, a man she'd loved since she was seventeen years old. She closed her eyes again, thinking of William, knowing with utter certainty that he was watching over their baby girl, keeping her safe for another night. * * * * * January 21, 1998 Northeast Georgetown Hospital 4:13 a.m. Fox Mulder slipped back into the intensive care unit after a quick bathroom break, ignoring the disapproving glare of the night duty nurse. He'd shamelessly used his credentials to bypass hospital rules and stay at his partner's side through the night. Scully had awakened only briefly since her surgery, long enough for the doctors to ascertain that she was lucid and not suffering any complications from her surgery. But mostly, she slept, aided by the Demerol and the shock her body had suffered through. As for Mulder, he contented himself to watch her sleep, heartened by the color slowly returning to her ashen cheeks, the steady sussuration of her breathing, the even beeps of her EKG monitor. Dr. Ramsey, the surgeon, had dropped by several times during the night to check on her, confessing his satisfaction with her rapid and steady improvement. Night swallowed the ICU, purple-black shadows relieved only by the soft glow of light over each bed in the unit. Mulder pulled the chair closer to Scully's bed and took her hand in his. He lifted her knuckles to his cheek, taking courage in the increasing warmth of her flesh. He was gentle, careful not to awaken her. It was enough to know that in the morning, she WOULD awaken and look at him with those startling blue eyes. Scold him, perhaps, for the circles under his eyes and the day's growth of beard. Order him to go home and go to bed. He relished the argument to come. Matter of fact, he relished the thought of having a future to spend with her, listening to her low, modulated tones as she debunked all his theories with passion and conviction, watching her fight laughter in the face of his best jokes. The sheer joy of knowing that tomorrow or the next day he would hear the familiar words, "I'm fine, Mulder." Men his age often claimed disatisfaction with the predictabilitiy of their lives, but Mulder longed for predictability. Stability. Knowing that there was a constant in the world, something that never changed, no matter what. For him, Scully was that constant. Fierce, loyal, honest, brave, compassionate--she was the whole foundation of his life now. She held him steady, prevented his collapse, protected him from the shifting sands surrounding them. Being without her was inconceivable. He gently brushed her knuckles against his cheek, careful not to let his beard stubble scratch her skin. "You scared the shit out of me last night, Scully." Her chest rose in slow, steady rhythm, soothing his still- frazzled nerves. "I'm the one who's supposed to wake up in the hospital, atoning for my foolhardy ways. I don't know how to act on this side of the bed." He lifted her fingers to his lips, kissing her knuckles with the lightest of touches. "Don't make a habit of this." He closed his eyes, weariness finally beginning to catch up with the adrenaline that had seen him through the ordeal to this point. He bent forward, resting his head on the bed next to her hip. He held onto her hand, needing even that simple touch of her skin against his. He was so tired. Tired of holding her at arm's length, tired of putting his life--their lives--on hold while he searched for his sister and the truth. He'd always counted the costs of his quest and found them worth the possible rewards--but not this time. Not this cost. When he'd lain on that dirty convenience store floor and watched Scully's life draining away in front of him, he'd felt the full weight of his sacrifice. So much he would never know--the warmth of her lips against his own, the taste of her, the mysteries that made her Dana Scully--all the things he'd never let himself consider consciously for fear that he'd lose himself in her and never find his way back. But right now, losing himself in her was all he wanted. Over the past few hours, he'd reevaluated his life, taken stock, weighed the goals against the sacrifices. And nothing was worth what he'd almost lost tonight. Not even the truth. Not even Samantha. * * * * * Dana Scully awoke to a faint buzz of pain in her right thigh. She shifted slightly and froze as the pain blossomed, ratcheting through her whole body. When she was able to draw another breath, she opened her eyes and processed her surroundings. A hospital room, she recognized