TITLE: Value & Honor AUTHOR: Forte E-MAIL ADDRESS: Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com URL: http://www.thebasementoffice.com/ RATING: strong R CATEGORY: XA SPOILERS: All over the place, through The Beginning (US Season 6), including Fight the Future. Author's Notes includes a spoiler for Alpha. KEYWORDS: UST, hint of MSR, MulderAngst, ScullyAngst, mythology. Secondary character death. SUMMARY: When Mulder and Scully face past and present evils, "value" and "honor" are proven to be both nouns and verbs. TIMEFRAME: Early in US Season 6, after The Beginning but before Triangle. ARCHIVE: Gossamer/Ephemeral/Xemplary OK; anywhere else please ask first. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, et al. don't belong to me. They belong to His Majesty Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. (And as far as I'm concerned they belong to David and Gillian, too.) The only thing that belongs to me is the bill I get from AOL each month. I'm making no money off of this and intend no infringement. I write with great love, reverence, and respect for all concerned. FEEDBACK: Yes please -- it's better than chocolate! E-mail me at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: If this fic is any good at all, it's because of Jintian, beta reader extraordinaire, who taught me why adverbs are (often) evil . She also told me what things worked and what things didn't, and encouraged me to keep plugging along. All writers should be as blessed as I am. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! Thanks also to Risheloo, for telling me which ep Scully references toward the end of this story. As promised, I've immortalized you within this fic to thank you for saving my sanity. And last but certainly not least, Virtual margaritas, Sno Caps, and whatever else their little hearts desire to the Primal Screamers, whose Season Six Wish Lists inspired this fic. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a Work In Progress. Although I don't know how many chapters I will ultimately have, I expect the total length of this story to be around 250K. (Additional Author's Notes at end.) ******************************************************************** Value & Honor by Forte ******************************************************************** "NO!" Mulder fired. But it was too late. A thousand silent, instantaneous prayers, then the words no law enforcement officer ever wants to speak or to hear: "AGENT DOWN!" ******************************************************************** 60 hours earlier J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Friday, 8:20 a.m. With eyes shut and elbows on her desk in the bullpen, Scully massaged the inside edges of her eyebrows with her thumbs and sighed -- but only loud enough for Mulder to hear. They had arrested the suspect the previous morning, finally returning home as dusk and exhaustion set in. Scully had cried as she lay in bed, a release she rarely allowed herself but for this case could not deny needing. All she had been able to see when she had closed her eyes was the wiry man, straggly black hair obscuring his face, hunched over a strangled 4-year-old. In all, five pre-schoolers -- three girls, two boys -- had been brutally murdered by the psychotic in Providence, Rhode Island. And his reason? "Because I felt like it." Accompanied by a shrug. As though they had asked why he'd worn a blue shirt that day. Even more than her partner, Scully grieved for the senseless waste of innocent life. Those children never should have had to suffer and die. Scully sat up and rolled her neck slowly. She tried to unravel the knots in her shoulders, borne of the anger twisting her stomach, but without success. Giving up, she opened her eyes, put her wire-rimmed glasses back on, and turned back to her PC. Her nails clicked over the keyboard as she continued to summarize her autopsy notes for their report to AD Kersh. Over the top of her lenses, she could see Mulder standing and watching her with concern. "Headache already, Scully? It's not even 9 a.m. yet." She stopped typing and glanced around. The other agents in the bullpen seemed engrossed in their own tasks. She turned her gaze to her partner. "Not =already=, Mulder. =Still=. The same one I went to bed with last night." Given the case they had just cracked, not even Mulder was in the mood to follow up on that straight line. Scully sighed again. "You know, Mulder, I would happily spend the rest of my life making those damn fertilizer calls if it would guarantee that there would never be anyone else like Jack Morse walking the face of the Earth." Mulder nodded, looking uncomfortable. "Look Scully... I didn't get a chance to say anything while..." He paused. he berated himself. Mulder cleared his throat and tried again, his voice low. "I know this case must have been..." he struggled for the right words, "difficult for you...." Scully's eyes widened for a moment, horrified at her partner's choice of timing -- -- yet grateful for his acknowledgment. Finally, she let them both off the hook by looking back down at her keyboard and nodding. It was the closest she could come to admitting to her partner just how much the Morse case had bothered her. Her head throbbed. "Thank God Kersh let us go out there," Scully said finally, "or that bastard would be looking for his next victim right now." Mulder nodded again, half from agreement and half from relief at the change of subject. "Well, you certainly get the gold star for putting two and two together, Scully. You figured out from the autopsy results where the son of a bitch was going to stalk his next victim." Scully looked up at him again. "I wouldn't have had the first 'two' without your profile, Mulder." She turned that thought around in her mind. Yes, they had worked especially well together on this case. Her science and