Title: Nihilism Author: Allison J. E-Mail Address: allijohn@nucleus.com Rating: PG-13 (language and disturbing stuff). Category: X, A Spoilers: All the way up to "The End". Summary: It's a suddenly arbitrary universe, where the truth isn't out there, and only a killer seems to know Scully's heart. This takes place between the events of "The End" and "Fight the Future". Archivers: Ask first, please. Many thanks again, as always, to my beta-reader, Nancy FF. She made me work for this one. :) NOTE: The phenomenon of life imitating art rears its ugly head here. I started this fic in early May of this year, and was a revision away from posting it when the news about Mark Barton broke on July 30. Please understand that the events of this story are in no way based upon, or inspired by, the tragedy in Atlanta, and they are presented here exactly as I originally conceived them many weeks ago. I have no wish to exploit, minimize, or trivialize this terrible incident, and I sincerely apologize if anyone takes offense. I chose to risk posting at this time for no other reason than I felt the story was ready. If the issue of domestic violence is a sensitive one for you at the moment, particularly as a result of the Atlanta incident, then please consider deleting or skipping over this story. Again, I am deeply sorry if I offend anyone. **** Nihilism "This heart within me I can feel, and I judge that it exists. This world I can touch, and I likewise judge that it exists. There ends all my knowledge, and the rest is construction. For if I try to seize this self of which I feel sure, if I try to define and to summarize it, it is nothing but water slipping through my fingers." -- Albert Camus, "An Absurd Reasoning", *The Myth of Sisyphus*. "Since the measuring device has been constructed by the observer... we have to remember that what we observe is not nature in itself but nature exposed to our method of questioning." -- Werner Heisenberg, quantum physicist. June 22, 1998 The sensation flowed up her legs and into her back, causing her to shrug her shoulders and arch her neck. Shutting her mind off, Scully settled into the bath, allowing her senses to drink in the heat, the smell, the soft prick of bubbles as they burst against her skin, the tingle of opening pores. It was almost too hot to sit in but she sat anyway, perversely enjoying the mild torture. It fit her mood. She'd abruptly left Mulder at the office that day, tersely stalking past him without a word as he mumbled goodnight. Part of her felt badly. The loss of the office, and the X-Files, had affected him deeply and he had sunk into a sullen, emotional swamp that bordered on despair. It distressed and irritated her to see his state of mind rubbing off on her, too. No, that wasn't entirely honest. If she were to be truthful with herself, an act that only served to increase her self-loathing, she had to admit that she had taken the loss of the X-Files personally as well. Lifting a hand, she watched the water run from her fingers and recalled the sight of the charred office, water dripping off the ceiling and walls, the scorched filing cabinets with their destroyed contents, washed over and over again by the strobing colored lights of the fire trucks. Washing over Mulder standing in the middle of it all, stripped of everything that had ever mattered to him, unresponsive and inconsolable. He'd remained inconsolable since then, distant, unapproachable, indifferent. Her rotation through psychiatry in medical school had enabled her to be alert to signs of depression and suicidal ideation, and she had watched her partner closely. Her vigilance had served her well up until recently, when her own shock had given way to a grief more profound than she'd ever expected to feel. In focusing on Mulder, she'd efficiently and effectively sublimated her own feelings. Now close to the surface, they betrayed her by leaking through her battlements in the form of well-aimed but undeserved barbs. She hadn't meant to be so surly to Mulder today, but the timbre and cadence of so many of her words had clearly stung even though the content could not have. He'd endured her testiness not so much out of stoicism, but more like a lab animal that had been shocked beyond the point of all response. She sighed, sliding down, trying to focus on the creeping silk of the water as it lifted the hairs on her arms. She knew why she felt miserable, and she wondered if Mulder knew why. Probably not. His obtuseness caused a swell of bitterness and irritation to well up inside her and she sighed again, frowning, her jaw clenched. She stayed that way, holding on to the anger, afraid to peel back the brittle layer to expose what lay beneath, knowing it couldn't stay buried. After months of submergence, of convincing herself that she had healed, the grief had come back with unexpected power. The scab was lifting; the wound felt as raw as it ever had. Nearly six months had passed since Emily died. It wasn't just Emily. The surge of grief had dragged along the detritus of all the losses she'd endured in the past five years. Her father. Her abduction. Her sister, her cancer, her inability to have children. Her daughter. The return of Diana Fowley and the loss of her trust in Mulder, her belief in her place at his side. Her X-Files. Scully lay in the water, the sharp-edged anger slowly modulating to a smooth, river-worn stone that sat heavily on her chest. She pushed the play button on the portable stereo remote and sent the disk inside spinning, the notes misting off its leading edge like water off a potter's wheel. Simple, perfect piano notes. The "Aria" of Bach's *Goldberg Variations*. Tomorrow would be difficult. A file had been assigned to them, an interim case while their superiors tried to figure out what to do with them. Mulder had looked at it first, then tossed it her way without a word. She felt her mind clamp down on the memory of the pictures in the file, the images of twisted, bloodied bodies. Her initial shock had been overlaid with a thin veneer of anger, in turn overlaid with a stony anesthesia. Tomorrow they would meet with the husband and father who did this, who slaughtered his own wife and two young daughters and then tried and failed to take his own life. Two young daughters, aged five and three, lying sprawled in spreading pools of their own blood, beside their dead mother. She prayed for the dead, but could muster no supplication on behalf of the living. The gentle notes sprayed the stone on her chest, making it heavy, pressing her deep into the water. The last piece of resistance fell away and she reluctantly let it go. Her emotions finally laid bare, she pressed her palms against her eyes and let the swells of grief overtake her. **** Washington, D.C. Detention Center June 23 8:42 a.m. Scully walked down the polished corridor, scanning the area for signs of her partner. She found him outside the first security gate, leaning against the wall, hands jammed in his pockets, staring vacantly ahead. His head turned instinctively at the sound of her footsteps, an act of recognition no more conscious than a dog recognizing the sound of its master's car, and far less enthusiastically performed. Scully didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. Mulder's manner registered the barest hint of greeting; his features were tired, his complexion pale. Normal for him these days. "You're late," Mulder said flatly, by way of greeting. "Yes, sorry," Scully responded. "There was an accident on the way here. Traffic was really backed up." Mulder nodded, returning his head to its position against the wall. "Doesn't matter," he muttered. "I've been waiting for Dr. McCaffrey to show up, too. You haven't missed anything." They stood in silence, the air around them filled with the din of ringing phones, softly articulated greetings, the sharp institutional sounds of doors and heels and computer keyboards. Scully shifted awkwardly, then spoke. "Mulder, I'm sorry about yesterday," she said. "I wasn't in the best of moods." Mulder continued to fixate on the wall ahead of him, but the corner of his mouth lifted. "It was touch and go there for a while, but once they sewed my ass back on I was fine. Doctors say I can have the stitches out in another week." Scully ducked her head and smiled, glad for even this attempt at humor. She moved to a bench across from Mulder and sat, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands in front of her. She studied her thumbnails intently, feeling the residual weight of last night's tears turning slowly in her belly. It hadn't been a cleansing cry. Instead it had only served to churn the muddy bottom, wanting badly for a current to wash it all downstream and out of her system forever. She hurt like hell and was dimly aware of the fact that Mulder's eyes were no longer on the wall ahead of him, but focused on her. For his part, Mulder's expression was cool and almost neutral, the single furrow in his forehead making him appear as though he was looking at something slightly distasteful. He took in his partner's slumped posture and slightly pained expression, sensing a despondency from her that only served to magnify his own feelings. In self- defense, he blocked them out. Just then a heavy click and hiss announced the opening of a magnetic lock. Looking up, the agents saw a man in his mid- forties exit the secure area of the jail and enter the corridor. Tall, blonde, average looking and fit, he moved toward Scully and Mulder with the air of someone welcoming them formally into his home. He extended his hand first to the standing Mulder. "Sorry to keep you both waiting," the man said kindly. "I'm Dr. Frank McCaffrey, the forensic psychiatrist assigned to Paul Simmons." The agents introduced themselves and McCaffrey directed them to place their weapons and wallets in the custody of the guard. "We've got him on a twenty-four hour suicide watch, of course," McCaffrey said crisply, pausing at the door and waiting for the guard to unlock it. "He's in solitary." "Is he violent?" Mulder asked. McCaffrey shook his head. "Only to himself, I think," the psychiatrist said. "I see this all the time in these types of cases. Intense self-loathing, severe depression, a need to convince himself that he did what was best for himself and his family. A perverse sort of embarrassment that he's still alive." The door hissed open, and they stepped through it. "We're starting the test battery this afternoon." "What happened?" Scully asked. "Only the sort of thing you hear about all the time," McCaffrey said, directing them to another door. "Nice guy, family man, good job, decent house, beautiful wife, gorgeous kids. He's a realtor and a former cop. He works odd hours, and he's away from home a lot. What we've been able to get so far is that his marriage had turned rocky in the last year and he'd confided in a co-worker that he was afraid his wife was cheating on him. He apparently let some big deals slip through his fingers and his figures were down. Things were starting to fall apart on him, but not so badly that he couldn't have salvaged it and moved on. His co-workers and boss described him as appearing stressed out, but certainly not to an extent that would have predicted this." They reached an elevator and rode it up to where it opened into a short, stark hallway. At one end were a guard station and a heavy steel door. The guard looked up and nodded at McCaffrey, releasing the magnetic lock. McCaffrey leaned on the door and it swung open into a vestibule. The door clicked home behind them and the second door hissed, allowing their entrance into the protective custody unit. A security camera quietly followed their movements. "What can you say about his attempted suicide?" Mulder asked as they moved down the corridor. He glanced at the locked doors of the rooms, aware of the irony of needing to protect predators from each other. McCaffrey glanced at Mulder and shook his head. "I guess that's why you were called in," he said, pausing outside one of the doors. "His story is that he put the barrel of a .22 caliber pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He insists that he pulled the trigger. His head should have been blown clean off his neck, of course, but it wasn't. No one can figure out what happened. The gun appeared to be working perfectly, and all the fired rounds, including the one he said he shot himself with, were accounted for at the scene. Just lucky, I guess." "Or unlucky," Scully muttered, her face unreadable. McCaffrey peered inside the room and gestured to the guard to open the door. The now familiar click-hiss allowed them inside the room with Paul Simmons. "Paul?" McCaffrey said. "I've brought some people here to talk with you. They're with the FBI." Simmons didn't respond. McCaffrey looked at the agents. "We've got him on sedatives. He's won't be very talkative." Simmons stirred. "Please don't talk about me like I'm not here," he said monotonically. Mulder stepped forward to face the man sitting slumped on the edge of the bed. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, and this is Special Agent Scully," he said, lifting a hand to include her. "We want to ask you about what happened two nights ago." Simmons was silent for a long moment, then shifted slightly. "There's nothing to say," he replied. "It's gone. It's done." "What happened, Mr. Simmons," Mulder repeated. "How did you come to kill your wife and children?" "I don't know," Simmons murmured in the somnolent tone of a hypnotic subject. He stared, unseeing, at a spot on the floor. "I -- I don't remember anything, really." "Mr. Simmons," Scully continued, her voice cool and professional. "The police recovered a .22 caliber Hămmerli semiautomatic pistol from your house. Your fingerprints were the only ones on it. The bullets recovered from the bodies of your wife and two daughters came from that gun. The autopsy results indicate that they were repeatedly shot at point blank range." She stopped, aware that her voice was hardening and its volume was rising. Simmons raised his eyebrows slightly in a gesture of non- comprehension, his eyes unfocused. "That's what they tell me. It doesn't seem real. I -- don't remember. I don't know. I shot them, I guess." His voice faded, uncertain and dazed. McCaffrey pressed his lips together. "It's very common for people in Mr. Simmons' situation to try to distance themselves from what they did. I don't expect his story will become coherent for a while yet, not until he's had a chance to sufficiently process what's happened." "Why did you pull the trigger, Mr. Simmons?" Scully asked, moving around to join Mulder. Simmons shook his head slightly. "I don't know," Simmons said again in his far away voice. He took a deep breath, then began a seemingly rehearsed litany. "You think about things, you know, and you weigh everything out and come to some conclusions. People leave, they leave all the time, no matter what you do for them or how much you care for them, they just leave. Maureen had left a long time ago, only she was still there, you know, still living in the house. You don't want people like that in your life. They push you out, you push them out, you know? Only you realize you haven't thought everything through. There's a couple of kids there now, without their mother. Terrible thing to do to a couple of kids. So you help them out, too. Then there's nothing. So you try to help yourself." Simmons shrugged, the movement barely perceptible. "Only sometimes it doesn't work out the way you planned, you know?" "You tried to kill yourself, but something went wrong," Scully said, composed again. Simmons shrugged again, and resumed his drone. "I'm here. I put the barrel in my mouth, you know, like you're supposed to if you want to do it properly. It tastes -- exciting. You know you're going someplace interesting when you taste the barrel of a gun. At least you think you do. You pull the trigger, but just before that you realize you want to experience the whole thing, the sensation of the bullet passing through the back of your throat, your spine, and out the back. You don't want to die, you just want to experience what it feels like to die." Mulder was looking at Simmons intently. "And did you?" he asked, glancing at the back of the man's neck. He saw no sign of an exit wound, or anything that could have been remotely mistaken for one. The smallest of smiles lifted one corner of Simmons' mouth. "No idea. I pulled the trigger. I heard a loud noise. I felt a blast inside my head. You know when you were a kid, and you blew up balloons and let them go when the neck was still inside your mouth? That sense of your head and sinuses and lungs filling up? Kind of like that, only way more powerful. I felt a pop at the back of my neck. Then I passed out, I think. I thought maybe I had died. Then I woke up here. You have no idea how surprised I was. I really believed I was dead." "Do you believe you're dead now?" Mulder asked. "Who knows?" Simmons whispered. "Who knows anything? I don't. I don't know anything. I don't believe in anything. Not any more." There was a silence, during which Simmons stared without expression at the floor. Then he looked up, turning to make eye contact with Scully. "Do you think they're all right, Agent Scully?" Scully frowned at him. "What do you mean?" "My girls. My daughters. Katie and Erin. I think I made a terrible mistake. I hope -- I just hope they're okay now." Scully was speechless for a long moment, her jaw working as she tried to process Simmons' words as dispassionately as