immediately. IV's, EKG monitor, soft sounds of voices, antiseptic smells. Her right hand stung where the IV needle pierced her vein; she felt the unaccustomed tug of adhesive on the flesh of her inner thigh. Her mind was fuzzy, a bit off center--Demerol, she thought. Maybe the after-effects of anesthesia. Maybe both. She breathed carefully, acutely aware of the looming pain in her leg. Cautiously, she turned her head to her left. And saw Fox Mulder's face. He was hunched over the side of her bed, his head butted up against her hip, his face soft and boyish in sleep. His right hand curled around her left hand, his fingers loosely intertwined with hers. His jawline was blue with a day's growth of beard, and his hair was spiked in a dozen different directions. Gently disentangling her fingers from his, she reached down and smoothed his hair, indulging herself in the luxury of touching him without consequence or question. Memory seeped back into her mind, sounds and sensations. A gunshot, impossibly loud for such a small weapon. A ripping pain in her leg. Mulder holding her, twisting his tie around her upper leg, pressing his hand to her thigh to stop the flow of blood. Her growing certainty that the paramedics would never reach her in time. The hard ache of sorrow at leaving Mulder behind, the burgeoning fear for him, for what her death would do to him. She remembered the touch of his mouth against her hair, the soft, desperate words uttered like a prayer. Just a few more minutes, Scully. Help's coming. He'd saved her life. Without a doubt. And not for the first time. She stroked his hair gently, tears pricking her eyes. What he was to her was so much more complicated--and simple--than just a colleague, just a friend. He'd taught her to believe that there were greater truths in life than what the eyes could see or the ears could hear. He'd helped her open herself to extreme possibilities--sometimes kicking and screaming all the way. She loved him utterly, mindlessly. What use was there in trying to categorize or compartmentalize those feelings? He stirred. She lowered her hand to the bed as his eyes blinked open and met her gentle gaze. A smile broke over his face, full and beautiful, and she could hardly catch her breath. He sat up, wincing a little as his limbs apparently protested the movement. He waggled three fingers in front of her. "How many fingers am I holding up?" She bit back a chuckle. "What are fingers?" "Ha ha." He caught her hand in his. "How're you feeling?" "Like I got shot in the leg." "What a coincidence." "How long have I been out?" He glanced at his watch. "Off and on for about seven hours." "The shooter?" "Cooling his heels in the city jail." A grim expression darkened Mulder's face. Scully tightened her grip on his hand. "Did I see my mother? I vaguely remember--" "She's catching some sleep in the waiting lounge. I promised to look after you." "You're not supposed to be in the intensive care, Mulder. I'm pretty sure these aren't normal visiting hours." He grinned, unrepentant. "Creds will get you anywhere, Scully." "Roast beefed 'em, did you?" She tried to look stern. After all, it was against Bureau policy for an agent to use his badge to brook favors. But she had no room to scold him--she'd done the same thing herself more than once when he was in trouble. He cradled her hand between his own and lifted it to his lips. Lightly, he touched his mouth to her knuckles. The open caress surprised her--but not as much as the look of bold determination in his eyes as his gaze met hers. "I'd break any rule for you, Scully. You know that." Her heart thudded wildly, making her feel a little dizzy. What had come over her partner, the man who hid even the mildest of compliments behind a mask of humor? The man who, when she'd returned to the living after three lost months, bypassed flowers and gave her "Superstars of the Superbowl" as a get-well present? Secretly, she'd dreamed of having this man look at her this way, his heart in his eyes, in his voice. But now, was she ready? Could she really face the risks of stepping outside the comfortable bounds they'd set for themselves from the beginning? The rewards--God, the rewards could be incredible. But there was also so much to lose-- Fortunately, she was granted a reprieve by the arrival of a slender black man in a white coat. He smiled at her, nodded at her partner, and flipped open the chart at the bottom of her bed. "Good morning, Agent Scully. I'm Dr. Ramsey. I was the vascular surgeon