his intuition had meshed perfectly, so unlike many of their other cases where, although successful, they found themselves at odds with each other. she wondered, then dismissed her concern as a side effect of fatigue and her headache. It was their way, and it worked. Mulder's sigh interrupted her thoughts. "Well, I guess it's good to know I still have some value, at least when every other profiler in the Bureau is tied up with other cases." Scully shook her head, her gaze intense. "You never lost your value, Mulder. Other people lost the ability to see it." Mulder blinked in surprise, then smiled warmly at the unexpected compliment. He leaned over to within a few inches of her, and brushed the edge of her shoulder with his fingertips. "Thanks, Scully. It's comforting to know that there will always be at least =one= person in the Fox Mulder fan club." He stood up again, still smiling. His comment pulled a wry smile from her lips. "Don't press your luck, Mulder." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "I'm going to get some coffee. You want some?" "Yeah, thanks." He gestured toward his own desk. "I'm gonna try to get my shit together for this report before we see Kersh at nine." "Okay." Scully touched Mulder's arm briefly as she slid past him in the narrow space between desks, and then headed down the hall towards the floor's kitchen area. ******************************************************************** Scully's heels clicked on the tile floor of the kitchenette. "Figures," she grumbled at the three coffee pots, each holding one-half inch of dregs. "If I ever get my hands on the people who take the last of the coffee without starting a new pot..." Scully contemplated various forms of retribution as she emptied and rinsed one of the carafes, dumped the old coffee grinds, and started a fresh batch of coffee. The throbbing in her head became stronger. she told herself as the fresh coffee started to drip through into the carafe. She took a deep breath through her nose, and blew it out slowly through pursed lips. Although Scully tried to focus on ideas for channeling her anger, her mind kept returning to more unsettling thoughts. <... the five children that already died...> <... the carnage...> <... little children had to suffer...> "Suffer the little children that come unto me," Scully murmured. As the coffee drip slowed to a trickle, she picked up a Styrofoam cup and turned it around in her hands absently. She thought of Emily, for only the thousandth time since she and Mulder had started on the case a week before. "A sick bastard," she told the cup. **Throb** Scully was startled out of her thoughts by a cheerful voice that came from behind her. "Good morning, Agent Scully." Scully turned. <=Just= what I need right now.> She suppressed a scowl, and instead nodded a non-committal greeting. "Agent Fowley." "I understand that congratulations are in order, Agent Scully," Diana Fowley said, smiling. The dark-haired woman grabbed a cup and reached around Scully for the pot of fresh coffee, moving too far into her personal space for Scully's liking. Scully eyed her, one eyebrow up. Fowley poured herself a cup of the dark brew, then set the carafe down on the burner again. "How so, Agent Fowley?" Scully asked, with a calm she didn't feel. "Your autopsy work resulted in the arrest of a child killer," Fowley replied. "In remarkably short time, in fact. Your skill and dedication are commendable." "It was a joint effort between my partner and me," Scully said evenly, forcing herself to not place emphasis on =my partner=. "As it always is." **Throb** "And how is Fox?" Fowley asked. "I never see him anymore, now that you two are on this floor." "He's fine." **Throb** "You know," Fowley said, in a conspiratorial tone, "I'm aware that Fox must not be particularly thrilled in your... current assignment. I hope he's not taking his frustrations out on you. He can be very =child=ish." She drew out the 'i' sound in 'child' for emphasis. "I hadn't noticed that tendency in him," Scully lied. "I've always found him to be the consummate professional." **Throb** Realizing that she was still holding an empty cup, Scully filled it, then started to add powdered creamer as Fowley spoke again. "I know you haven't asked for my advice, Agent Scully, but if he =does= start acting up, I would suggest that you not..." She paused, then finished the sentence with a hint of a smirk. "=Baby= him." Scully blinked hard, reached for a plastic spoon from the box on the counter, and stirred her coffee aggressively. That was her second reference to... Could Fowley possibly be making jokes about the Morse case? Could she be so insensitive? "I'm sure he was glad to have that case to work on, to be able to stop that madman," Fowley continued. "Fox always had a soft spot for children. He'll be a fine father for some woman's children someday." Scully heard herself say, "I'm sure he will." **Throb** Scully's mind tried to sort out the bizarre conversation. She turned that idea around in her head and dismissed it. With Mulder and her in the bullpen making fertilizer calls, she was already as much of an outcast in the Bureau as she could be. That was a more plausible explanation. But it didn't explain the "why". "Well," Fowley said, glancing at her watch, "I'd better get going. Agent Spender and I have a meeting with AD Skinner in a few minutes. Shall I tell him you send your regards? I'm sure he misses working with you and Fox." She smiled pleasantly. Scully fought the urge to clench her teeth, refusing to give Fowley any indication that her words were causing anger. Instead, she grabbed another cup, this one for Mulder. "Yes, thank you," she said evenly, pretending to give the coffee her full attention as she filled the second cup. Fowley paused as she turned to walk away, as though she had made a decision about