possible. "I don't understand," she finally said, her voice tight. Simmons looked directly at her again. "You know," he said. "You bring children into the world and things happen to them that you aren't able to prevent. They get hurt without you meaning to hurt them. You try to make it better. I'm hoping they're all right - - I tried to make it all right." He searched her eyes, his expression dull but reflecting a flicker of anguish. "Are our dead children all right? Can we really make it all right for them?" "What did you do to them that you had to 'make all right'?" Mulder asked. Simmons' eyes shifted to cover him. "Didn't you hear? I blew away their mom. Right in front of them. That's gotta fuck up a kid pretty badly, doncha think? I just want to know from a mother if it's possible to make that sort of thing okay." "How do you know she's a mother?" Mulder asked, tilting his head toward Scully. Simmons looked back at her again, at her face now drained of color. "She wouldn't look like that if she wasn't," he said simply, his eyes flicking back to Mulder. He held Mulder's eyes for a beat, then returned his gaze to the floor. Mulder glanced at Scully, who had flushed at Simmons' remark. "What happened, Mr. Simmons?" Mulder prompted again, his voice edged with impatience. "I told you. I tried to fix things. I'm here. It's done." Mulder regarded Simmons for a moment, then looked back over at McCaffrey. McCaffrey looked back and shrugged slightly. Mulder shook his head and tapped on the door. The guard opened it and Mulder stepped through it wordlessly. McCaffrey and Scully followed behind. "Agent Scully," Simmons called. Scully paused in the doorway, her body slightly turned in a reluctant listening posture. "We all do what we have to to make sure our kids are okay," Simmons said. "Don't we?" Scully swallowed, feeling her stomach churn acidly. She moved quickly through the opening, pushing her way past Mulder and McCaffrey, toward the first set of locked doors. They remained locked until her two companions caught up with her; she clenched her fists in frustration. McCaffrey regarded her carefully. "He's an unsettling character," he offered her. She remained silent, her face averted, knowing she could do nothing about the tears standing in her eyes without drawing attention to them. She tilted her head back slightly, blinking, willing them to drain. She felt her nose begin to run. "What's next for him?" Mulder asked, drawing the psychiatrist's attention away from his partner. McCaffrey obligingly looked at Mulder. "We'll do a psych workup on him, either here or in the forensic psychiatry unit at Georgetown," he said. "He's obviously waived his right to legal counsel, at least for now. You'll have as much access to him as you need, but, if I may, it seems to me the situation is pretty clear." Mulder nodded as the door hissed open; he watched Scully charge through it and wait restlessly at the next one. "In my opinion, there's nothing for us here. I think this can safely be turned over to the local police." The second door opened and they moved toward the elevators again, Scully in the lead. Mulder moved up beside her as they waited, surreptitiously glancing at her. Her face was tight, her body tense; she fidgeted slightly as the elderly elevator clunked and scraped slowly toward them in the shaft behind the doors. "Scully?" Mulder asked. "Would you agree?" She closed her eyes, making a visible effort to pull herself together. Drawing a breath, she relaxed her shoulders. "Yes," she said. "There's nothing for us here." The elevator doors opened and the three of them entered. Scully struggled to appear composed but knew she did not; both Mulder and McCaffrey stole glances at her. Their eyes burned her. She wanted to tell them both to take a long walk off a short plank. They bid their goodbyes to Dr. McCaffrey and walked to the exit. Scully inhaled deeply of the warm, green smelling air and felt it revive her somewhat; she watched her emotions slip back into their dormant places. Damn, she was getting good at that. She glanced at Mulder, who had gone back to looking withdrawn and introspective. Resigned, the too-familiar look of learned helplessness. Her molars clicked together in irritation. "So much for that," Mulder mused, glancing at her. She returned the glance briefly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get away from him and anything to do with him. She nodded, unwilling to say anything. "Just as well," Mulder continued. "What an asshole." He stepped down a couple of steps, Scully following reluctantly behind. Mulder spoke over his shoulder. "I'll see you back at the office, then." Scully stopped on the steps abruptly, considering something. "No," she said finally. Mulder turned fully to look at her, puzzled. "I have some errands to run," she added, avoiding his eyes. "I won't be going back right away." Mulder nodded, regarding her thoughtfully. He recognized the posture, the avoidance of eye contact, the set of her jaw, the obvious effort to appear unruffled, and knew it meant nothing good. Simmons had rattled her badly, he grasped that much. He moved toward her, climbing a single step and then stopping as her eyes flicked down to his face, defensively. "What?" she snapped. "We're done with him, Scully," he said. "Finito. Case closed. Not that there ever was one." "I know that." Mulder stared at her, unsure of how to proceed next. Her walls were up, securely and firmly, her gaze sharp as razorwire. She was hurting badly, the pain rolling off her in waves, making him feel helpless. Her vulnerability and her efforts to hide it from him dug into him like a burr, arousing his concern for her, augmenting his own despondency. How dare she. "Then what's the matter?" he shot back. Scully glared at him. "Nothing. There's nothing the matter. Not a damn thing." She strode down the steps past him, pulling the car keys from her pocket with an infuriated yank. Mulder closed his eyes, frustrated, listening to her heels snap against the pavement, the opening and slamming of a car door. When he turned, she had already pulled into traffic and was halfway down the block. [End Part 1] She didn't go back to the office. Instead, she went home, changed into jeans and an oversized t-shirt, threw some clothes and toiletries into a small suitcase, and left. She sat in her car now at the cemetery where Emily's memorial plot lay, where her sister lay, where her father's headstone lay, where altogether too much of her life lay in ashes and dust. She'd gone last to Emily's site, in the Garden of Angels. Here, short graves held miniature coffins, granite headstones were engraved with teddy bears and cherubs, stuffed animals and dying bouquets sat briefly before being dutifully gathered up by cemetery staff and disposed of in whatever manner cemetery staff disposed of such things. She sat numbly, senselessly, aware of the hot leaden feeling in her lungs and belly but unable to render them as tears. She'd stared at Emily's headstone, the latest blow in this day's ongoing ritual of self-flagellation, and felt gutted and empty. *We all do what we have to to make sure our kids are okay.* Emily's grave consisted of nothing but a memorial stone; the little girl's body had never been recovered. Scully lashed herself with another thought: Who had she been to decide that Emily's life was not worth saving? And how, in essence, did that make her any different from Simmons? She waited for tears; that morsel of anguish should have done it. She waited. Nothing. Turning the key in the ignition, she mulled over her decision. A few days off. A phone call to Skinner; just a few days of personal time. Her cell phone was with her but it was turned off. She hoped like hell Mulder was calling her, wondering where she was, but she resisted the temptation to check her messages. Scully imagined different ways Mulder might learn of her absence and enjoyed each version of his hurt reaction. She smiled grimly, reveling in her vindictive feelings. Served the bastard right. Pulling up outside her mother's house, she frowned at the rental car parked in front of it, resenting the thought of Mulder that it generated. Looking inside it as she walked toward the steps, she saw the baby seat in the back. A brief shock of remembrance flitted through her. Tara and Matthew had unexpectedly come into town that morning. Her heart lightened and she quickened her pace up the steps toward the front door. She hadn't seen Matthew, outside of pictures, since he'd been born. Since... Never mind. She tried the door and entered, looking expectantly for her nephew. Voices drifted toward her from the veranda off the back room, and she moved toward them. Maggie and Tara turned to look at her as she walked in. Tara sprang to her feet and embraced her sister-in-law enthusiastically. Scully melted under the woman's warmth, instantly feeling more settled and centered than she had in many weeks. She hugged her mother, the familiar scent and softness banishing thoughts of Simmons and Mulder and dead children to a much, much deeper place. Dear God, she was home. A squeal drew her attention to a pudgy figure bouncing energetically in a jolly jumper. Scully wrapped her hands around Matthew's middle and pressed her cheek to his head. Matthew responded with a delighted shriek and flapped his arms. A broad smile lit Scully's face as she held the small body against hers. The little boy cooed in response, grabbing double handfuls of Scully's hair. "My God, Tara," Scully said, breathing in his baby scent. "He's so big!" Tara beamed at her son. "He's really put on weight in the last few weeks. Bill's put on a few pounds, too. I keep telling him it's too early for father-son rivalries." Scully caressed Matthew's soft, smooth cheek and stood up. "How is Bill?" she asked. "I haven't heard from him in ages." "Anxious to get back home," Tara said. "He's got a leave coming up soon, and we're going to Lake Tahoe for a week." "Sounds wonderful." Scully slid her fingers gently over the baby's downy scalp and looked at her mother. Maggie was leaning against the table, her arms folded, beaming indulgently at her grandson. She looked up at Scully, projecting concern, confidence, and strength. At that moment, Scully felt the absolute rightness of her decision to come home. The knowing look banished Scully, FBI agent, slayer of other people's demons, and called forth the daughter, the one that needed mothering and healing. She quieted the tough, independent woman inside her. That person didn't belong here, not now. Tara recognized the look that passed between the two women, understanding the mother and child bond in a way she never would have a year before. Instinctively, she bent to release Matthew from the jumper and pulled him to her as she stood. Matthew eyed Scully curiously over his mother's shoulder, only his fingers, the top of his head, and his eyes visible. Scully laughed, delighted. Tara turned her head and grinned at her son. "He's giving you his Kilroy look, isn't he? That's his latest. He's such a character." She turned and inclined her head inside the house. "I'm going to put him down for a nap. He's been up since eight this morning. I think I'll join him." With that, Tara and Matthew disappeared inside the house, Tara humming softly. Scully watched them go as she closed the French doors. Turning back to her mother, she saw that Maggie had placed a box of tissues on the table. Scully smiled softly at her mother's foresight. She'd only called Margaret to say she wanted to chat and stay for a few days. Maggie sat and cupped her chin in her hands, leaning her elbows on the table. Scully lowered her gaze and slowly seated herself, the light of Matthew's presence fading rapidly and replaced by the too-familiar despondency. She looked at her mother's expectant, concerned expression and felt the tears spring instantly to her own eyes. She laughed softly, defensively, and shook her head. "I don't even know where to start," she said, cradling her chin in her hands, unconsciously mirroring her mother's posture. She picked at a crumb, pressing it into the pad of her index finger, rubbing it with her thumb, noting the intricate depression it left in her skin. She halved the crumb with her thumbnail, crushed it, watched the almost microscopic pieces fall to the table, brushed them absently to the floor. She waited for Maggie to say something. Maggie was silent. Scully drew a painful breath, knowing her mother wasn't about to try to make things better. That was not Margaret Scully's way. She was going to sit quietly and listen to her daughter, let her come to her own conclusions. It was a process that Scully found difficult, but always appreciated. "I, um," she began, her voice wavering, "it's all ganged up on me. Everything." Even that much was a weight removed, a barrier lifted. The longed-for tears came freely now, and she reached for a tissue. She leaned back in the chair and looked at her mother. Maggie's expression had softened, and her own eyes moistened in sympathy. Scully closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, rummaging around in her mind for a place to begin. "I don't even know what started all this. Actually, I do know. We -- Mulder and I -- we got this case. A man killed his wife and two young daughters. I don't know why we got it. It's not an FBI matter, it's not even our area of expertise. Not that our area of expertise exists anymore. They took that away from us." She drew a breath, her voice catching. "One of the little girls was Emily's age. And suddenly it hit me that not only had I invested far more than I realized in Mulder's work, but that his work has cost me so *much*." She stopped, unable to continue as the emotion rose full force. She wept quietly for a minute. Maggie sat silently, watching her. When Scully found her voice again, it was full of anger and bitterness. "My life has completely fallen apart since I started working with him," she said, the words pouring forth. She ticked off points on her fingers. "I was abducted. I can't have children. I've nearly died *twice*. I have a computer chip in my neck doing God knows what. Melissa was killed because of me. Last Christmas I found and lost a daughter. Even Dad died after I met Mulder, and sometimes I wonder if *that* didn't have something to do with the X-Files. I have completely given up any semblance of a normal life. I let myself be sucked in..." She trailed off, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "What have I done, Mom?" Maggie reached across the table and laid a hand on her daughter's arm. "I'm glad this is happening, Dana," she said quietly. She smiled at Scully's astonished look. "I've been worried about you. You have always been so strong, so independent. You have no idea how much I felt for you over Emily, how frightened I was for you. I didn't show you, because I knew you needed to deal with it in your own way and you didn't need my feelings on top of it. But I knew, and I also knew I couldn't help." "Mom..." Scully began, but Maggie shook her head, cutting her off. "You've always known how to deal with things, and you've always been able to put things behind you. But they leave scars. I've watched those scars build up over the years and I've never said anything. Maybe I should have. I guess I hoped that you were healing and moving on, that you were talking to your partner and working things out with him." Scully snorted derisively, and Maggie frowned. "I can't -- I can't trust Mulder, Mom," Scully murmured sadly, feeling the hesitation behind the words but relieved of the weight of their truth. "He's so volatile, so unstable. I spend most of my time holding him together." She stopped, frowning, searching for words. A sudden thought of Melissa made her smile slightly, sadly. Everyone always knew how Missy felt about anything, whether they wanted to or not. Her sister could precisely label other people's feelings, too, a talent that Scully had always found intrusive and annoying. Dear God, she thought achingly, I need Melissa right now. "Has it always been that way?" Maggie asked. "No," Scully replied, then shook her head. "Actually, I don't know. I've never really confided in him. It never occurred to me." She laughed softly at the sudden epiphany. "I don't know if I never thought I'd need to, or ... I don't know. I was assigned to rein him in, to control him. The idea of him having to pull me together -- it 's ludicrous." Maggie smiled, watching the wheels turn inside her daughter's head. "So it doesn't make any sense, being so angry with him. Does it?" "I'm not angry with him -- " she protested, then backed down at her mother's admonishing look. " -- exactly. I shouldn't be mad at him. I know him. I know how he is, and how he gets. I didn't have to follow him, but I did. I'm furious at myself. I'm just projecting it onto him. It's not fair to blame him for all this." "But why shouldn't you?" Maggie pressed. "You said it yourself; you spend most of your time holding him together. You spend so much energy keeping him in line, and making sure he observes protocol. He needs you professionally, but it also sounds like he relies on you emotionally." She leaned forward earnestly. "And you've given him everything. That's your nature. Now you need him. And where is he?" Scully was silent for a moment, considering, her throat working. Finally, her jaw set. "He's not there," she said at last, her voice low. She closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. "But he's not there to look after me, Mom. That's my job." Maggie shook her head. "Stop making excuses for him, Dana. You need him. He's not there. And you're furious about it." A protest rose in Scully's throat and she forced it down, allowing it to dissipate unsaid. Melissa -- she'd inherited her empathetic abilities from their mother. Scully felt a rush of annoyance toward Maggie, a reflexive defense reaction. She bit the inside of her lip, forcing her resistance down, gingerly uncovering the anger that roiled beneath the rationality. It was hot and painful, and tears of guilt and fear mingled with her tears of rage and hurt. "Yes, I'm angry," she admitted, her voice thick and tremulous. "I expect him to be there, and he's not. And what's worse, I see him giving up." The fury came forth now, controlled, but vehement. "I rely on his drive and persistence to keep me from falling apart. Now he's quitting. He's let me down. He's betrayed me, and that's one more loss that I just can't deal with right now." Scully stopped, catching her rising voice. Snatching a fresh tissue, she blew her nose and clenched the tissue in her hand. The tears flowed in a fresh surge, hot and bitter. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to stay with the feelings (stay with it, Dana, Melissa said. It hurts, I know, but you've got to stay with it) but hating the anguish. "Son of a bitch," she muttered, not sure if she was referring more to her own revelation or Mulder. She shot a sudden, apologetic look at Maggie, who looked back calmly, unfazed. The wife and mother of Navy men was accustomed to far worse. Scully sighed wearily, furious now with herself. "You always taught us to solve our own problems, but what have I done? I've looked to Mulder for all of that. How did I lose my autonomy? I look at my life as it might be if Mulder suddenly wasn't in it, and it scares the hell out of me. I don't know who I am, what I'm supposed to be doing anymore. I used to be so sure." "You've always looked for ways to make a difference, Dana," Maggie said, moving her chair closer to Scully's. She gently lifted a lock of hair from her daughter's forehead. "In medicine, and in your work at the Bureau. Can you honestly say you haven't contributed anything? Isn't there anything there that is yours?" Scully grimaced slightly, staring at the tissue in her hand. "I never told you this," she said, looking at Maggie. "I never told anyone this. When Emily was dying, when we all knew she was going to die, she said the most amazing thing to me. She said -- " she took a deep breath, " -- that she was afraid that people would forget her because she hadn't been around for very long." Scully smiled through fresh tears. "I look at my life now, having lived for so many years more than Emily lived, and I wonder the same thing. I look at what's happened to me, and it seems so arbitrary, so senseless. I've tried to find meaning in it, and I can't." Maggie nodded thoughtfully, considering her next words carefully. "Tell me more about Emily." Scully frowned, puzzled. "What do you want to know?" "I don't understand everything about what happened to her, or how she came to be. I know it has to do with your inability to have children, and about what was done to you. It's not just about the little girl that came into your life last Christmas, but about what her existence implies." Scully was silent, disturbed by her mother's insight. Her eyes remained fixed on the tissue in her hands as she searched for the words. "I believe there's more of them out there, Mom," she said quietly, almost whispering. "More children, boys and girls, created using the ova that were harvested from me and from the other women during the abductions. Created for the purposes of experimentation, like Emily. I know I'm not responsible for their misery, but they are part of me. I haven't done enough. I feel like I let Emily die, not for her own sake, but for the purpose of making a statement about what was done to me. And there I stopped. I should be out there looking for a way to reverse what is being done to these children. I should be using my education and my gifts to stop this, not running around chasing UFOs and monsters, especially with a man who no longer cares about what he's given his life over to. I have been avoiding my responsibility to Emily." "Have you forgiven yourself for Emily?" Maggie asked softly. Scully bit her lip, hesitant. "I thought so," she replied finally. "I thought I did. Maybe I haven't. Maybe I don't know anymore if I did the right thing, if I shouldn't have tried harder to save her, or to find the people responsible." Maggie nodded slightly, compassionately. "Have you talked to Father McCue?" "I've talked. I've gone to confession. I've prayed. Father McCue said some lovely things, but I still feel that I'm in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing. If God has a plan for me, He's keeping it to Himself. I feel like I'm going nowhere, that everything I'm doing and experiencing is for nothing. I can't be sure of myself any more." They sat silently for a moment. Maggie stroked Scully's hair thoughtfully, then spoke quietly. "Fox needs to know all this, Dana." "Mulder? I can't tell him this. He can't know this." "Why?" "He's my partner. He's my friend. He relies on me to be there, to watch his back. If he thinks I'm vulnerable, he can't trust me. If he can't trust me, I can't protect him." "But you don't trust him. He's not there for you right now. Your safety is compromised already, and that scares me, sweetheart." Scully shrugged. "He'll get over it." "And then what?" Maggie pressed. "His purpose has been taken away from him, and yours, too. Do you wait for him to find you a new one?" Scully frowned. "What are you saying?" "I'm not saying anything. I'm just asking -- why does pursuing what you need for yourself have to depend on what he does? What do *you* want, Dana?" There was a long silence. "I want justice," Scully responded finally. "I want to find the people who did this to me, to Emily, to Melissa, to countless other people. I want them to be held accountable. But Mulder is my connection to all of that, and I don't know right now how to do it without him, or the X-Files." Maggie shook her head. "I know, but I think it's more basic than that." Scully frowned at her mother for a moment, then returned her gaze to the table. She sighed. "I just need to find my reason for being here, on this planet, again." Maggie smiled softly. "You will find what you're looking for, Dana. You will find it in your own way, with or without Fox Mulder. You've always gone after what you want, and you've usually gotten it." Maggie drew a breath, then spoke softly but firmly. "I don't have the same hard feelings toward Fox that Bill does. But I do know he's in your way." Scully closed her eyes, less shocked by her mother's words than she thought she would be. "Part of me wants to quit the FBI," she admitted, finally. "But something tells me no, not yet. I have things to finish there. I don't know what I'd do -- file my reinstatement papers with the state medical board, I guess. Hang out a shingle and settle down. Run away. I just want all this to stop. I just want to heal and move on. And right now I want to leave Fox Mulder a long way behind, but..." Maggie pulled her daughter close and rested her forehead against Scully's. "I can't decide for you," she said gently. "But if Dana Scully was sitting in that chair over there, what would you tell her to do?" Exhausted, Scully pondered a long time. Her common sense was, as usual, at war with something deeper and more fundamental. She pulled away from Maggie enough to look her in the eye, then embraced her, resting her cheek on her mother's shoulder. Maggie smiled and rocked her gently, the way she always had. **** June 26 Scully couldn't help it. As soon as she walked into her apartment, she checked her answering machine for messages. There were seven. As the tape played, she checked her call display. Fourteen calls altogether. She scrolled through the names and numbers as she listened. One message was from someone looking for a Don Scolari, another offered her a free trip to Las Vegas if she called back within the hour. The others were nothing but patches of dead air. She frowned and examined the call display. Five messages came from various extensions within FBI headquarters. One was marked "private". The remaining six came from a variety of pay phones in the D.C. area. Scully flopped onto her couch and leaned back, closing her eyes with a sigh, letting her purse slip to the floor with a soft thud. Her own couch, her own living room. Her own space, her little cocoon, her sanctuary. Funny, but she'd never thought of her apartment in those terms before. It had always been a place to sleep, occasionally to consume a solitary meal. Neat, always neat; the cleaner she hired to come in twice a month complained good-naturedly that there was never enough to do. It was neat because she was never home long enough to really mess things up. She left that task, the messing up part, for her own personal life. The company of two mothers had helped to soothe the raw places, and part of her felt cleansed and filled up. She hadn't counted on Tara's contribution. Quite simply, she didn't know Tara that well. She'd met her sister-in-law once after Bill had announced their engagement, and didn't see her again until the wedding. The occasional phone call and brief visit thereafter, then another meeting when Tara was five months pregnant and again last Christmas. She liked Tara. The woman exuded a genuine warmth and compassion that Scully found soothing, even though Tara's naivete and bubbly disposition could sometimes be grating. They had nothing in common except Bill, but Scully had soaked up Tara's companionship these last few days like a thirsting flower. Matthew, of course, had made his own contribution. The opportunities to play with him and hold him until he fell asleep had been a balm to Scully's shattered nerves. She'd looked after the little boy when Maggie and Tara had gone out one day. He needed her and she gave, from some reserve her own experiences had not yet found and drained away. She missed him. Tara and Matthew had returned to San Diego on an early flight that morning, and Margaret Scully's house was once again childless. She'd spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon with Maggie and then returned to her own place, her emotions free of the burrs that had brought her to her mother's house, but still honed to a bright and painful edge. Scully opened her eyes and stared at the far wall of her living room. A large bookshelf stood against it, adorned with a few knick-knacks and plenty of books. Lots and lots of books. She studied their spines, running her gaze along the titles, frowning as she progressed from one shelf to another. Texts, mostly, from her undergraduate and medical school days, plus texts from Quantico. Texts, and more texts. She searched for dimestore paperbacks, anything from a garage sale or an airport, books to read on the beach or at the park, for fun and simple enjoyment. There was one; Capote's *Breakfast at Tiffany's*. She squinted at another title, and shook her head. An early medical thriller by Michael Crichton. Her med school roommate had recommended it and she'd bought it, but never cracked the spine. Even her leisure reading had rarely taken her far from her work or studies. Beyond those two, only more texts. She felt disappointed in herself. A slim volume caught her eye then, and she stared at the title for several minutes. Slowly she stood and moved over to the bookshelf, picking the book loose from its companions with her index finger. The cover was illustrated with a Magritte painting: a large rock positioned near a window that overlooked the ocean. She smiled wryly at the title, remembering how she'd struggled with this book in an undergraduate philosophy class. *The Myth of Sisyphus*, by Albert Camus. Her thumb riffled the pages. The margins of the book fluttered past, filled with her notes, her neat, rounded letters expressing outrage, disbelief, passionately argued counterpoints, angrily underlined passages. The book had not been that difficult as philosophy texts went, she recalled. Only the ideas had been hard for her to swallow. She smiled as she recalled her offended reactions, born as they were of youthful idealism and naivete and the grave injury Camus had done to her Catholic-infused belief system. To invoke Nietzsche, Killer of God, to give credence to the idea that truth and purpose were not to be found in some higher power, but from within... Her smile broadened. Time for a cup of tea. Minutes later she was back on the couch, a pot of tea, a cup, and a small stack of cookies on the side table. She tucked her feet under her and began reading the title essay. Two pages in, the phone rang, and she reluctantly picked it up. "Agent Scully," a male voice said hesitantly. "Yes?" There was a pause. Scully checked her call display; it indicated that the call originated from a pay phone. "Please forgive the intrusion," the voice continued, uncertain. "My name is Paul Simmons. You might remember me." Scully sat upright, tense. "How did you get my number, Mr. Simmons?" she said softly. "It wasn't difficult," Simmons said, his voice a gentle monotone. "I have some friends, a few friends, still, at the police department. I used to be a cop, you know. Someone was able to get it for me." Scully remained silent, wondering how best to respond. Simmons continued. "I did try calling you at your office, but you weren't there. Something about taking a holiday or something. Did you -- did you have a nice holiday, Agent Scully?" "What do you want, Mr. Simmons?" "I want -- to apologize, first," he said. "I wasn't at my best the other day. I've had -- a rather rough week. The things I said then -- I didn't mean to freak you out. I think they freaked you out. I'm sorry." "Where are you?" "I'm at the detention center still. I'm not out, and even if I was I wouldn't -- you'd be in no danger from me. God knows during my time in the force I learned that the perpetrators of domestic homicides were mainly a danger to themselves, not other people. You must know that, too." Simmons' placid, hesitant tone relaxed Scully somewhat, but she had pushed the record button on her answering machine. It would never be admissible in court, but it would be evidence of some sort. Just in case. "What do you want, Mr. Simmons," she repeated, more firmly this time. "I want to talk with you again. I think we made a connection the other day. I'm sorry, I don't want to intrude, but I got the very strong impression we're after the same thing." "Mr. Simmons," Scully said calmly. "I'm going to hang up now. Please don't call me again." She moved to replace the receiver, but hesitated as Simmons' voice emerged, tinny and harsh, through the earpiece. "Please," he pleaded. "Please don't hang up. Hear me out." Reluctantly, Scully returned the receiver to her ear. "Make it fast, Mr. Simmons," she said coldly. Simmons sighed, apparently relieved. "I know you don't have much sympathy for types like me," he said. "But whether you believe it or not, I've suffered a terrible loss. Yes, it was my own doing and my own fault, and I tried to make amends, I really did. That bullet I fired down my own throat -- I did fire it, Agent Scully. I pulled the trigger. I felt the sensation I described. But I didn't die. I did try, honestly." "What has any of this got to do with me, not that it's any of your business," Scully said tersely. "I need to show you something," Simmons said. "I'd like to show you as soon as possible. It's very important that you see what I have to show you. It's important that someone believes me." His voice held a note of urgency, bordering on desperation. I'm very busy, she wanted to tell him, apprehension moving through her like a wave. Please don't make me see what you want me to see. "Please, Agent Scully." Simmons prodded her silence. "When?" Scully sighed finally. "Can you come now? I promise -- I won't keep you long. I just need to show you this." Scully looked at her watch. The afternoon was dying; soon it would be early evening. She closed her eyes, wavering. Judging by the number of anonymous calls she'd received from pay phones over the last few days, most likely from Simmons, he would not be an easy man to dissuade. "Okay," she sighed. "I'll be there within the hour." "Thank you," Simmons said, relief in his voice. He hung up. Scully looked at her cup and the stack of cookies, and back at her book. The detention center wasn't that far from her place, and in any case, Simmons wasn't going anywhere. She could at least down one cup of tea and the cookies, and revisit the realm of existentialist philosophy briefly before she left. She poured the tea and settled into the couch. [End Part 2] Simmons looked up at her as she entered his cell. Scully was gratified to see his pallor, the stubble dirtying the lower half of his face, the dark circles under his eyes. He'd been wrestling with demons, as he should. She kept her face carefully neutral as she stood across from him, unconsciously asserting a position of dominance over his seated figure. He made no move to stand. "Thank you for coming, Agent Scully," Simmons said, casting his eyes downward. There was a silence, and Scully found herself fighting a sudden burst of impatience. "You wanted to show me something," she said, more sharply than she meant to. "Yes," Simmons said, shifting on his bed and looking up at her. "I do. But first, I want to