assigned to your case when you arrived last night, and I'll have to say, you're making me look like a genius." He smiled at her again. Scully liked him immediately. "So, what exactly did you do to my leg, Dr. Ramsey?" He explained the surgery, the repairs to her artery and the surprisingly slight amount of collateral damage. "You're a lucky woman, Agent Scully. Lucky that the wound wasn't as bad as it could have been--and that you had somebody looking out for you on scene." He glanced at Mulder. Scully looked at her partner, not hiding her affection for once. "Yeah, well, I taught him everything he knows." Mulder looked up, meeting her teasing look with a little chuckle. "Your vitals are excellent, considering the condition you were in when you arrived. If they remain constant over the next few hours, I'll see about getting you in a private room around lunch time." The doctor smiled. "Deal?" She nodded. "Any idea on recovery time?" Dr. Ramsey shrugged. "You're in good health. The damage wasn't as bad as it might have been--maybe a month?" A month? She frowned, thinking about how much damage Mulder could do to the office on his own for a month. "How quickly could I return to office work?" "Scully--" Mulder began. She cut him off with a look. "Well?" she asked the doctor. "You're going to be here for at least two or three more days, and you'll be sore for two weeks minimum. The blood loss you suffered compromised your body's ability to fight infection, so you may well have to fight off a bug or two. I'd suggest you take the whole four week recovery period and not try to rush things." He gave her a stern, doctorly look before he left the ICU. Standard doctor answer. Which meant that if she was lucky-- or good--she might be back at work in three weeks. And she could probably access the Bureau's mainframe from her home computer, so she could be back in business in a week--unless she could talk a techie into helping her figure out how to use the hospital phone lines to hook up her lap top. Maybe Pendrell-- "There's nothing we have going on that's worth risking your health, Scully." Mulder's voice gently broke into her thoughts. "The Fiedler case--" "--can wait," he insisted. "It's not like Fiedler can get any more dead, Scully. And besides, you said there was probably nothing paranormal about the man losing his head in a time-locked bank vault, even though we couldn't find the head anywhere." His eyes twinkled. Bastard, she thought affectionately, he had a lot of nerve, turning her words on her. But at least the doctor's visit had distracted him from his earlier, uncharacteristic display of unpartnerlike affection. She needed more time to process things, to figure out what she really wanted--and more importantly, what would really be best for her and Mulder in the long run. Like any person in the world, she longed to have it all-- friendship, love, passion, affection. And if there was a man in the world who could give her all of that, surely it was Mulder. But what they already had was so good--better than anything she'd ever known before. They were connected on levels she hadn't even known existed. They shared a devotion that was singular, intense, exclusive. No other man in the world would do for her--that much she knew. But what if they were being greedy, wanting more even though they already shared so much more than any two humans had a right to hope for? What if the punishment for that greed was the loss of everything they already had? She closed her eyes, suddenly bone tired. She didn't want to think about this anymore. She didn't want to think at all. She simply wanted to lie here in this bed, with Fox Mulder by her side, holding her hand, and drift back into dreams unmuddied by doubts or questions. She felt his hand move lightly over her cheek, caressing her, soothing her. His touch was gentle, undemanding. "You want me to leave so you can get some sleep?" His voice was close to her ear; she felt his breath stir the hair of her temple. She shook her head. "Stay until I get to sleep, okay?" "Okay." "But promise me that you'll go home after that and get some rest," she added. He chuckled. "Yes, ma'am." With his fingers playing lightly in her hair, she drifted off to sleep. * * * * * January 24th, 1998 Dana Scully's Apartment 12:23 p.m. While Fox Mulder and Margaret Scully brought Dana's belongings inside the apartment, Scully sat gingerly in her desk chair and pushed the power button of her computer. As it booted up, she glanced through the stack