something. She leaned in towards Scully, and spoke in a stage whisper. "It's a good thing you're married to your work, Agent Scully. Who would want a woman in your situation?" At first Scully drew a blank at the other agent's remark. Then realization struck her like a physical blow. A chill ran down her spine. Fowley was ridiculing her inability to have children. For a long moment Scully stood shell-shocked, unable to process what had just transpired or think of any kind of coherent response. Fowley straightened again and fixed her with a contemptuous glare. Then the chill in Scully turned into a burn; she contemplated "accidentally" slipping and dousing Fowley with the pot of coffee she held. And for that split second it was a =damn= attractive idea. But she knew that a violent reaction was exactly what the dark-haired agent was hoping for, had goaded her towards, and Scully refused to give Fowley what she wanted. Instead, she returned the pot to its burner and then leaned toward Fowley's ear, to ensure that no one would overhear her words. Unlike Fowley's, her voice was low. "You're not worth it. And this conversation is over." Without taking her narrowed eyes off of Diana Fowley's, Scully picked up the two cups she had prepared and backed away. Finally satisfied that she had moved far enough away from the other woman -- Scully wondered -- she turned on her heel to head back to her desk. And came face to face with Mulder. ******************************************************************** - end chapter 1 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 2 - ******************************************************************** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Friday, 8:42 a.m. Mulder finished typing up his report for Kersh and glanced at his watch, then at Scully's unoccupied desk. He looked at his watch again and frowned, hit "print" on his PC, and stood up. He checked Scully's PC -- -- then headed toward the kitchen area on the other side of the floor. As he rounded a corner, about fifteen feet from the kitchenette, he stopped in his tracks. What he saw was surprising enough, but it was the tension in the air that truly made his stomach lurch. Scully. And Diana. The red and the black. Neither seemed to notice him standing there. Scully stood with her back to him, holding a pot of coffee. Diana's face was twisted in a slight smirk; she leaned over to Scully and said something he couldn't make out. He watched as Scully's free hand clenched and released as she placed the pot on its burner and then leaned over towards Diana. Whatever she told the other agent made no apparent impression. Scully straightened, picked up a Styrofoam cup in each hand, and backed away. Mulder was about to step backwards himself to get out of her way when she suddenly whirled around and stopped short, eyes wide at the sight of him. "Hi," she sputtered. She shoved one of the cups into his hand and continued walking past him, back straight, head high. In control. Mulder stared after her, momentarily speechless, then regained his composure and stalked after her. He threw a glance over his shoulder in time to catch Diana's eye. Seeing his frown, she merely shrugged, then walked away in the opposite direction. Mulder's mind reeled as he lengthened his stride to catch up with his partner without being too obvious. Whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen wasn't good. Mulder followed Scully back to their desks. She *plunked* her cup down, sending a small tidal wave of coffee over the edge onto her desk. Oblivious, she stared at her computer's monitor. Mulder glanced around to ensure that no one was watching them. "Scully." His voice was cautious, uncertain; the question asked in the tone of his voice. Without a word or glance at him, she yanked open the drawer of her desk. Mulder watched as she pulled out a small bottle of acetaminophen, swallowed three with a gulp of coffee, threw the re-capped bottle back in the drawer and slammed it shut with her hip. "Scully." More tentative. "We have seven minutes to get to Kersh's office, Mulder," Scully told him, still keeping her eyes from his. She hunched over her PC's keyboard, typed a sentence, then hit "print." Mulder moved to block Scully's path to the printer. Why did she suddenly look so small? What could he say to break through the ice dam that stood between him and his partner? "Thanks for the coffee." He steeled himself for the hated phrase, but instead she accepted his challenge and met his gaze defiantly. The image of a much younger Scully saluting her father flashed through Mulder's mind. "You're welcome. And we now have only six minutes to get to Kersh's office." In their years together Mulder had learned to read his partner's eyes in a way that he assumed -- hoped, prayed -- no one else could. In those usually stoic blue pupils he saw anger, determination, and something else so rare and horrific he felt physical pain. Anguish. Pleading with him for time, and space, and dignity. So he let her off the hook. Temporarily. "Let's talk later -- go out for lunch. There's too many people around; someone could be listening." No one else but Mulder could have picked up the slight tremble in her voice. "I know." Scully thought. ******************************************************************** A.D. Kersh's Office 9:00 a.m. Mulder couldn't help noticing Scully's nervous energy as they sat waiting in Kersh's outer office. The slender fingers of her left hand drummed insistently on the folder containing their just-printed reports. With a quick glance towards Kersh's secretary to ensure that she wasn't watching, Mulder brushed the edge of his right hand against her left. Startled from her reverie, she looked at her partner with a face that showed -- embarrassment? Mulder glanced down at her now-stilled hand and back up at her. Scully