explain something to you." He sighed and pressed a thumb into the palm of his other hand, massaging it as he spoke. "When I was a cop, people used to call me The Stupendous Simmons," he said with a sullen laugh. "I had an insight into people and their motives that some people went as far as to say was psychic. I never did. I never considered myself psychic. But with some people, I could just look at them and know if they were guilty or innocent, how badly a crime had shaken them, that sort of thing. I just knew. I don't know how psychologists and shrinks do it, get into people's heads all day and then just walk away. As a cop, I was in people's heads all the time, and after a few years I couldn't hack it any more. I quit and went into real estate. There again, I could read people. I knew the ones who were just looking, the ones who were gathering decorating ideas, the ones who were casing for a break and enter, and the ones who were serious about making an offer. My sales were good. I was as good a realtor as I had been a cop, and I had been a pretty damn good cop. "Another reason I left the force was because it kept me away from my family." He paused and swallowed. "I wanted a stable, steady job where I wasn't likely to get my ass blown off on a daily basis. But being a realtor -- it's like being a doctor on call. I was away from home as much, if not more, than when I was chasing down bad guys. One day I came home and looked at Maureen and I just knew -- she'd been unfaithful. She denied it. I was stunned, and then I got angry. I stayed away more. She screwed around more. I felt it from her, even when I was working. I lost sales, I blew sure deals. I blamed her. That night, everything boiled over. She wanted a divorce. I lost it. I got the gun and I wasted her, right there, in front of the kids." Simmons paused, his throat working. Scully read the tension in his muscles and watched his eyes blink rapidly as he fought tears. In spite of her revulsion, she felt a twinge of sympathy. He was silent for a long moment, gathering himself. At length he drew a breath, his knuckles white. "And the rest, it was like I told you. Katie and Erin -- they saw the whole thing. I'll never forget their faces; they were white. They weren't crying or screaming or anything; they just stared at their mother, lying there in a pool of blood, like they had no idea what was happening. Something told me then, do it now, before it sinks in, before they understand what's going on, what Daddy has done to Mommy." He stopped, his face red with the effort of keeping from breaking down. His voice was thick and hesitant when he finally continued. "So I shot them. One, two. Blam, blam. Piece of cake." He cleared his throat, the intense ache in it audible. The wait was longer this time; Scully waited patiently. "Anyway," he said, "At that point, I was seized with this sense of utter, complete futility. You always read about how useless these things are, how pointless. It's meant as an indictment, of course. The media is never impartial; they judge these things with the moral certitude of a religious zealot. But it really was pointless. As pointless, as irrelevant, as anything else we do in our lives. All my work as a cop, as a realtor, as a human being, utterly irrelevant. Agent Scully, when you see your spouse, your children, lying lifeless before you, and you know it was your own doing, there is nothing in the world that makes the least bit of sense. As I told you before, at that point I believed in nothing, not even my own reality, my own self. So I put the barrel of the pistol in my mouth and pulled the trigger. And here I am." He looked up at her then, his face haunted. "When you and your partner came in the other day, I got such a strong sense from you. You've lost people and things. You've wondered why these things have happened, why you've been made to suffer, what the point of it all is, if there's anything you could have done to stop it." "That's true of just about anyone," Scully said atonally. Simmons leaned forward, his palms up. "We're both trying to make some sense of things. We're both looking to lay some things to rest. But what if there is no sense? What if there is no higher purpose? Just us, just our existence. Maybe we suffer because we're so obsessed with looking for the meaning behind the things that happen to us, because we want to believe that things happen for a reason. Because if there is a reason, that means we have some way of understanding it and maybe controlling or fixing it, or at least coming to terms with what's gone wrong. But what if things happen just because, and there's nothing we can do about it?" He looked at Scully's troubled frown intensely. "I'm connecting on something here with you, aren't I? Please tell me I'm not crazy." Scully regarded him, her mind whirling, unable to detach herself from Simmons' speech. Simmons continued, pressing his point. "All I'm saying is, in that moment, something happened to me. I don't understand it, but it's like I was able to change reality somehow. Maybe, I don't know, maybe you can make sense of this, because I can't." He stood suddenly and moved over to the sink. He paused a moment, then lifted a toothbrush and held it up for Scully to see. The toothbrush shook slightly in his hand, and she registered it without expression. "This is what I wanted to show you." He inhaled and exhaled deeply, steadying himself, and pointed the handle at his palm. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed the end into the skin and then through it. The flesh indented where the toothbrush entered his palm and Scully watched, amazed, as the skin on the back of Simmons' hand began to bulge. The skin broke as it allowed the egress of the handle. Simmons pushed slowly on the toothbrush head, ultimately pushing the bristles through the hole in his palm with a finger. He reached around to grasp the handle, and pulled the toothbrush through. He paused for a moment, looking at his hand, and then held his palm up to Scully. She stepped forward in spite of herself, taking hold of Simmons' hand and examining it closely. There was no hole, no scar, no redness, much less any blood. There was no evidence whatsoever that any injury had been done. She ran her thumb over where a bloody hole should have been, disbelieving. She looked up at Simmons, astonished. "That's impossible," she said, finding her voice at last. "This is sleight of hand. You can't alter the laws of physics. A solid object cannot pass through another solid object." Simmons smiled uneasily at her. "You just saw it, Agent Scully. I don't get it either, but I've been making myself crazy trying to figure out what it means. It's almost like everything's up in the air for me now, like there are no laws of physics, or anything else. Maybe there are no moral laws, either, nothing to judge us for what we've done. Wouldn't that be nice?" Scully walked away from Simmons slowly, then turned as she reached the end of his cell. "I didn't come down here to be made fun of," she said, annoyed. Disappointed, Simmons tapped the head of the toothbrush against his uninjured palm, then placed it again on the sink. He looked over at her, his expression troubled. "I'm not trying to make fun of you. I wish I was, because then at least it would be deliberate. My whole world has opened up in ways I can't even begin to imagine. It's scaring me. That's why I had to share it with someone that I thought might be able to understand it." Scully stared hard at him, then turned suddenly and slapped her palm against the door. Obligingly, the guard disengaged the magnetic lock and opened it. As she stepped across the threshold, Simmons called after her. "Agent Scully." She paused, unable to look at him. "Thank you," he said, his voice plaintive and grateful. "I'm glad I could show you this, you know, get it off my chest." She hesitated a moment, her fingers curling into fists. Then she stepped into the hallway, striding stiffly toward the security gate. Simmons watched, pensive, as the door closed behind her. **** June 27 6:17 p.m. Scully stirred on her couch, jolted awake by a loud commercial. She fumbled for the remote with annoyance, her thumb searching the rubbery buttons for the mute switch. Opening her eyes, she regarded the small disaster that was her living room and sighed. A small break. That's all she'd intended. Flip on the TV and watch some vacuous sitcom for awhile, settle her mind, put the jumble of equations and proofs and theoretical constructs into her subconscious for processing. She'd fallen asleep. Happy Saturday evening, Agent Scully. She propped herself up on one elbow and surveyed the damage. Rattled by Simmons, she'd come home last night, shoved Camus angrily back on the bookshelf, and gone to bed early. And not slept. Pieces of their conversation pricked at her, mingling with pieces of her words with Maggie, swirling into the concepts of the French existentialist. She resented it. She resented the way her buttons were being pushed, apparently from all sides. At length she'd slept, only to awaken this morning looking for rationality and structure. Starting with her undergraduate honors thesis, she'd then browsed through the leather-bound edition of Newton's *Principia* that she'd received as a gift. Then she strolled through the most erudite works in her collection, the cool perfection of scientific literature, some of her own papers from medical school. Finally she picked up a work of Einstein's and a text on quantum mechanics, which were her undoing. Drawn to an essay on Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, she found herself coming full circle again, questioning, doubting, her grasp on the provable slipping, her ken of the permanence of things and ideas fading. In disgust, she flipped on the tube and watched, beginning to end, an entire episode of "The Drew Carey Show". Mulder would have enjoyed seeing me do that, she mused, and felt a slight pang. The commercial ended. Scully half stood, half rolled off the couch and began picking up the books and papers that lay strewn about the floor. She glanced up at the silent TV, noting idly that the news was on. She straightened with a sigh and moved over to her bookshelf, methodically locating the books' original locations and carefully putting them back where they came from. A picture on the screen made her head snap around, and she lunged for the remote control. "...from the Washington, D.C. Detention Center this morning," the anchor said, no longer muted. A mugshot of Simmons floated next to her head on the screen. "Police and Detention Center staff are refusing to comment on exactly how Mr. Simmons made his escape, saying only that a manhunt is now underway. Mr. Simmons is not considered to be a danger to the public, but police are requesting that anyone with any knowledge of his whereabouts ..." Scully sat down hard on the couch, disturbed. No danger to the public. She thought of the toothbrush that passed so effortlessly through Simmons' hand the night before and shivered slightly. After a long while, she turned the TV off and reached for the phone book. **** June 28 10:13 a.m. "Mulder? It's me." "Hey, Scully." His voice was flat, monotone. "How was your holiday." Scully found herself sitting bolt upright on her couch and forced herself to relax. "It was fine. It was good. Relaxing." There was a pause. Scully shifted awkwardly, tucking her legs under her and then untucking them. The phone had always been their medium of communication, where even the silences normally flowed cool and crystalline and pure. Now the silences were turgid and sluggish, choked with debris. She sensed that in the intervening days, Mulder's mood hadn't changed one iota. She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Where'd you go." "My mother's," she responded, keeping her tone light. "For a few days. Then I kicked around here today, did a little reading." There was another pause, and in it Scully heard the distant sound of a tenor sax. She rubbed her eyes, fumbling awkwardly for another sentence. "My sister-in-law and my new nephew were there, too. He's really getting big." She winced at the forced conversation and bit her lip, berating herself for uttering such banalities. "What -- have you been up to?" she finished, lamely. "Wiretap," Mulder said absently, his attention seemingly elsewhere. Scully felt a surge of annoyance as he stopped again. She gripped the receiver tightly, wanting to reach through the line and wrap her hands around Mulder's throat. Talk to me, dammit, she wanted to scream. Open up and talk to me, you self-absorbed prick. "On?" she pressed, her voice hardening. "On what?" "What were you surveilling? With the wiretap?" More silence. "Uh, narcotics. A sting setup. Does it matter?" "No, it doesn't matter," she said, then tried a more direct tactic. "I just wanted to say hello. I haven't talked to you for awhile." "No, you haven't." She heard a slight rustling on his end, and the tenor sax fell silent. She tried not to feel too jubilant; it was probably one he'd seen before, anyway. His voice returned, his familiar monotone only slightly more animated. "Did you manage to catch the news?" "Yes," Scully said, relieved that the conversation had turned toward an actual topic. "Simmons' escape. They're still looking for him." "Actually, I was referring to the story on the cat with the pet hamster," Mulder said dryly. Scully felt a small surge of hope. She leaned forward unconsciously, reaching for him with her voice. "I talked with Simmons Friday night. He called me at home, saying he needed to see me about something." "He called you?" "Yes. And against my better judgment, I went to see him. He showed me something that bothers me on a number of levels, especially since it ties in with how he supposedly escaped." "How did he escape? The news reports aren't saying." "I'm not surprised," Scully said, "considering how the detention center staff and the police would sound if they even attempted to describe it. But I saw the surveillance tape myself. I borrowed it and took it over to the lab for analysis. There's no reason to expect that it's been altered, which the lab should confirm. Mulder, it shows him clearly walking through the wall. He stepped into the wall like there was an invisible door there, and then he just vanished." "Huh," Mulder grunted, noncommittal. "What did he have to show you?" Scully told him about the toothbrush, then pressed ahead. "I didn't know how to explain it, but now I have an idea. You read my undergraduate paper on Einstein's Twin Paradox, didn't you?" "A long time ago, yeah." "Do you remember what I said about applying principles of quantum mechanics to the paradox?" Mulder paused, thinking. "I think you argued that we would never be able to tell for sure which twin was older. The ages would vary depending on how you recorded the age of each twin. But then you refuted the idea." "Using quantum theory I argued that the subjective nature of the observer made accurate measurement impossible. I rejected that idea, because it implied that there was not a single, immutable reality that could be objectively measured or observed." "So how does this apply to Simmons' escape and toothbrush trick?" Scully took a breath. "I ... find that I'm reconsidering my original argument." Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her own ears. "Suppose for a second that there is no one state of reality after all." "I'm stunned." "Hear me out. Simmons told us that at the moment he attempted suicide, he found himself unable to believe in anything. I took that as an expression of profound spiritual crisis, metaphorical rather than literal. But suppose that he's found a way to perceive a reality beyond the evidence of his senses. Suppose -- " she closed her eyes, took another breath, and plunged ahead, "suppose he's able to recognize that reality really is bound by our observations and by extension our beliefs. One of the best-known tenets of quantum mechanics holds that at a quantum level, matter exists in more than one physical state simultaneously, and we actually fix matter in one of these so-called eigenstates via the act of observation or measurement. How we see a thing depends on what tool we use to look at it. Erwin Schr"dinger argued that this wouldn't work at a macro level, but what if Simmons has found a way to alter his reality simply by deciding how to perceive it? That by believing in no one thing, he is able to see all possible permutations of an object and all sides of an event?" Mulder laughed, humorlessly. "That's my usual line, Scully," he said. "I know," Scully said, uncomfortable. "What's your idea? What's your theory?" Mulder paused. "I think," he said carefully, "that by keeping velocity and vector constant, and controlling for the influence of competing inertial forces, that a sharpened number two pencil will penetrate standard acoustic ceiling tile to an average depth of approximately one centimeter on a consistent basis." "Come on, Mulder," Scully prodded. "Help me out here." "Sure. Fine." Irritation had crept into his voice. "He can make things happen or not happen simply by believing or disbelieving in them. They do that all the time on Capitol Hill." "Mulder, he pushed a toothbrush through his hand. He walked through a wall, and is now at large in the community." "Maybe he had lessons from Dr. Blockhead." Scully hesitated, confused by Mulder's attitude. "If -- if he can manipulate matter and reality simply by choosing how to observe it, it has profound implications. It not only means that we may be living in a quantum universe, it also suggests that the reality we always thought existed when no one was around to observe it may not even be there in any fixed, tangible form. It means that reality, even existence itself, shifts and changes, depending on how we decide to construct it. That's already been demonstrated experimentally with light. It behaves as either a wave or a particle depending on how we decide we want to see it." She heard the faint rustling again on the other end of the line, and the sound of Mulder softly clearing his throat. His disapproval seemed to flow back down the wire to her in cold, piercing waves. "You don't really buy that, do you Scully?" he said quietly. Scully froze for a moment, then tucked her chin in slightly, nonplussed. "Well," she said, uncomfortable. "Like I said, it's a theory." "It's not," Mulder said evenly. "It's a concession, and a condescension. It's an effort to engage my enthusiasm, and a pretty transparent one, at that. Don't get me wrong, Scully. Part of me appreciates what you're trying to do. But part of me is, frankly, a little insulted." "That's not it, Mulder," Scully protested, stung. "I'm telling you I saw something, and I need your help in trying to make sense of it." "The X-Files are gone, Scully. I have backups of most of them, of course. But that's not the point. I went down to the office yesterday. They've gutted the place. I don't know how they're going to get the smell out, though. It's a place without purpose; it's meaningless and empty. It's in limbo. Kind of like me, actually." Scully quashed a bright surge of anger, choosing instead to respond to the first hint of real openness he'd shown her since the fire. "Like me, too, Mulder," she said firmly. "We worked on the X-Files together, remember. We both lost something important, and for what it's worth, I've spent a lot of time the last week or so wondering what we lost it for." "Not everything has a reason, Scully," Mulder admonished. "Not everything can be explained. Maybe all that work was for nothing. Maybe you were right -- they finally have won. The X- Files really were a pointless exercise, one that had me and then you doing nothing more than chasing one red herring after another." "I can't believe it was for nothing," she responded, her voice tight with indignation. "I can't believe that all we've been through -- all *I've* been through -- has been for nothing." "You know some Greek mythology, don't you?" "Some." She felt herself retreating into offended silence. "As punishment for his arrogance, the gods condemned Sisyphus to push a huge rock up a hill and watch it roll back down, over and over again, for all eternity. You know we're being reassigned tomorrow." "Yes." "If you're lucky, they'll split us up. Rumor has it that you're considered salvageable. They're not so sure about me. If that's true, at least you'll be given a chance to redeem yourself." Scully rubbed her eyes, unable to believe the conversation. "I'm - - not sure I want to be redeemed," she said bluntly. "I've been considering other options." There was a heavy silence at the other end. "Like what?" Mulder said darkly. "I'm not sure," she replied flatly. "I need to try to somehow put everything that's happened to me into some kind of perspective. I can't keep putting myself at the mercy of people and events. I've lost control of my life, and I want it back. I need to find my own direction." "I see." Mulder's voice was stone, the hurt in it nakedly evident. The silence this time was heavier than the last. Scully noticed her free hand had curled into a fist, and she forced it open and flat against the seat cushion. "What about you?" she asked. "What am I supposed to do?" he said defensively. "I'll see where they put me. Maybe they'll find me another green agent, sentence him or her to spend a few months learning what not to do from the FBI's Finest Fuckup. Only I hope they've got a more decent sense than you of when to quit on me." "Mulder..." Scully heard the TV click on again. "See you around, Agent Scully." He hung up. Scully stared at the receiver for a moment, flabbergasted. Furious tears pricked at her eyes, and she barely restrained herself from throwing the hapless receiver across the room. Instead, she slammed it into its cradle, grabbed her keys, and left her apartment. **** She doubled over, hands on her knees, catching her breath. She hadn't intended this, but a walk, she had decided, just wouldn't suffice. Her running gear was at Quantico and she'd driven rather faster than absolutely necessary to get it. She'd started out at a savage pace, her lungs raw and whistling within the first mile. And she kept it up, mile after mile, running aimlessly, blindly, directing her fury to her heart, lungs, and muscles. She relished the power of it, channeled constructively for the first time in months, perhaps years. It hurt her and she immersed herself in the pain, at one point letting tears flow freely, her labored breath catching in a sob more than once. The fury flowed through her feet and left her, but not before she gave it a last, vicious pounding with each footfall before it dissipated. Of all the arrogant dismissals Fox Mulder had ever tossed her way, that last one had hurt the worst. She would be glad to be rid of him. She winced, feeling the sharp razor cuts of air racing in and out of her lungs, tasting the coppery tang of her raw bronchi. She coughed painfully and swept a drop of sweat from the end of her nose. Drained, she stretched, then moved slowly to the change room. The shower sluiced over her head and down her back, sheeting over her breasts and between her legs like a lover's caress. *She would be glad to be rid of him.* The thought returned as unbidden as the first time, shocking her again with its bluntness. It dismayed and depressed her. Glad to be rid of him. No, not glad. Resigned. Accepting. Accompanied by the appropriate amount of sadness and wistfulness, all the while recognizing with utter certainty that This Was For The Best. Massaging shampoo into her scalp, she played out a fantasy. Dana Katherine Scully, M.D., forensic pathology consultant. Acquiring grants and lucrative contracts, conducting research, hitting the international conference circuit, taking excited questions from her esteemed colleagues, basking in the glow of applause and acclaim for her insightful, ingenious perspectives, recognized, revered, and respected. Why, yes, I was once an FBI agent. Can you imagine? Running after mutants in the dead of night with a flashlight and a gun... *And your former partner. Whatever happened to him?* Oh, we lost touch years ago. Last I heard, he was working undercover as a garbage collector, investigating a mob protection racket. He was so good at his job that his sanitation boss, who wasn't in on the sting, made him crew supervisor. Rumor has it that he quit the FBI the next day and has been pushing shopping carts down alleyways ever since... Scully hid her face in her hands, laughing, ashamed. That was cruel. She moaned softly at the pang of remorse but soon began laughing again, stifling her voice, her shoulders convulsing. To an observer, she might have been crying, weeping in abject misery. She didn't care. The guilty pleasure swept over her and, for the moment, she was happy. Towel. Moisturizer. Socks, underwear, shirt, shorts. A quick blast with a blow dryer, a dusting of makeup. And a drink, something cold, up in the fitness center lounge before heading home. Scully wondered what law decreed that lounges should be dark. Apart from the lighting, she appreciated the spare but comfortable dâcor, as well as the layout. The lounge was rectangular, with one long wall overlooking the squash courts and the other overlooking the salt water pool. The bar was situated in the middle of the room. She ordered her drink and settled herself in a chair near the pool side of the lounge. The drink arrived and she sipped it appreciatively, casting a glance over the pool. The ropes demarcated eight lanes, each twenty-five meters long. There were only a few swimmers. A couple of women were at the far end, using kickboards and working their way back and forth, side by side, chatting. Three other people spaced themselves out across the remaining lanes; men, Scully observed, methodically swimming laps, cutting powerful wakes, folding themselves into flip turns at the ends of the pool and exploding off the wall, creating subsurface flumes of whitewater. Back and forth, over and over. She found herself appreciating the efforts of two of the men, each of them doing sets of individual medley, engaged in silent competition with each other. She leaned forward as they commenced a powerful and elegant butterfly, broad, muscular backs and arms rising out of the water, bodies propelled by sinuous, undulating kicks, heads lifting for breath every second stroke, legs pushing off the wall to begin the backstroke. She watched them, smiling softly, for several minutes. She turned her attention to the other swimmer, a competent, technical freestyler working a comfortable long-distance pace. A smartly executed flip turn ended one length and simultaneously started the next. His arms arced out of the water and entered again in rhythmic succession. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over. She frowned slightly, taking another sip. There was an odd intensity to the man's efforts, a single-mindedness, a familiarity that was almost -- Sisyphean. Dammit. It was a perspective she couldn't seem to shake, from the sheer repetitiveness of the man's swimming to the aimlessness of her own run, to the pointlessness of her losses and the uncertainty of her own future. The creeping emptiness began to fill her up from the bottom again and she pushed it aside roughly, stabbing her drink with the straw to break up a chunk of ice. She watched as the man glided to a stop and pulled into the wall, popping the goggles off his face and sliding them to the top of his head. Mulder. She sank into her chair unconsciously, feeling vulnerable and resentful. She had hoped to avoid him until at least Monday and here he was, in the same building, using the same facilities. Mulder ran a hand down his face, staring at the other end of the pool. Even from here, she could see he was breathing heavily. The water clung to his arms and face and plastered his hair to his head. In the emptiness of the pool, he looked very small and alone. His hand paused, resting over his mouth and chin, and then he looked up at her, directly into her eyes. Scully started, grasping the arms of the chair and pushing it back a few inches. Then she remembered that the glass was one-way, silvered on the pool side, preventing swimmers from seeing into the lounge. She relaxed and frowned, finding herself staring back at Mulder in spite of herself, her eyes locked on his. His gaze didn't waver. Slowly, Scully rose from her chair and moved up to the glass, riveted, fascinated by the strangeness of the scenario. His face -- even from here, she could read his expression. Unconsciously, Scully pressed her fingertips to the glass, leaning slightly into it. Mulder looked back at her, his face unshaven, the pallor and dark circles under his eyes still discernible through the flush of physical effort. He couldn't see her -- couldn't possibly know she was there. If he did he wouldn't be displaying the hollowness he was showing now, the look of someone whose last hope had been wrenched from him. He looked beaten and defeated. They seemed to hold each other's gazes a moment more, then Mulder broke the spell by pulling his goggles over his eyes and pushing off the wall. The patient, methodical stroke took him to the opposite end of the pool, and a turn sent him back the other way. Back and forth, over and over. Scully pressed her palm against the glass and closed her eyes, the weight in her heart returning in full. [End Part 3] A deep thrumming. Surging pulses, subsonic, felt more than heard. The slight pressure on her eardrums muted the noise. She moved, feeling fluid slide over her naked body. It was viscous, and she was floating. And cold. She was so cold. A fluttering in her thorax, a movement. Not quite as she'd imagined. No feeling of excitement or joy accompanied it. Her hand wandered over her abdomen, slowly, through the fluid, as though it was she inside the womb rather than... No. Her hand brushed her bare stomach, wondering idly how it was that skin never felt wet to the touch when it was under water. Fingertips, brushing the bulge beneath her flesh. The movement again -- there. She frowned. Too high. Too high up in the body. A fetus would be lower. She swallowed; her throat was parched and sore. She withdrew her hand as though her belly was on fire. She pulled a breath; her body hitched as fluid started down her windpipe and her lungs spasmed in the vacuum. Her eyes flew open, searching frantically, unable to focus. A barely perceptible phosphorescence, and beyond it, blackness. She tried to breathe again and failed. She was drowning. The vise grip of panic and asphyxia clamped down on her heart and lungs as she flailed in the darkness, rising instinctively upward. Her hands contacted a ceiling, then walls, all at arm's length. She struck out again; the walls had moved in closer. Her eyes burned. The bulge fluttered inside her again, reacting to her movements. A bright spot in the phosphorescence appeared before her, growing gradually out of the darkness. An oval shape, a face?? Frantically she swam forward, pressing her body against the wall, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the smooth surface. She tried to speak, but her airless lungs produced no sound. The face -- a man's face. Her rescuer. Paul Simmons. Alarmed, she pushed away from the wall. Simmons' features disappeared, leaving a vaguely defined oval shape in the dim light. Her head swam, and she saw bright flashes. The walls were touching her skin now, compressing the space around her, pressing on her shoulders. She reached out to the oval, touching the wall. The oval's features returned briefly. Mulder's indifferent eyes stared out of the face, into hers, before turning away and disappearing completely. The walls compressed her into a fetal position, crushing her organs and the thing inside her. Her spine snapped. Scully sat up in bed with a yell, violently kicking blankets away. Disoriented, she pressed her hands to her forehead, feeling its sticky dampness and strands of wet hair. Her heart slammed painfully in her chest and ears, the vestiges of panic alighting on every nerve ending. "Oh, God," she muttered, her voice high and thin but there, proof that her lungs were now taking in air and feeding it through her larynx. She sat and shivered, the cold sweat condensing on the inside of her pyjamas and trickling down her sides. Just a dream, Dana, she soothed herself. Hell of a dream. Her mind began ticking over its meaning. Trapped and unable to breathe -- anxiety. Her job, her uncertainty, feeling out of control of her life, yes, yes, all sources of anxiety. And Simmons. Simmons had gotten to her, tapped into her vulnerability. The thing inside her -- what They'd done to her, melded with some distant, hopeless fantasy of someday carrying a child. And Mulder, looking in on her, naked and vulnerable, then turning away -- fear of abandonment? She shook her head, irritated at what her unconscious had dragged up in unguarded sleep. She steepled her hands over her face, eyes closed, elbows resting on her knees. Breathing deeply, she willed her still-pounding heart to slow. Uneasiness crept up her vertebrae and tickled the base of her skull, and she felt the anxiety churn in her gut. "Just a dream," she murmured to herself, but part of her was not convinced. Swinging her legs out of bed, she walked to the kitchen. After microwaving herself a mug of milk, she carried it to the couch and sat, curling her legs beneath her. Anxiety. She knew what set it all off. Simmons, and his damn parlor tricks. Scully shook her head, frowning. Hell of a parlor trick. If the X-Files were still there, she and Mulder would be all over Simmons. She cast a glance over her book collection, anger and humiliation making a small bonfire in her chest. She'd tried. She'd gone out on an ideological limb for him, backed by some admittedly shaky but still theoretically grounded science, and he'd rebuffed her. I'm not doing this, she decided. Not alone. If he can't be bothered to care, why should I? Some scientist, another voice taunted shrilly, pulling her back in the other direction. She rubbed her eyes, frustrated, angered by her indecision. It's so damn simple, Dana, she thought. Just go and be done with it. Or stay, patch up your reputation, and see where it takes you. What if I go? What if I stay? Where does either choice take me? She considered her gut feelings, which still resonated with the nightmare's timbre. They told her to run. She considered them, and shook her head. I won't make this decision emotionally. Tomorrow's meeting will decide things. I can't choose now. With a sigh, she barricaded her whirling thoughts and concentrated on the hot milk. Tomorrow. At length, she finished her drink and padded back to bed. She lay there, sleepless, until her alarm sounded. **** June 29 8:30 a.m. Scully sat patiently in the anteroom of Skinner's office, aware of the clicking of his secretary's keyboard but not much else. She felt nervous. Not so much for the idea of starting under another supervisor; she had resigned