of mail that had accumulated during her four day stay at N.E. Georgetown Medical Center. "Where the hell did THIS come from?" Mulder's voice sounded a little strained, and she turned carefully to see him carrying a huge potted peace lily into her apartment. "Alan Pendrell." She hid a smile as Mulder's dark eyebrows twitched slightly upward. He set the plant next to the sofa. "The techno-puppy doesn't know the meaning of the word 'subtle,'" he muttered. She turned back to the computer, allowing herself to grin now that he couldn't see her do it. "Honey, do you want cheese on your sandwich?" Margaret asked from the kitchen. Scully glanced at Mulder, amusement glittering in her eyes as her mother's question took her back about thirty years. "No cheese, Mom." Mulder grinned and picked up a gift basket he'd brought up from the car. "I see the Allentown MUFON women sent you a gift, too." Scully nodded. "Yes, they did. Wasn't that nice of them?" "Well, hell, Scully, you're their pin-up girl, you know." She thought about frowning at him, but what would be the point? She knew his opinion about what had happened to her while she was missing. She didn't happen to concur, but the truth was--NOBODY knew what really happened to her except her mysterious captors. And there was a distinct possibility she'd never learn the truth. A tiny "ding" sounded behind her, and a soft computerized voice announced, "You have mail." She turned and watched as the flashmail session downloaded messages into her e-mail file. There were a couple of suggestive subject titles that had "Frohike" written all over them, a couple of interoffice memos that automatically went out to any computers linked to the Bureau mainframe, and one in all caps--Sarah Chandler, Scully thought with a half-smile. Her quirky e-mail friend refused to bow to cyberspace convention. She wrote everything in all-caps, even though she knew full well that it was the cyberspace equivalent of shouting. "I'M A SUCKY TYPIST AS IT IS," Sarah had written once. "WHY MAKE IT HARDER?" "Anything interesting?" Mulder asked. She looked over at him. He sat on her couch, fiddling with the spiky leaves of a small agave plant that Skinner's assistant, Eleanore, had sent. She liked the way he looked at home here. It gave her an odd sense of security. "Not really." She bypassed Frohike's notes, not trusting herself to read them without bursting into hysterical laughter as she was prone to do. She glanced over the Bureau memos to make sure they weren't important, then opened Sarah Chandler's note. {{{DANA}}} PENNY TOLD ME YOU WERE SHOT!!! SAID YOU'D BE OKAY, BUT GOD! SHOT???!!! AND YOU SAID YOUR JOB WAS NOTHING BUT GLORIFIED PAPER WORK. GUESS THIS GIVES NEW MEANING TO THE PHRASE PAPER CUT! IT'S SO FRUSTRATING, SITTING HERE AND NOT KNOWING ANYTHING ABOUT YOU BUT YOUR E-MAIL ADDY AND WHAT YOU'VE TOLD ME. I CAN'T ASK PENNY--I WOULDN'T INVADE YOUR PRIVACY THAT WAY, BUT IT'S SO HARD SITTING HERE, KNOWING MY FRIEND IS HURT AND NOT BEING ABLE TO SO MUCH AS GIVE YOU A PHONE CALL! :( I'M PLANNING A TRIP TO D.C. SOON TO CHECK OUT THE GEORGETOWN LIBRARY FOR SOME RESEARCH ON MY DISSERTATION. I KNOW THIS IS PROBABLY ASKING TOO MUCH, BUT I'D REALLY LIKE TO MEET YOU. I'LL BE IN TOWN ON FEBRUARY 9TH--DO YOU THINK WE COULD MEET SOMEWHERE, MAYBE LET ME TAKE YOU LUNCH? OR WILL YOU BE FEELING WELL ENOUGH TO GET OUT? ***PLEASE*** WRITE BACK! JUST TO LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OKAY! SARAH C. Scully opened a mail form and quickly composed a note reassuring Sarah that she was okay, feeling very well considering, and would love to meet her face to face when she came to town. She sent the mail through and shut down the computer. "How about you, Fox? Do you want cheese on your sandwich?" Margaret asked from the kitchen. "Yes ma'am." Mulder winked at Scully, then rose swiftly as she carefully pushed herself up from her desk chair. He was at her side before she'd taken a step, his hand curling around her elbow. As pleasant as she found his touch, she didn't want him to feel like he had to baby her. She gently removed his hand from her arm, softening the rejection with a smile. "I won't break, Mulder." "I will." His intense gaze sent an involuntary shiver down her back. She swallowed with difficulty and forced herself to look away. "So, how'd you manage to drag yourself away from the office today, Mulder? I'd have thought four days without me keeping the paper work at bay would've snowed you under." He stepped back, allowing her the