chewed her lower lip and looked back down at the folder. "Agents -- A.D. Kersh will see you now." Scully led the way into Kersh's office, with Mulder right behind, hand at the small of her back. Each took a seat in front of Kersh's desk, where the A.D. was studying a file. Scully leaned forward to lay the report in front of Kersh. He finished looking at the file in front of him, moved it to the bottom of a pile of approximately twenty similar files on his desk, then started to review the contents of the folder on the top of the pile. After about thirty seconds, Mulder looked over at Scully, who met his gaze without expression. Mulder cleared his throat. "Just a moment, Agents." Kersh closed the file he was inspecting and returned it to the top of the pile on his desk, then turned his attention to the folder Scully had placed before him. He flipped through it for a few moments, then spoke. "This was good work." His voice was a monotone, and he did not look up from the pages in front of him. "Thank you, sir," Mulder responded. "Your forensics work here was especially good, Agent Scully," Kersh added. Scully started, almost imperceptibly, as though she might have been daydreaming. Kersh, still skimming over the report, did not notice. Mulder did. "Thank you, sir," Scully replied. "But you'll see from my report that my forensics work would have been useless without Agent Mulder's profile of the killer." Kersh mumbled something indistinguishable and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. Mulder's eyes narrowed momentarily in annoyance, and this time it was his partner's turn to glance at him. "Agent Scully," the A.D. continued, "I have some files here that I would like you to take a look at." "Sir?" "Autopsy reports from unsolved homicides of young children around the country. I'd like you to review them and see if you can find any connection between these cases and the murders allegedly committed by Jack Morse." His eyes rose to meet Scully's. Mulder's back stiffened. He glanced one more time at his partner, but she showed no outward reaction to Kersh's request. "Certainly, sir." Her words were crisp and professional as they always were -- Mulder heard nothing in her tone to suggest that the assignment caused her the slightest distress. "I'll expect your conclusions and recommendations on Monday afternoon. That will be all, Agents," Kersh said, standing. Mulder and Scully rose also, and the A.D. handed her the stack of files from his desk. As the agents moved towards the door, he spoke again. "Agent Scully." Both Mulder and Scully stopped and turned to face the Assistant Director. "Agent Scully," Kersh repeated, making it clear that he wanted only her attention. "A moment, please?" Scully looked at Mulder and gave the tiniest fraction of a nod. Mulder turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. "Sir?" Kersh came from behind his desk and approached Scully. "I want you to know that I think you're doing excellent work, Agent Scully. You have a long and prestigious career ahead of you at the Bureau. And I am confident that you will not always be in your present assignment." Scully paused, trying to determine Kersh's hidden agenda for this unexpected speech, but reaching no definitive conclusion. "Thank you, sir. I'm sure Agent Mulder and I would be assets to any department in the Bureau." "Agent Scully," Kersh took another step forward, and lowered his voice, "valuable opportunities may present themselves to you in the future that involve -- " he paused for emphasis, " -- individual responsibilities. You would be doing yourself a favor to take advantage of them regardless of your current loyalties." Scully thought as he spoke. Her mind flashed back to the recent events in Dallas and the Antarctic, and at the Bureau after their return from that nightmare. "Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Agent?" Kersh pressed. As difficult and as frustrating as working with Mulder could be sometimes, her place was with him. She had told him so, and Scullys kept their word, did their duty, upheld their honor. Squaring her shoulders, Scully shut out of her mind all of her other reasons for staying with Mulder. Her stony, impenetrable gaze bore down on the Assistant Director, and she allowed some of her disdain to escape in her voice. "Yes, sir, I understand. Is that all, sir?" "Yes, Agent Scully. That's all." Scully turned on her heel, back straight, and left the room. She closed the door behind her with more force than necessity dictated. Mulder was waiting for her in the hall outside of Kersh's outer office. He gave Scully a concerned look, and motioned with his eyes towards the door she had just closed. Scully shook her head. "Lunch," she said, almost inaudible. Mulder nodded and followed her down the hall, Scully finding unusual comfort in the feel of his hand at her back. As they approached their desks, Mulder looked down at the stack of files in Scully's arms, raised his eyes to catch hers, and looked down at the files again. "Are you okay with this, Scully?" "I'm okay with it, Mulder," she assured him quietly. She stopped at the edge of the bullpen, out of earshot of the other agents. Mulder stood facing her, his head bowed toward her to catch her every word. "I can do this. I =have= to do this. Because there are parents out there who don't have what little I have. I =know= what happened to -- " She stopped short, nearly choking on the words she meant to say next. She steeled herself, and started again. "I know what happened to Emily. I know who did it to her. I even know =why=." She shrugged, but trembled slightly, betraying her attempt at appearing detached from the lives she held in her arms, and the one she left in San Diego. "If my forensic knowledge of the Morse case can help bring those parents some answers, then I have to do it." Mulder