herself to that. Mulder would be walking in any moment, and she wasn't sure she could face him. Especially after the unsettling incident at the pool. The door to the office opened and Skinner stood there, his face neutral. "Agent Scully, would you come in, please?" he said. Scully stood, smoothed down her skirt, and stepped inside the wood- paneled room. Skinner waved her to the large rectangular table, and an African-American man stood to greet her. Skinner nodded at the man. "Agent Scully, this is Assistant Director Alvin Kersh. As of today, you will be working under him." Scully shook Kersh's outstretched hand, mustering a small professional smile. So. She and Mulder had been split up. She noted the confusion of feelings swirling inside her, the mixture of regret and relief. Pulling out a chair, she sat. Skinner and Kersh took their own chairs and regarded her. "Assistant Director Kersh heads up the Domestic Terrorism unit," Skinner remarked. Scully looked coolly at Kersh. "Yes, sir. I know of your name in connection with that department." "Let's cut to the chase, Agent Scully," Kersh said, his warm baritone offering little compensation for the chill of his delivery. "I'm not a detention room supervisor. I don't pack a ruler, and I don't assign hall passes. I have very little patience for the antics of agents who break protocol and make up their own rules." He flicked a glance at Skinner, who avoided it. Kersh's deep brown eyes returned to Scully, who stared back unflinchingly. "You and Agent Mulder have been shown an inordinate amount of latitude in your work. The holiday is over for you two. I don't think I need to tell you that you're both lucky you still have jobs." "No, sir," Scully said quietly, her brow gathering a soft fold. "Am I to understand, sir, that Agent Mulder has been transferred to the same unit as myself?" Kersh glanced at Skinner again, then back at Scully. "Alone, you each have far too much notoriety for my taste. Together, you're about all that I can take. Nevertheless, I don't believe in splitting up teams. You and Agent Mulder have been together for too long, and regardless of what I or anyone else thinks of your work, you have one of the best partnerships in the Bureau. That's worth something to me." "Yes, sir," Scully said, trying not to feel small. "Another thing that's worth something are the skills that you both bring, however unorthodox they are. Properly disciplined, those skills are a great asset. I want good investigators on my team. You and Agent Mulder are good investigators, when you're not off somewhere being stupid. If you choose to take it, both of you have an opportunity here to distinguish yourselves." "Thank you, sir," Scully said. "We won't let you down." "No, Agent Scully," Kersh said, leaning toward her intently. "You won't." Scully felt the intensity of Kersh's eyes, but refused to back down. She kept her gaze locked on his, maintaining her composure and her dignity. Already she hated the games this man was playing, his attempts to cow her into submission. If Skinner had played the bull mastiff, Kersh was a cat, toying with his prey, worrying it to a state of terrified paralysis before finally dispatching it out of boredom. She recognized that she would have to get used to the prospect of being eyeballed to death at any given moment. "If that is all for now, sir," Scully said evenly, "I would like to assume my station and begin working. And, if I may ask, has Agent Mulder been informed of his new assignment?" Kersh leaned back in his chair, his eyes alight with respect for Scully's assertive posture and the delight at the prospect of matching wits with her. "He came in earlier this morning. He's at his desk now, reviewing some backlogged files. I'll have you doing the same for the first while, becoming familiar with the department and our procedures, before sending you out to the field." He stood. Skinner and Scully stood along with him. Kersh smiled then, a tight, satisfied smile that worried Scully. He shook her hand. "I think we'll have some interesting times together, Agent. Welcome to *my* world." With that, he left. Scully glanced at Skinner as the door shut behind Kersh. Skinner returned her look, then looked away quickly, moving to his desk and pushing papers absently. Scully searched for something to say, knowing that Skinner felt badly. More than that, he'd lost face during his tenure as her supervisor, and she felt badly for that. She watched as he turned to the large window and stared holes through the sheer drapes. "Sir," she began awkwardly. "I -- want to thank you for the support you've shown me and Agent Mulder over the years. I know we've sometimes put you in difficult positions, and -- " She trailed off, uncertain. Skinner turned to look at her. "Assistant Director Kersh is right about one thing. You and Mulder are one of the best teams in the Bureau. When you two are on, you're on. I sat here for years and watched the unwavering commitment you both had to finding justice and the truth, no matter how outrageous that truth might be. And as difficult as you made my job sometimes, I found myself in awe of you. I still do. You in particular, Scully." He walked away from the window, sliding his hands into his pockets and leaning against the edge of his desk. He studied the carpet for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. "Me, sir?" Scully prodded, puzzled. "Yes," Skinner said. He shook his head slightly. "Agent Mulder walked into all of this voluntarily. He's broken his own trail from the beginning, but he's paid for his choices. You, on the other hand -- you've taken on his work as your own. You could have bailed at any time, but you didn't. And you've paid a tremendous price for his crusade. I'm in awe of your dedication, but I confess I don't understand it." He met her eyes and she saw confusion, along with a respect she'd always hoped was there but had never seen until now. She swallowed, overwhelmed. "Don't answer this if it seems too personal, Agent Scully," Skinner murmured quietly. "But I'm curious. Why do you stay?" Scully opened her mouth, then closed it. Her stock answer lay on her tongue, the same answer she'd given to her mother, her brothers, her colleagues, to the few remaining friends who deigned to stay in touch once or twice a year. *Why do you stay, Dana?* Because as crazy as it sounds, the idea of finding empirical support for paranormal phenomena and the existence of extraterrestrial life intrigues me. I could bring credibility to a field that's been ridiculed and ignored. At the very least I can find simpler and more earthbound explanations for these phenomena. I stay because... The words evaporated on her tongue and disappeared into nonsense. The sudden clarity of the fact it was all bullshit shocked her. "I -- don't know, sir," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I don't know any more." She felt the prick of tears and looked away from Skinner suddenly. Mustering an awkward smile of apology, she turned and left her former boss' office. **** Her future was up there. And she -- she was down here. Scully sat in the cafeteria, nursing a coffee. She felt tired, and the dream pricked at her mind relentlessly. The remembrance filled her with a sense of dread. It was only marginally more pleasant than her other obsessive thought, that of facing the morose and despondent Mulder yet again, over and over, day after day after bloody, stinking day. I don't know what to do, she thought despairingly. Simmons and his disappearing act tugged at her, arousing her curiosity. Where was he? How did he slip away? Why should she care now? She had a new job to do. Domestic terrorism. How exciting. Pursuing Simmons, leaving Mulder -- both options drew her, but the reality of her situation brought her back to ground. She needed her job. She'd taken it for granted that she'd always be here, that the paychecks would always be rolling in, that she'd always be able to eat and keep a roof over her head. Until now. Until Kersh. She'd been told what to do. And part of her was glad. She considered leaving again. She had some savings, and the inheritance from her father. She could cope for awhile, and it wouldn't be that long before she found another job... I don't want another job, she thought. I want *this* job. Her pride asserted itself; she was *not* going to be drummed out of the FBI by Kersh, by Mulder, by anyone. If she left, she would leave on her own terms. I'll stay, she thought, taking another sip of coffee. I'll keep my head down, do my job, follow the rules, become a player. For now. As for Mulder -- I can't help him any more. She stared at the milky brown fluid in her mug and sighed. Simmons -- he's gone. Someone like that, with his abilities, he'll never be caught. Settle in here, Dana, she said to herself. Prove your ability -- again -- and your stability. Get yourself off probation. Then, maybe later, there will be time to investigate Simmons or anything else your heart desires. If it still desires anything of that sort. Mulder was on his own now. It was time to look after Dana Scully. Reluctantly, she swallowed the last sip of cold coffee, and left the cafeteria. **** Arriving on the floor of her new unit, Scully suddenly felt very self-conscious. Eyes turned to look at her, first one pair, then another, and another. Dana Scully. She and that nutcase partner of hers were now their immediate colleagues. The eyes turned away from her and to other pairs of eyes; heads nodded slightly, lips moved in whispers, soft laughter drifted upward toward the humming fluorescents. Scully bit the inside of her lower lip in annoyance. A woman drifted Scully's way, her torso canted slightly to one side in the deferential manner of an obsequious hostess. "Agent Scully?" she said. As Scully turned, the woman held out her hand and beamed. "I'm Marjorie Turow. Assistant Director Shaw's assistant. I'm just filling in for AD Kersh's assistant today. I was told you'd be starting with us. I've been looking forward to meeting you." "Thank you," Scully said, taking the woman's limp hand and trying not to feel offended. She wondered if Turow had ever taught second grade. The woman escorted Scully to her new desk, pointed out where the coffee, paper, and pencils were kept, warmly told her to never hesitate to ask for anything, and left. Scully sighed as she sat carefully, her palms on the blotter pad. Well. At least she had her own desk now. She glanced across the room, at the studious gazes of her new colleagues. One, on the phone, nodded a greeting. She nodded back. An open office setup, a bullpen, with many desks and desktop computers, ringing phones, background chatter. It was noisy. She felt exposed and vulnerable, and she missed the sanctity of the basement, its protective isolation where she and Mulder had worked autonomously, away from disapproving eyes. No sign of Mulder, here, though. Peering behind her, she spotted the empty desk. Rising, she looked at one of the file folders on it, lifting its cover to read the name of the assigned agent. Both their names were there. Fox Mulder. Dana Scully. Their first case. She peered around the room once more. Her co-workers' glances scurried away like roaches. Picking up the folder, she moved back to her own desk and sat in her fishbowl, leafing slowly and absently through the file. **** 1:14 p.m. The file folders lay in a short stack on the edge of Scully's desk, and she wasn't liking the look of her new job. The popularity of ammonium nitrate fertilizer had soared among terrorists and terrorist-wannabes ever since the World Trade Center and Oklahoma City incidents had hit the media. The issue of domestic terrorism was as sensitive as a toothache to the Department of Defense, the CIA, the NSA, and the FBI, to the point that any large fertilizer purchases were automatically deemed potential threats to national security. The fact that farmers were the largest group of commercial fertilizer purchasers was, apparently, irrelevant. Scully wondered idly if she still had that pair of gumboots, and reflected on their sudden utility as a new addition to her professional wardrobe. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry over the fact that she and Mulder were slated to visit a town called Cereal, population 352, located smack in the middle of the grain belt. The sheer lunacy of her situation seized her then and she did begin to laugh, stifling the sound as she bit her thumbnail. Cereal. Cereal killer on the loose, better warn Toucan Sam... Her phone rang. Shoulders still shaking, she composed herself and picked up the receiver. "Scully." "Scully, it's me." She stopped laughing then, Mulder's voice dousing her reverie like a bucket of ice water. "Hi," she said, with a timidity that was foreign to her. She rallied by summoning some indignation. "Mulder, where are you? I was told we were both assigned to Domestic Terrorism." "I know, but I played hooky today and I'm afraid the hall monitor will report me if I try to sneak back in," he said. Scully heard the sound of people, many people, in the background. "What are you doing?" "I'm at the Library of Congress. I've been doing some research." "On what? On our new assignments?" "Fertilizer is fertilizer, Scully," Mulder admonished. "I'll give the Bureau points for creativity, though. They couldn't have found a better metaphor for rubbing our noses in it if they tried. No, I'm down here for something else." "What?" "I did some thinking after we talked yesterday. Your stuff about the nature of reality. I've surfed through some stuff on shamanism, quantum mechanics, psychic surgery, biofeedback, cognitive restructuring, and neurolinguistic programming, and I was about to start in on eye movement desensitization and reprocessing when I started jonesing for a club sandwich. I think you might actually have something on Simmons." Scully's teeth clicked together in irritation. "I don't 'have' anything on Simmons," she said. "I don't have a good explanation for how he escaped, or how he did the thing with the toothbrush. There are some pretty good illusionists and sleight of hand artists out there, and if Simmons has a gift, I'm positive that's all it is." "Illusionists work by distracting the audience," Mulder responded. "Even if he was able to somehow pull one over on you with the toothbrush, I'm not sure how he could deke out the video camera that was trained on his cell. I went over to the lab after I met with Kersh this morning and looked at your videotape. He walked clean through that wall, Scully, and you were right, there's no evidence that the image or the tape has been tampered with in any way." "But it's a black and white tape, Mulder, and the lighting was so poor..." "Donovan enhanced that image six ways from Sunday, and it's clear Simmons went right through. Once the police find him, I want to talk with him again. His ability might explain a lot of paranormal phenomena." Scully sighed. "It's not our job any more, Mulder," she reminded him curtly. "Like you said, it's not even our jurisdiction. Simmons blew away his wife and children. It's a matter for local police, not the Bureau. Period. And if he finds a way to spirit himself off of death row, right now I don't care to see it or even know about it." Scully looked up to find several people staring at her; only then did she realize that her voice had risen. Dammit, how could anyone work in this environment? Chastened, she turned and hunched over her desk, sheltering herself from prying ears. "It's done," she continued intensely, in a lower tone. "It's finished. We have other work to do now." "Scully..." "Knock it off, Mulder," she said, seething. "I mean it. I'm not taking this bullshit from you any more. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to think about it. I'm sorry I even brought up Simmons the other day." She paused, pulling her anger in check, then continued. "I called you about him because -- because I was trying to draw you out. I'm sorry. It was manipulative of me, but I didn't think you'd hear me any other way." "But Scully, I really do think that..." "No, Mulder," she hissed. "Cut it out. And get your ass back here before you're completely out of a job." There was a pause, then Mulder said icily, "Whipped much, Scully?" "I am *not* whipped," she snapped. "My chain has been yanked - - hard, I'm sorry to say -- and so has yours. We've both been given an opportunity here, as backhanded as it may be, which is more than either of us deserve. No more aliens. No more paranormal phenomena. No more conspiracies. Just an ordinary, nine-to-five job with decent pay and benefits and the opportunity for both of us to have lives, for a change. And as humiliated as I am, right now that sounds pretty..." A light flashed on her phone. "Look, I've got another call," she said. "Mulder, please, just get..." She started slightly at the click and the dialtone as Mulder hung up. Frustrated, she jabbed the flashing button. "Scully!" she barked. "Uh, Agent Scully?" the male voice on the other end responded, evidently taken aback by her tone. Scully took a deep breath and composed herself. "Yes," she said, clicking into professional mode. She'd deal with Mulder later. "Sergeant Owen of the Washington Police," the man said. "We've got a situation here that requires your involvement. You're familiar with Paul Simmons?" "Yes. I take it you found him." "Mr. Simmons has barricaded himself in an industrial park retail outlet, and he's holding some employees and customers at gunpoint. He insists on talking to you." Scully tensed and rose from her seat. "I'll get to another phone." "In person," Owen added. "He's very adamant. He says he has something he needs to discuss with you." "Give me the address," she said, grabbing a pen, all business now. She scribbled the address on a piece of notepaper. It was a fair distance from here, but she should be able to get there quickly. Ending the call, she grabbed the file folders and stuffed them in a drawer, glancing involuntarily at Mulder's desk as she did so. Let it go, Dana, she thought, bothered in spite of her efforts not to be. She snatched her purse and strode out of the office. [End Part 4] The access to the industrial park finally revealed itself. She knew D.C. like the back of her hand, but she'd somehow managed to pass the park on the freeway twice before finding the road that would take her directly to it. Angry with herself, she killed the engine and stepped out of the car, touching her sidearm briefly as she strode toward the SWAT team's van. She pushed past the ring of police that kept the onlookers at bay, slipping her badge back into her pocket as she did so. The SWAT team leader approached her, his face taut and grim under his helmet. "Agent Scully, I'm Lieutenant Makenny." "What's the situation?" "He's locked himself in the Kitchens 'N' Baths store," Makenny said, nodding toward a building with a row of retail shops. "The third bay from this end. He's armed with a handgun, and he's holding four people hostage. He let the others go." He looked at Scully worriedly. "One employee, a female customer, and two young children. He's made no threats or demands as yet, except for insisting that you be here." Scully nodded, casting a glance around the immediate vicinity. One of the SWAT team was conferring with a security guard, and several others gathered in groups, discussing tactics. A sharpshooter had positioned herself on the roof of the opposing building, visible only because she had shifted to position her rifle and Scully had happened to catch the slight movement. "How long has he been in there?" "About an hour and a half. The employee that's being held tripped the alarm. We sized up the situation when we got here, and brought the team in." "What does he want, exactly?" Makenny shook his head. "He didn't specify. He said he would tell us what to do once you got here." "Lieutenant!" a voice called from near the van. Looking up, Scully and Makenny saw another officer waving at them. They moved at a brisk trot toward the van, where the officer gestured inside. "We got a line in," he said, pointing to a small video screen. "Tapped into the store's security camera." In black and white, and from a high angle, Simmons could be seen standing, facing a small huddled group of two adults and two children. Makenny clapped the officer's shoulder appreciatively. "Good work," Makenny said. He studied the picture along with Scully. "Just before you got here, we got the building blueprints from the planning office. I'd like a few more clear shots into that room than what Reid has," he finished, gesturing at the now invisible figure on the roof. Scully frowned at the image, looking at the two children cowering next to the woman, their mother, obviously. The woman had one arm around each of them, holding them close, looking away from Simmons as though eye contact would incite him to murderous aggression. Scully snapped a look at Makenny, ready to act. "Let's find out what to do now," she said decisively. Makenny looked at her and nodded reluctantly, reaching for the phone and hitting the redial button. They watched as Simmons hesitated, then moved carefully over to the phone, never taking his eyes off his hostages. Fucking coward, Scully thought, allowing her tension to boil over into anger. He's scared of them. She watched him pick up the phone. "Paul, it's Lieutenant Makenny again," Makenny said, his voice calm and level. "Agent Scully is here. We want to know what to do next." Scully studied Makenny, appreciating that he had composed his features along with his voice. A seasoned negotiator, masterful in a crisis, she thought, feeling some of her own tension ebb. She watched as Simmons spoke into the phone, making small gestures with the gun. "I think there may be another way to accomplish what you want, Paul," Makenny said, his voice still cool, but accompanied now by a crease between his eyes. He shook his head slightly. Scully could hear Simmons' less-than-cool voice rising, tinny, through the earpiece. "Let me talk to Agent Scully, okay? Hang on, Paul. I'll be right back." Makenny pressed the hold button and looked at Scully with a sigh. "He says he'll let the hostages go in exchange for you. He won't talk to you over the phone; he insists that you go in and talk with him face-to-face." Scully eyed the video screen and considered. The woman was stroking one of the children's heads absently and rocking slightly, soothing both of them. The employee sat rigidly beside them, his hands twisting, his face stony. Simmons stood by the customer service desk, a phone against his ear, the gun held stiffly by his side. He seemed agitated but not dangerously so, much as Scully had seen him in the detention center. She bit her lip and tucked her chin in slightly, then straightened and looked at Makenny. "Do you know him?" she asked. Makenny shook his head. "Not personally," the lieutenant answered her. "I heard about him, though. By all accounts, he was a good cop, steady, no more screwed up than the next officer. No one I've had a chance to talk with has any idea why he popped like this." Scully cast another glance at the hostages. After a moment, she nodded slightly, once. "I'll go in," she said definitively. As Makenny started to protest, she shook her head. "I've spoken with him on a couple of occasions already, Lieutenant. I don't think he means to hurt or kill me. He seems to have a point he wants to make, something he wants to convince me of. I'll go in, play his game for a bit, and get him to give himself up." "Piece of cake," Makenny said with a wry smile. Scully smiled grimly back. "I'm not under any illusions," she said. "He's dangerous. He doesn't have a whole lot to lose. He's got multiple first-degree murder charges against him already, plus escape from custody and unlawful confinement. And, he believes he's got a special gift -- that he's invincible." "I know," Makenny replied. "That's what worries me. But he seems to feel he's struck up some kind of rapport with you. I'd be much, much happier if we could talk him out of there by phone." "Me too," Scully admitted. "But if I don't go in there now we put those people through unnecessary trauma, and I don't want to have the situation compounded by Stockholm Syndrome in a few hours." Makenny nodded his agreement, unhappily. He fingered the receiver, sorting out his options. He pulled out his radio. "Bentley, anything on those plans?" The radio crackled; Bentley's voice came back clear and confident. "We've found a couple of places where we can set people up, but it'll take time. Right now, Reid's our best last resort option." "Carry on," Makenny said, and turned the radio volume down. Looking at Scully, he said, "You done anything like this before?" Scully nodded, slightly annoyed that Makenny assumed she hadn't, but realizing he couldn't know unless he asked. "I'll go in wired, with a Kevlar vest. No weapons." "But with a hell of a lot of nerve," Makenny responded, satisfied by Scully's demeanor and apparent confidence. He didn't see, nor would she let him, how much she shook inside. She sent up a silent prayer as Makenny motioned for another officer to set her up with the protection and listening gear she would need. She whispered another prayer as she approached the store, the Kevlar vest hot and itchy, the wire tickling her ear. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the SWAT team, she focused on the door. She saw Simmons through the glass as she approached. She stopped when he motioned her to, taking her in with one last glance before he gestured to the hostages. Slowly, they approached. Simmons moved away from the door as the employee cautiously pushed it open, letting her in and then stepping outside, leaving Scully with a shell-shocked look as he passed her. The two children and the woman followed. Scully heard their footfalls speed into a run behind her and the children began to wail, their pent-up terror finally released in a blaze of relief and pain. She entered the store, the glass door swinging shut behind her. The look on Simmons' face was one of relief rather than triumph. Nervously, Scully moved around to face him, subtly guiding him to the spot that Makenny had indicated as the best vantage point for the security camera. She willed herself not to glance in its direction. "Okay, Paul," she said levelly, fixing him with a calm stare. "I'm here. What do you want to tell me?" Simmons looked at her searchingly, suddenly lost for words. He smiled with mild embarrassment. "You know," he began, "I rehearsed this conversation before I came here. You know how you do that, when you have something important to say? I just don't know how to put it together all of a sudden." He glanced up at the security camera. "Maybe I'm just a little camera shy." She didn't follow his glance. "Then let's just talk about you. How did you leave the detention facility?" Simmons shrugged. "It's a gift," he said lightly. "You remember the thing with the toothbrush. After you left that night, I started playing. I found I could pass my hand through the sink. After that, I knew I couldn't stay there. So I walked through the wall, into the stairwell. Ran down to the main floor, walked through the wall into the alleyway, and left." He gestured to his clothes, the same ones he had been wearing when Scully had seen him last. They were dirty and rumpled, much like Simmons himself. "I headed to the Y, where I was able to get a shower, at least. Then I went home. Slipped into the house. It's got crime scene tape all over it -- kind of creepy when you see it at your own place. Found this up in the bedroom where I always kept it." He hefted the Luger slightly. "Then I decided to do this. I never meant to hurt those people here, in the store. I couldn't have. But I had to talk to you." "About what," Scully pressed. She inhaled deeply, her chest and shoulders pressing against the weight of the vest, pressing the wire into her skin. It was reassuring. Simmons lowered his eyes and leaned against the sales counter, his body sagging. For the first time, Scully could clearly see the weight of his recent experiences and the realization of how many bridges he'd burned. He looked at her again, distressed. "I really can read people, you know," he said. "Another gift. I looked at you for the first time the other day, and I knew you were dealing with some pretty heavy shit. I think that's why we connected so strongly. We've both lost people and things dear to us, but more than that, I think. We've lost dreams and hopes, Agent Scully." "That's true for many people," Scully replied, refusing to be baited, taking solace in her own words. "You're right, but it's very true for you right now," Simmons said, his eyes searching hers. "What you've lost, I can only speculate. The trust between you and your partner, for one thing. There's a lot of discomfort there, like you've crossed swords over some big stuff and you haven't worked it out yet. But more than that. There's a wall between you so thick that I'm not sure even I could walk through it." He paused, waiting for confirmation or denial. Her returned look was one of cool marble. He continued. "He's dealing with it by being pissed off and pulling into himself. He's sulking. You, on the other hand, are genuinely grieving." Simmons moved closer to her. "That comment I made about making sure our kids are okay -- I hit on something there, didn't I?" His tone was genuinely inquisitive. Scully felt her jaw begin to ache. "Something went wrong," Simmons persisted. "You didn't make it okay, did you?" She stared at him, hating his intrusiveness. How dare he presume to know how she felt about losing Emily, about her decision to suspend further medical intervention when it was so clearly pointless. She recalled the moment, lying beside the little girl on the hospital bed, when Emily had finally stopped breathing; how she had fought her instincts and her medical training and just let the death happen. And how the small voice, ever since, had taunted her with the notion that she should have tried harder. The expertise and the technology to save Emily had been out there, *was* out there... She swallowed. "I don't have any children," she responded finally, forcing her voice past the brick in her throat. Simmons frowned. "You mean you don't any more." Picking up on her expression, he nodded, satisfied. "You see? We do have something in common, Agent Scully. There's a story there, but I won't press for details. That would be rude." He returned to his leaning posture against the counter and examined his gun pensively. His hands shook slightly, and though he tried to keep his expression neutral, she could see he was struggling with powerful emotions that mirrored her own. Scully shifted, forcing herself to relax, wondering if Makenny and his people noticed the turmoil in her voice and her stance. She was getting caught in Simmons' manipulation. "It's time to go, Paul. There's nothing to be gained by staying here. You've met with me, as you asked. Now let's get out of here." Simmons considered this, head bowed, then he frowned and shook his head. "No," he said, his voice tremulous. "No, I'm not finished here yet. You see, I don't know anyone who has lost children. Oh, I dealt with them as victims, you know, parents who lost kids in accidents and such. They always blamed themselves and I never understood why. I sometimes wonder, even now, how those parents are doing. How do you cope with that sort of thing?" He took a breath, then continued unsteadily. "I even arrested people like me and I never understood how someone can murder their own children. Until now, anyway." "And what do you understand now?" Scully asked carefully. Simmons cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "I made a terrible mistake in killing their mother," he said tightly. "I should have just given her the divorce. Katie and Erin -- it would have been hard for them, but they would have gotten over it. They never would have gotten over seeing their mother shot by their dad, though. Never. I made their peace for them. You know what that feels like, I think." Scully stared at him, fighting her revulsion. "You killed your children, Simmons," she said quietly. "Two little girls who, with the right support and care, would have learned to adapt and move past what you did to their mother and to them. You didn't save them from anything. You condemned them." "I saved them from a miserable life!" Simmons snapped, his anger and grief showing clearly on his face and in his posture. "Kids don't get it, Agent Scully. They don't understand. They have such a literal grasp of the world. They see things and take them at face value, not understanding that everything is relative. Everything. I never knew how relative either until I tried to kill myself. Kids don't understand that. That's why I can't feel that I did such a terrible thing." "They didn't need to die." Simmons slapped his hand on the counter, frustrated. "Who the hell are you to say that they didn't need to die? You weren't there. You don't know. You have no idea how much I loved my daughters. As their father, I acted in their best interest. I made the best choice for them, dammit!" "But you don't really believe that," Scully countered. "What about your daughters' right to choose? What would they have picked for themselves?" Her words echoed back to her like an accusation. Simmons stared at the counter, his throat working. "I was their father. I made that decision, like I made a hundred other decisions for them. No one should be condemned for trying to be a good parent. That includes you." "I don't need your forgiveness," Scully said coldly. "Give this up now." Simmons shook his head, his eyes filling. "I don't get you. What makes what you did so right, and what I did so wrong? What makes you a good mother, and me a bad father? If I can't make the decision that it's in their best interest to die, how can you?" She watched his wavering composure, aware too of her own unsteadiness. Ignoring the rock in the pit of her stomach, she stretched out her hand. "Let's go, Mr. Simmons. Please give me your weapon, and let's just walk out of here, okay?" He looked at her, tears spilling. "Please -- please tell me I did the right thing, Agent Scully." His voice shook, and it was almost inaudible. They stared at each other. But *I* did the right thing, a small voice asserted inside her head. I am no Paul Simmons. *I* did the right thing. She silenced the voice. "Please come with me," she said, afraid for herself. This had to end, now. "Goddamn you," Simmons said bitterly, through his teeth. "I did the right thing." With that, he brought the gun level with Scully's forehead, and fired. Time slowed for her then, enabling her to perceive her own murder with perfect clarity. She watched, dumbfounded, as the muzzle of the weapon disappeared in a violent cloud of smoke. A small, dark object emerged from the cloud, growing larger as it approached her, spitting minuscule streams of gunpowder as it spun on its long axis, cleaving a channel through air that was suddenly too