space for which she silently asked. "I requested a clerk. Guess who I got?" She quirked an eyebrow. "Who?" "Holly Flanders." Scully cocked her head. "The one Modell--" "The one who whipped Skinner's ass with pepper spray and size seven heels," Mulder answered with a wicked grin. "Needless to say, Skinner hasn't bothered me all week." Scully chuckled. "Of course, I've steered clear of her all week myself," he added with a wry chuckle. "I just say 'yes, ma'am' and 'no ma'am' and 'whatever you want, ma'am.'" "Any progress on the Fiedler case?" He shook his head. "But you're not supposed to be worrying about work, Scully. Dr. Ramsey gave me orders--keep you out of the office for at least three weeks. I still don't know why you didn't go stay with your mom for a couple of weeks-- make a vacation out of it." "I tried to talk her into it, believe me." Margaret came out of the kitchen, carrying a couple of plates. Mulder met her quickly and took the food from her, setting the plates on the low coffee table in front of the couch. "You haven't taken a real vacation in years, Scully--" She held up her hand to silence him. "I need to be here in my own place. I need to reconnect with my life as quickly as possible." She realized that she was echoing the very words she'd said to him just over three years ago, when she'd been released from the hospital after nearly dying of unknown causes. She'd lost weeks out of her life, weeks she would probably never get back, and it had been essential to reestablish herself as Dana Katherine Scully, who lived in Apartment 402 and worked for the F.B.I. and liked chocolate chip ice cream and Truman Capote novels and yellow roses. Though this time her time away had been three days instead of three months, she still wanted to get back to her life, to the stability and familiarity of it. She could tell by the look in Mulder's eyes that he understood her need. He touched her cheek with his forefinger, the caress light and undemanding. "Okay." Scully sat on her sofa, surrounded by the trappings of her life and the two people she loved most in the world, and smiled. She was a lucky woman. * * * * * February 9, 1998 Water's Cafe Washington D.C. 1:36 p.m. Dana Scully glanced at her watch, a frown creasing her forehead. Sarah Chandler was over an hour late. Had she gotten lost? Stuck at the Georgetown Library? Maybe she was just a flake, Scully thought, frowning at the glass of watery iced tea in front of her. You couldn't really get to know a person by e-mail and the occasional chat, after all. She knew some essentials--or at least, what essentials Sarah had told her. Sarah Elizabeth Chandler, age 34, was finishing the first year of her PhD candidacy at Yale. Astrophysics, a field that had briefly interested Scully herself until she'd decided to attend medical school instead. She and Sarah had been corresponding by e-mail for five months, ever since Penny Northern had put Sarah in touch with Scully. Sarah was trying to find out something about the first twelve years of her life--she'd been found unconscious on a Charleston, South Carolina back street at the age of twelve. She had no conscious memory of her life before that time, although she'd been haunted by brief, fragmented flashbacks for most of her life. A year ago, Sarah had taken part in a Harvard University psychology study utilizing hypnotic regression therapy. It was this experience that had led Sarah to the Mutual U.F.O. Network and Penny Northern. And Penny had led Sarah to Scully. Think about it, Dana, Scully told herself as she rattled the slivers of ice still left in her glass of tea. The woman thinks she was abducted by aliens, and you're surprised that she blew off a lunch? She waited another ten minutes before giving up and ordering a couple of sandwiches and cups of tea to go. * * * * * Fox Mulder's Office 2:03 p.m. "Hungry?" Fox Mulder looked up from the file he was perusing, startled, then jumped to his feet. "What the hell are you doing here, Scully? We had an agreement." Scully handed him the bags she was carrying and gave him one of her more irritated looks. "I'm not even limping anymore, Mulder. Frankly, this forced exile is getting really old." "You can't wait one more week?" She followed him to his desk. "No, I can't. I'm fine, Mulder." He grinned. He couldn't help it. "What am I going to do with you?" "Have lunch with me, for starters." She reached for one of the bags. "My lunch date stood me up, and I figured, why let a trip to Water's go to waste? Have you