searched her eyes for any signs of misgivings, but found none. He nodded again, gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and accompanied her back to their desks. ******************************************************************** 12:20 p.m. Trying to dodge the raindrops, the man sprinted across the tarmac to the waiting commuter plane. Despite his efforts, his raincoat was dripping wet by the time he ducked inside the tiny aircraft. His short hair was wet, too, but it would dry quickly enough. Fortunately, the briefcase that held his laptop had stayed safe and dry under the coat. He laid the case on his seat, then stripped off the wet coat, folded it inside out to prevent the water from running off onto other people's belongings, and stuffed it into the overhead compartment. With much greater care, he stowed the laptop under the seat in front of him, then strapped himself into his seat and sighed. He hated flying. He'd read the complimentary magazine and even memorized the plane's safety instructions on the previous flight. Impatient and bored, he crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and drummed on the edge of his shoe. For a few minutes he amused himself by running a thumbnail over a crack in the heel, which had split open enough to allow dirt and tiny stones to become embedded within. He made a mental note to buy a new pair of shoes. A shoe repairman just might remember his face. He glanced at his watch and sighed again. He =really= hated flying to Washington DC. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 2 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 3 - ******************************************************************** Washington, DC 12:30 p.m. The sun was out, and the sky clear, but Mulder would have sworn that a rain cloud was trailing his partner like paparazzi stalking a celebrity. Scully had not uttered a word since they'd agreed on a restaurant: a small, dark hole in the wall that they hoped would be relatively unpopular on that beautiful November Friday afternoon. As they trekked along the Washington sidewalk, she kept her chin tucked, her eyes downcast. Had he asked, she probably would have claimed to be watching for cracks in the pavement so she wouldn't trip, and then she would utter Those Words. <"I'm fine, Mulder."> Damn. So he didn't bother asking, and worried instead about what was going on inside of her head. And whether any of it was his fault. #-#-#-#-#-# Scully's mind raced as she sat at her desk. She was preoccupied with Fowley's comments. With Kersh's words. And with the autopsy reports stacked in front of her like shrunken coffins. #-#-#-#-#-# The restaurant wasn't crowded, as they'd anticipated. Scully remained silent throughout their brief wait for the table they requested, one tucked away in a corner that would afford them some privacy. After they had been seated and given menus, Mulder's patience wore out. He decided to start with his usual dry humor, and work up from there. "Nice little meeting this morning, eh, Scully?" "What?" His partner seemed startled to hear him speak. "Scully, have I lost that magic touch? I don't seem to be holding your attention today." He smiled at her, but not without concern. Scully nodded, but kept her gaze on her menu. "Sorry. Headache's really interfering with my concentration. I was... just trying to decide what I want to eat." She paused. "Yes, Kersh was unusually irritating." one half of his brain joked in relief, but the other half, still worried about her, squelched the thought. "He didn't seem too impressed with me, but you certainly charmed him," Mulder teased. "Maybe in our meetings with him you should do all the talking from now on." "I don't think you should let yourself fade into the background, Mul-- " Scully was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress. She took their orders and menus, leaving Scully nothing with which to shield herself. Mulder crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward his partner. "You were saying, Scully? Why shouldn't I let myself fade into the background?" Scully sucked in a breath as anger tightened its grip on her stomach. #-#-#-#-#-# <"Valuable opportunities may present themselves to you in the future that involve -- individual responsibilities. You would be doing yourself a favor to take advantage of them regardless of your current loyalties."> Scully ran her fingers along the pencil that she'd been tapping on the file in front of her. Without thinking, she twisted and squeezed it as hard as she could. #-#-#-#-#-# "Scully?" Mulder's voice shook her from her reverie. He studied her as she stared down at her clasped hands lying on the table. As though she'd sensed his thoughts, she chose that moment to clear her throat and continue. "Kersh seems to be of the opinion that I will not always be making fertilizer calls." "=You=?" "Me." "Oh." Mulder's tone was calm, but his piercing eyes gave away his intense focus on her words. He leaned a little closer to her. "He implied that, at some unspecified time in the future, I would be made an offer too good to refuse." "Did he?" Mulder tried to continue sounding nonchalant while ignoring his growing panic. What had happened to his ability to put together sentences of more than two words? "Yes, he... hinted rather broadly that my loyalty to you is misplaced." Now Mulder cleared his throat. He needed to know; to be sure. "Do =you= think so?" #-#-#-#-#-# Scully stared down at the autopsy report, unable to concentrate. <"It's a good thing you're married to your work, Agent Scully. Who would want a woman in your situation?"