thick to breathe. She felt nothing and saw nothing but the small dark object coming straight at her. She felt as though she ought to scream. The bullet continued to spin and grow until it obliterated everything else in her field of vision. She felt the dull point of the projectile on her skin as it hit her, between and just above the eyes. The shock wave enveloped her then, rippling outward from the impact point. It traveled over her face, down her shoulders to her waist and beyond, pressing her backward like a gust of wind. It traveled through her skull, a sensation similar to striking the head against a hard object but softer, more attenuated. She jerked backward, shoved away from Simmons by an irresistible force. Then the air suddenly cleared in front of her, the ripples travelling from front to side to back, finally coalescing to a point behind her head, terminating in the sharp crack of metal as it penetrated drywall. She fell. Somewhere, a popping noise, and the sound of glass shattering. Simmons' head snapped back, a garnet-colored spray emerging from his temple, his hands splaying sideways, the gun clattering to the floor as he collapsed in a heap beside it. Scully lay where she dropped, stiffened muscles screaming at her to move, to run. She couldn't. She couldn't breathe. Wide eyed, she stared at Simmons, his limbs moving involuntarily and finally falling still and quiet as he died. Silence. Then, footfalls. Shouts. Clicks, clatters. Shapes. Darkness. Light. Hands, on her arms, on her face. Her name. She blinked, feeling strong arms pull her upright. Unbelievable, somebody said. Agent Scully... The air rushed into her lungs all at once in a great, rasping breath and she found herself leaning against someone, clutching fabric and shaking violently. Hands pressing against her back, pressing her into a shoulder, she sucking in air as though rescued from drowning. Released into other hands, latex gloves, touching, examining, more hands on her face, her forehead. The world spun; she was hyperventilating. Oxygen mask; clean, dry, bottled air. Jesus Christ, someone else said. Agent Scully... "No." She wrenched her head away from the mask. A gloved hand pressed it against her face. "No..." she protested again through chattering teeth. Hands stayed on her while she breathed, and the compressed air parched her mouth and throat. Hands. Unbelievable how comforting hands could be, even encased in latex. She forced herself to steady her racing heart and heaving lungs. With her eyes closed, she was only dimly aware of the stretcher and the paramedics loading Simmons' body into the bag, the heavy grind of the zipper, the click-chunk of the gurney being lifted, the sound of wheels on linoleum receding into the distance. She opened her eyes then, catching sight of the wet scarlet spray that might have been hers, should have been hers. She should have been on that gurney. She *was* on that gurney, surely... She felt herself nodding in response to something echoing in her skull, something about standing. Strong hands helped her to her legs, which promptly buckled. Feeling the stirring of indignity, she forced her feet under her and stood, wobbly, but supporting her own weight. Fingers dug into her biceps. She shook them off slightly; they let go. Bright sunlight. Scully shielded her eyes as she stepped out, a gentle hand guiding her down the two steps to the pavement. People, spectators, vans, media, uniforms, suits. Scully, someone said. She walked past, oblivious. A hand on her elbow, guiding her, her seemingly disconnected legs moving under her numbly. Rounding a corner, away from the crowd, she saw a police cruiser. Her escorts were directing her to it. It was parked alongside a short row of bushes that had been planted against the wall of the building. They shivered as a gust of wind ruffled their leaves, sending a shining, rippling wave along their tops and sides. How pretty and how convenient, she mused dully, bracing herself against the wall and vomiting into the greenery. **** July 2 The rain began slowly, hesitantly, darkening the granite headstone and patting the flower petals. Scully sat on her heels and pulled her collar up, wishing for the canopy of an umbrella. She returned her attention to the grave. Her hand caressed the grass, gently. Dear little Emily. The thought drifted through her mind again, the one about how close she'd come to joining her daughter. Scully frowned slightly, not so much at the morbidity of the thought as how surreal it now seemed. The experience at the industrial park had infused her with a desire to press forward and persevere like nothing else had in a very long time. She was alive. She should have been dead. There was a reason she was here. If only she knew what it was. We create our own realities, she thought, and shuddered as the ghost of Paul Simmons passed through her. Limitless choices in an arbitrary existence. She looked at the headstone and smiled wistfully, sadly. I did the right thing, Emily. Didn't I? The empty grave was silent. The object caught her eye then. It was situated directly left of the headstone, under the generous spray of flowers that an anonymous mourner had left in the vase. Frowning slightly, she moved forward and reached for it. It was wet, cold, and shiny, and she puzzled at it, feeling the rounded plastic against her palm. Understanding smoothed her brow then and she looked at the object in wonderment, the remembered context embracing it with poignant humor. She smiled softly, turning it in her hand, then glanced at the small grave marker and the flowers. She touched her fingertips to her lips and then the headstone, her fingers lingering there until she rose and headed back to her car, taking the object with her. Yes. Emily *had* liked Mr. Potato Head. **** Mulder opened his apartment door and took her in with a glance. Rain wasn't Scully's friend; it made her seem smaller somehow, more vulnerable. Or perhaps it just washed away the illusion of size that her internal strength gave her, and made her real and human. She seemed to know it. She looked at him through damp strands of hair, her face uncertain, almost apologetic. He returned her look with a like one of his own, knowing instinctively why she was there, relieved to see her. They hadn't seen each other, hadn't spoken, since he'd angrily hung up on her at the Library of Congress. She had not returned his calls since then. Wordlessly, he took her wet coat and hung it, watching her shuttle the Mr. Potato Head from hand to hand as she slipped off one sleeve, then the other. Her eyes remained fixed on the toy as she moved into his dark apartment. He'd been watching the storm from his desk. Storms always looked better in the dark, through the morphing distortion of rain on glass. He followed her. She looked up at him with an expression of wry amusement. "He has no ears," she said matter-of-factly, hefting the toy for emphasis. Mulder moved to stand opposite her, his uncertain hands finding a temporary home on his hips. He gestured at the doll. "But he does have a phone," he said, pointing to the receiver that the doll held pressed to the side of its "head". Scully studied the figure, taking in its wistful expression and the way its other hand extended, palm up. She pursed her lips. "But he has no ears," she protested again, raising her eyebrows. "That's a problem." Her eyes scanned the coffee table, upon which was strewn an assortment of Mr. Potato Head parts. She sat on the couch and carefully removed the phone receiver, bending the arm out of the way. As she fitted a large set of ears on the doll, Mulder reached into the silence, trying for levity. "I tried the ears with the phone, but the hand wouldn't stay up." His voice was low and hesitant. "So I tried one ear, but it didn't look right, so I ditched the ears and it worked better that way." He watched as Scully regarded her modifications and placed the doll on the coffee table. She had positioned its arms so they both extended outward, palms up. "I feel better knowing that he has ears," she said. "Don't you?" "Much," he replied quietly, thoughtfully. She glanced up at him and he looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He's exhausted, she thought, feeling a stab of guilt. I should have phoned him. It wasn't that she didn't want him to know she was okay; she just needed to process the experience first. That was all. That, and the barrier between them. Sensing the nascent crack in the barrier, she leaned forward tentatively. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said softly, watching him. He looked terrible, diminished, like someone reduced to abjectly begging for the one thing that could save him. He glanced at the aurally refurbished Mr. Potato Head and smiled tiredly. Digging in his pocket, he removed a small, bright object and placed it before her on the coffee table. "Forensics dug that out of a wall of the Kitchens 'N' Baths store," he said, without expression. "Simmons only fired one round; that's it right there. It definitely came from his gun. The distortion is what you'd expect to see if a 9 millimeter bullet buried itself in a wall. There's no evidence of it having passed through living tissue. The trajectory," he paused for a moment, then continued, "the trajectory of the bullet is consistent with what the security videotape shows. It had to have passed through you to get to the wall." Scully reached for the crumpled bullet and examined it, turning it in her fingers. The image of it streaking out of the gun's muzzle directly toward her face flashed through her mind, and she closed her eyes, chilled. "Have you seen the videotape?" Mulder pressed, flatly. Scully shook her head. "No -- I haven't. I haven't been able to bring myself to," she replied. Mulder moved slowly over to his desk and placed one hand on it, touching some papers without looking at them, lost in thought. "I have," he said simply. "I've watched it several times. The ballistics people are completely blown away by it, pardon the expression." Mulder smiled humorlessly. "I don't know if you were even aware of this, but I was at the warehouse when they brought you out. You walked right past me." "I'm not surprised," Scully acknowledged, placing the bullet back on the coffee table. Some of her memories of that moment were crystal clear; others were vague and ill-defined. She shook her head, frowning. "All I remember was being in shock. The last clear thought I remember having was at the moment Simmons fired. I remember thinking -- " she smiled, the irony biting deep, "-- that I couldn't possibly be about to die." Mulder looked at her, nodding slowly. "The power of your disbelief saved you." "Then why didn't it save Simmons, like it did before?" Scully wondered. "I don't know," Mulder replied. "Maybe he was so intent on convincing you that he neglected to recognize the immediate consequences of shooting you. His attempted suicide, the toothbrush incident, walking through the wall at the jail, all of those things were things he could manipulate because he could focus on them. Maybe he was too intent on you to save himself. He saw you as alive even as he shot you. You, on the other hand, were so focused on your disbelief that you couldn't see yourself as dead. At that moment, you both fixed your eigenstate as living, if you want to use quantum terms." "I don't think that's it," Scully said quietly. She shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "He saw me as his savior, in a way. He was convinced that I could relate to his reasons for killing his children. He was looking to me for understanding and forgiveness, and I couldn't give it to him. It wasn't mine to give. Without absolution, or the hope of absolution, he couldn't live with what he'd done." She paused, fighting her own sadness. "I don't know why I'm still alive, but I do know I have things to finish in this life. At that moment, the idea of my death was so incomprehensible to me that..." She trailed off, shaking her head, caught between the impossibility of her continued survival and the irrefutable evidence of it. The contradiction upset her deeply. "How did you know where I was?" she asked hoarsely, by way of diversion. "Langly called me to say that he'd picked up news of Simmons on the police scanner. He heard someone requesting a call to the FBI to ask for you." Scully nodded slightly, inordinately grateful for the explanation. Mulder hesitated, watching her, then pushed ahead. "I watched most of your exchange with Simmons on the video feed the SWAT team had set up. You did a good job, Scully. I remember thinking at the time I'd have to tell you that. It didn't occur to me that I might not have the chance." He paused, absently sliding his fingers across the desktop, then continued. "I remember watching the monitor at the moment Simmons fired his weapon. I watched the tape again for hours afterward, at normal speed, in slow motion, frame by frame, in close up. I couldn't let it go. And I was scared, Scully. I don't think I've ever been as scared as I was in that microsecond, and each time afterward, over and over." Mulder took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice carried a slight tremor. "When we lost the X-Files again, I was lost. The truth is out of my reach, and I haven't got a clue how to get it back. I don't know if anything's worth the struggle anymore. I just shut down, and I haven't been able to feel much of anything for weeks." He looked at her, his face hidden in the dim light. "And then I saw you with Simmons, and that videotape, and I was horrified. I remember being surprised that I could feel anything that intensely. And I thought -- if nothing matters anymore, then why was I so afraid?" Scully paused for a moment, moved, then rose and took a few hesitant steps toward him. "I don't know if there's a Truth to be found, Mulder," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "But there are truths. Smaller things, right here in front of us. Choices and pathways. If there's truth and meaning at all, it can only be found here." She studied his haunted expression with compassion. "You forgot that. So did I." He returned her searching gaze. "And what are your choices? Where do you go from here?" "I don't know." She maintained eye contact for a beat, then looked away. "I need to make things right somehow. For myself, for my family, for Emily. I don't know how to do that right now, or where I need to be to make it happen. I suppose -- I suppose I'm looking for my own absolution." Mulder watched her anxiously, afraid that he might be watching her leave. "Scully," he began, at a loss. He raised a hand awkwardly, then let it fall. "You've done nothing wrong. You've lost so much, and I wish you could know how desperately I want to give it all back to you. The last few weeks -- I've acted as though it's been all about me, and I am so sorry." He stopped, fully aware of the inadequacy of his words, then pressed on. "You have stood by me, God knows why, and I have no reason or right to ask you for anything. All the same, I'm asking." He searched her face, not daring to hope for too much. Uncertainly, pleadingly, he touched her arm. She glanced at his face, then dropped her gaze to his shoulder, a crease forming between her eyes and at one corner of her mouth. Finally, she took a hesitant step forward, crossing the remaining distance between them. He gathered her in, his cheek on her head, one set of fingers entwined in her hair. "I'm so sorry," he whispered again, as much for himself as for her. They stood like that, in silence, for a long time. She pressed against him, heard his heartbeat, felt his warmth. She breathed in his scent, drinking in their tattered bond as it washed over her in warm surges. As bruised and ragged as it was, as uncertain its future, she'd missed it terribly. In spite of her residual hurt, she found herself embracing him tightly. At length Mulder sighed, resting his chin on her head, his eyes closed. Stupid, he'd been so stupid, to have let this most precious thing become so dangerously fragile. "What do we do now, Scully?" he asked finally, his voice thick. "Do we just keep rolling that rock up the hill, over and over?" She smiled against his shoulder, tightening her hold before pushing away just enough to see his face. She laid a palm against his cheek. It was damp, perhaps having picked up some wetness from her rain-moistened hair. " 'One must imagine Sisyphus happy,' " she whispered. Stroking gently with her thumb, she kissed his face and held it against hers for a moment before breaking the embrace. She squeezed his hand and left his apartment without another word. It was raining harder now. Lifting her face to it, she turned away abruptly as a drop struck her forehead. She watched the water puddle in her outstretched palm and drip between her fingers. Curious, she concentrated for a moment, then closed her hand uneasily. No. She wasn't ready to see water run through her flesh. Not yet. Her car was waiting for her, warm and dry, at the curb. The streetscape looked like an Impressionist painting through the rain-sheeted windshield. A drop hit the side window and slid slowly down it. Impulsively, she pressed a fingertip against it from the inside. The oblivious drop blithely continued its path down the glass until it destroyed itself against the weather-strip. Turning the key, she checked carefully over her shoulder for oncoming traffic before pulling away from Mulder's apartment and heading for home. -Finis- **** I write for feedback! allijohn@nucleus.com