eaten?" He shook his head. "I got involved in writing up the final report on the Fiedler case and lost track of time." She gave him a look that told him she'd suspected as much. She knew him better than he knew himself. Funny what a sense of comfort that knowledge offered, for he'd always loved being the enigma, the man of mystery. It was like he was keeping a secret from the whole world--who is this mysterious Fox Mulder and what exactly is he up to? Only Scully had effortlessly stripped away all his layers of protection and touched the real man inside. From the very first. He'd tried to push her away, frighten her, befuddle her--but Scully was nothing if not tenacious. She'd calmly sliced through his protective armor and laid him bare and vulnerable. She had the power to destroy him--but chose to guard him instead, shielding his weakness with her own strength. If for no other reason, he would always love her for justifying his trust. She handed him a turkey club sandwich. "So, exactly how DID you explain how Fiedler's secretary managed to enter the bank vault--timed lock still engaged--rip off his head with her bare hands and then remove herself AND the head from the vault--time lock still engaged--without a single surveillance camera catching her?" She unwrapped her own sandwich and looked at him with bright-eyed amusement. "Scully, I don't have to prove HOW she did it. We found the head in her refrigerator." Mulder took a bite of the sandwich. She arched one eyebrow and bit into her own sandwich, chewed and swallowed. "How did you figure it out, then? What made you think, 'hey, that anorexic little blond secretary of Fieldler's must have done it'?" He chuckled. "Well, I was asking her a few questions one day and apparently hit on a subject she didn't like. She gave me a look that just said, 'Mess with me, asshole, and I'll rip your head off.' And it just got me to thinking...." Scully chuckled, a rare, delightful sound that reminded Mulder of bright summer mornings full of wonder and possibility. The bite of sandwich he'd just swallowed stuck in his throat for a second as he fought a moment of sheer, raw emotion. Even though weeks had passed since that frantic night he'd held her shivering, dying body on the floor of a gas station food mart, every day he relived the terror, the images burned like a brand in his memory. He was going to have to approach her about the decision he'd made by her bedside that first night in the hospital. But now that time had eased the frantic need for resolution, he wasn't sure what to say--or if she'd even be responsive. Did she want to explore the possibilities that lay between them? The office wasn't the place to broach the question, he knew instinctively. No matter what kind of relationship he and Scully decided to explore, the office would have to be off limits. This place was sacred in its own right. She loved her work, loved the challenge of righting wrongs, of seeking and finding justice. And he loved working with her. This was not a part of his life he could imagine sacrificing, no matter how much more he wanted from Scully. He took a sip of iced tea and debated how best to handle things. He could drop by her apartment--he did that all the time anyway. Maybe talk her into going out and grabbing a bite to eat--somewhere nice, for once. Hell, maybe even dress up for it--he hadn't done that in a long time. God, he thought with wry amusement, my palms are sweating. Maybe he should just go ahead and ask her now. "Scully--" A soft rap on the door interrupted him. The door opened and Walter Skinner walked through. His stern expression softened with a slight smile as he caught sight of Scully. "I heard you were in the building, Agent Scully. How are you feeling?" Scully stood. "Fine, sir. Ready to come back to work bright and early next Monday morning." "What, no passionate plea for me to let you come back early?" She smiled slightly. "I would, sir, but my brother's ship is going to be coming into port in Norfolk tonight, and I'm headed there with my mother for a couple of days." Mulder felt a twinge of disappointment. So much for a night on the town. "I'll be back on Thursday, though--if you want to bump me up a day or so...." "We'll stick with Monday." He gave a little wave. "You and your mother have a good time." Skinner left the office, shutting the door behind him. Scully sat again, reaching for her sandwich. "Were you about to say something when Skinner came in?" He shook his head. It could wait. End of #1