> Scully closed her eyes and took in a slow breath, willing her jaw to unclench. Repeating her actions of earlier that morning, she massages the muscles over her eyes with her thumbs. At least her tension headaches were different from the ones she'd had with her tumor; she had a course of action to take, even if it didn't always work. She glanced up. Mulder's chair was swiveled so that he faced the PC on the corner of his desk, allowing her to see him in partial profile. She studied his features for a moment, then returned her gaze to the file on her own desk. #-#-#-#-#-# Only half a heartbeat had gone by since Mulder had posed his question. Did she think her loyalty to him was misplaced? Could he really not know the answer to that question? Yes, he ditched her sometimes. Yes, they fought sometimes -- OK, frequently -- over explanations for the cases they investigated. But he never -- =NEVER= -- put his interests ahead of hers. Even when he ditched her, or withheld information from her, his intent was to protect her. Not that she appreciated when he did it, but at least his heart was in the right place. Unlike other people they had to deal with, most of whom seemed to have no heart at all; never mind whether it was where it was supposed to be. During their partnership she and Mulder had been to hell and back together, over and over. Her abduction...the deaths of his father and her sister...his mother's stroke...the cancer...Emily...Dallas. They'd held each other up, kept each other sane. At other times, he'd snatched her back from Satan's minions: Tooms, Pfaster, Schnauz. He'd gone to the =Antarctic= for her, for God's sakes, to take her back from the Devil himself. She knew without question that if something happened to her, he would do =anything= to save her. Just as she would for him. Were there words in the English language expressive enough, potent enough, to do justice to what they shared? If he wasn't deserving of her loyalty, then who was? she asked herself again. Another half a heartbeat went by. The corners of her mouth turned up. She looked her partner in the eye, holding Mulder's gaze with a fierceness she knew he'd never seen in her before. Her voice held equal strength. "I think my loyalty is right where it should be, Mulder. Nice try, but you're not getting rid of me that easily." "So, as long as no one mentions Salt Lake City, I'm stuck with you?" Mulder clamped an imaginary hand over his mouth, and felt his eyes go wide with horror. Scully gazed at him evenly. "Mulder, I explained my reasoning to you about that. After that meeting with OPR, right after Dallas, I felt like there was nothing that I could do at the FBI that would make a difference any more. Besides," she looked down at the table, "if I'd gone to Salt Lake City, that would have effectively ended our partnership." She looked back up at Mulder; he felt his heart pound in his chest as his pulse rate accelerated. "Mulder, there is still so much that we can do, that we =have= to do. With the X-Files, or without them. This case with Morse," she gestured to imaginary files in front of her. "The vaccine." She paused. "Samantha." She leaned across the table and placed her slender, pale hand over his larger one. Mulder's eyes flicked down to look at their joined hands, then rose to meet hers again. Her countenance became grave. "After all we've been through, I think we've come to rely on each other so we can keep going, keep getting up when we get knocked down. We work better together than we ever could separately." She paused again, taking a slow, deep breath. "After we got back from the Antarctic, Mulder, you told me to go be a doctor. My answer was 'no' then, and it's still 'no' now." Mulder stared at her, unblinking. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "Good. That's good." He smiled at her. "I wasn't looking forward to eating my lunch alone." Scully gave him a smile in return, but one he could see was tinged with sadness. The waitress approached with their food, breaking the spell of solemnity that had fallen over their table. Scully dragged her hand off Mulder's and sat back in her seat. As they ate, Mulder did his best to not look over at her too often, concerned about making her uncomfortable or anxious about his attention. But her reticence told him that something was still troubling her. And he was pretty damn sure he knew what it was. #-#-#-#-#-# Scully glanced at her watch. She closed the autopsy report for 4-year-old Matthew David Forrester, shuffled it to the bottom of the pile, and opened the next folder. Diana Theresa Robertson, age 3. Scully stared at the first name, willing herself to not replay the confrontation with Fowley in her head, but unable to escape the thoughts. she wondered, not for the first time since she'd returned to her desk. The theory she kept returning to was the one that had first occurred to her in the kitchen -- Diana was trying to cause more friction between her and Mulder. Did that mean that Diana had approached him as well? Mulder was still at his desk, and had neither moved from it nor used his phone since they'd come back from Kersh's office. If Diana had spoken with him, it had to have been before the "kitchen incident", probably within the last week. But they had spent most of the previous week in Rhode Island, and had been together almost every waking moment. Besides, wouldn't Mulder have acted... differently... if Diana had contacted him, tried to create tension in their partnership? She'd been so wrapped up in the Morse case... but she would have noticed a change in her partner's behavior. Wouldn't she? Her head throbbed again. Scully decided. Mind made up, she returned to the autopsy report for the younger Diana. #-#-#-#-#-# After several more minutes had passed, Scully was still eating in silence, her full attention on her sandwich. She gave no indication that she planned to speak again during the meal. Again, Mulder could wait no longer, and this time he wasn't going to tap dance around the subject. "Scully?" She looked up at Mulder as she put her sandwich, on its way to her mouth, back down on the plate. "Hmm?" He hesitated a moment, struck by how weary she looked. Why hadn't he noticed that before? "What happened this morning with Diana?" Scully's jaw tightened and she chewed on her bottom lip, but she maintained her eye contact with him. Mulder gave her credit for not even trying to pretend that nothing was on her mind. "I was just trying to decide how to ask you this." She paused. "Mulder, have you spoken with Agent Fowley recently? In the last week or so?" He wasn't sure where she was going with the question, but decided it would be best to give her a straightforward answer, then ask her to elaborate. "No," he shrugged, "haven't had a reason to. Why?" Scully considered his answer. She pressed her lips together. she assured herself. "Something weird happened this morning, Mulder." She proceeded to detail her conversation with Fowley for him, describing the events in the most professional, detached, and objective manner she could. When she finished, she went back to studying the food on her plate, waiting for his reaction. Mulder slumped back in his chair and stared at her, stunned. Maybe he was full of shit, grasping at straws. Scully, Queen of Skeptics, did not exaggerate. Period. Yet he, King of Believers, could not reconcile what his partner had just told him with what he knew about Diana Fowley. Diana was self-confident, determined; she knew what she wanted, and knew how to get it. But she wasn't cruel. Never. Not even when she'd left him. Finally he found his voice, but again he would immediately regret his choice of words. "I can't believe she would say those things, Scully." She felt knots of frustration twist her stomach -- -- and snapped her eyes up to look at him. "Are you suggesting that I was hearing things, Mulder?" "No, no," he hastened to reply. "I just mean that... that's not like Diana at all. I've never known her to be..." he made a gesture of resignation with his hands, "quite so bitchy." "Well, maybe she's given up her kinder, gentler ways." Scully inhaled sharply, then poked at her sandwich without interest, thinking. "There's something I don't understand." "What?" "How could she have known about...." She paused, then took another quick breath. "About =that=? About =me=?" Alarms went off in Mulder's head, and he blanched. he assured himself. But again, he had to be certain. "Scully... you don't think I told...." Mulder was relieved by her small gasp. "No, no, of course not, Mulder. I know you would never tell anyone unless it were absolutely necessary. But doesn't that beg the question? Where would she have gotten that information, Mulder? I know I wasn't imagining things or overreacting. She definitely =knew=." "I don't know. I have no idea, Scully." Silence. "I'm sorry, Scully." "There's nothing to be sorry about, Mulder. I'm not going to let her get to me." "Come on, Scully. You can't tell me that what she said didn't bother you." The Fates tempted, Scully shrugged. "I'm fine, Mulder." Mulder's jaw clenched. "You're =not= fine, Scully." "Don't patronize me, Mulder!" she returned. Now both of Mulder's fists clenched as well. "Jesus, Scully, do I need to get into a geography lesson here? Give you a fucking lecture on rivers in Egypt?" Scully's eyes widened as her mouth formed an "O" and then closed again without sound. "What the hell does =that= mean?" she demanded. "Do you expect me to believe that comments like that wouldn't hurt you? Or have you really convinced yourself that they don't?" Scully tried to tamp down her hostility -- -- but at the same time couldn't let Mulder's presumptuousness go unchallenged. "Don't do this, Mulder. You have no idea what I think or feel." "I think I =do= know how you feel, Scully. You've been wearing your heart on your sleeve all day." Scully gaped for an instant, then closed her mouth. Mulder rarely spoke to her in words that cut so close to the bone. But he had a point; the events of the prior week and of that morning in particular had gone a long way toward shredding the stoic facade that she tried to maintain at all times. Still, even if he recognized her lowered defenses, that didn't mean he knew the sentiments behind them. Nor did it mean that she could discuss it with him; her emotions were a blur, racing through her psyche, her soul, far too quickly for her to place them in any but the broadest of categories. If she couldn't make sense of it all, how could he? She drew in a breath, then spoke slowly, enunciating each word. "You do not understand, Mulder. You don't have any idea." Mulder sat back and crossed his arms across his chest. "Fine, Scully. So help me to understand. Tell me what I need to know." She shook her head, astounded by his lack of perceptiveness. "You still don't get it, Mulder. There =are= no words. No words at all. Nothing even vaguely adequate." She paused. "Can you understand that?" Mulder waved a hand in frustration. "Just try me, Scully. Throw out a word at me. Anything." Scully sucked in another breath. Words and memories flew around in her head, causing it to pound even harder. She closed her eyes, grasping the fleeting images: hearing Melissa's voice over the phone saying 'She needs your help.' Coloring on the floor with Emily. Lying next to her feverish body on a cold hospital bed. A tiny coffin, filled with sand. Arms that would never again cradle a child of her own. "Loss." Scully paused as she started to feel the anger well up in her again, willing herself to not lose complete control of that emotion. "Indescribable loss." Maybe a =little= less control would be OK. "Miserable, aching, gut-wrenching, goddamn =LOSS=." She opened her eyes and glared at him, unblinking. Mulder glared back, unfolding his arms and leaning slightly forward. "And you think I don't understand loss, Scully? Don't you know I've =felt= loss every fucking day since Samantha was taken?" Scully softened, but only for a moment. "I know that, Mulder, and I'm sorry." Then the glare returned. "But you have something that I will =never= have." Scully paused and took in a breath. Her eyes still reflected anger, but not bitterness. "You have =hope=." Mulder stared, speechless, and Scully continued. "You have hope, Mulder, and I don't have a damned thing. I will =never= have a damned thing, and there is nothing that you or I or anybody else can do about that." Mulder felt a physical pain in his chest and stomach as her words echoed in his head. He continued to stare at his partner. At first, she returned his gaze without wavering. Then she recognized the swirl of pain, compassion, fear, and concern in his eyes. She had seen it before... #-#-#-#-#-# "Breathe!" he urged, terror obvious in his voice. "Scully, can you breathe?" Her naked body shivered uncontrollably. "Cold," she mumbled. "I'm cold..." #-#-#-#-#-# Her eyes stung at the memory of his face, her pain, the cold. She looked down at her food, feeling her jaw unclench and her shoulders droop. she told herself. She absently pushed at her sandwich again with one finger. her voice echoed. "I know you want to help, Mulder, but I need to deal with this... my own way. Please don't push so hard. I don't want to fight about it." Mulder swallowed and took a slow breath. "Neither do I." He paused. "I'm sorry, Scully." He reached across the table, extending the middle and index fingers of his hand, then wrapped them around the finger she was using to poke at her lunch, and gave a gentle squeeze. Scully closed her eyes. <"I want to believe." =Tell= him...> She curled her finger to return the gentle embrace, the corners of her lips edging up in tandem. She squeezed her eyes more tightly, struck by the revelation, then opened them and withdrew her hand, suddenly shy. To cover her embarrassment, she used the same hand to reach down to her coat pocket to retrieve the bottle of pills she'd grabbed from her desk. Mulder watched as she swallowed three more of the caplets, then he released a layered sigh. "So what are you going to do about Diana?" Scully returned the sigh. "What =can= I do, Mulder? Report her? For what, being immature and petty? We're all big boys and girls, and I know how to deal with a bully." Although he hid it, Mulder bristled at the word "bully". And then he felt ashamed of that reaction. "What about how she got her... information?" he asked. Scully set her elbows on the table and once again closed her eyes and massaged the muscles of her forehead, partially concealing her face with her hands. "I don't know, Mulder. Right now I don't want to think about it. My head hurts enough already." Mulder reached across the table and gently pulled back one of her hands. "You okay?" She raised her eyes to look at her partner and nodded. "I will be, when I have some answers." "We'll get the answers, Scully," he said, his tone one of determination. "=I= can get them," he emphasized. Scully squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, brow furrowing. "Mulder, in all the years we've been together -- have I ever told you what an incredibly persistent pain in the ass you can be?" Mulder froze. Their conversation had been such a rollercoaster, he wasn't sure. He didn't like feeling uncertain, not where Scully was concerned, and that had already happened too many times for one day. she thought, seeing his face tighten. Remorseful, she willed her face to soften, and his followed suit. She shook her head slowly. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to come out harshly." He nodded his acknowledgment. "This is my problem and I'll deal with it. But I appreciate your loyalty, Mulder." She rubbed her forehead one more time, then sat back in her chair, determination etched in her features. Mulder watched her, an apprehensive cast to his face, as though he were trying to decide whether to speak. But Scully didn't give him a chance; she pushed her chair back and stood up. "I have an errand to run," she announced. "I'll see you back at the office?" Mulder nodded, but the fleeting blank look on his face told her it was only because she'd caught him off-guard. Scully started to reach into her pocket. "That's okay, Scully. Lunch is on me." She nodded in return. "Thanks. I'll see you later." She started to turn away, then hesitated and looked back at her partner's expectant face. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "You may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I still wouldn't change a day." She gave him a small smile. "Except for that Flukeman thing, of course." Mulder blinked, then beamed, holding the smile until after she'd left the restaurant. Then his face drooped back into a neutral expression as he replayed their conversation, one of the most stunningly dense and heartfelt discussions he could ever recall having with her. Sweet and bitter and painful, like eating dark, dark chocolate laced with broken glass. he mused. <"My loyalty is right where it should be."> <"You have hope, and I don't have a damned thing."> <"I don't want to fight about this."> <"I still wouldn't change a day.> So many things got in their way. Their enemies, their demons, their own stubbornness.... Mulder realized he was staring across the table at where Scully had been sitting. The empty chair gave him no answer. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 3 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 4 - ******************************************************************** 2630 Hegal Place Alexandria, Virginia Friday, 6:50 p.m. Mulder arrived home after running a few errands of his own, including picking up his dry cleaning and some Thai take-out for dinner. As he'd crawled along the congested DC and Virginia roads, he'd contemplated the afternoon's events. About an hour after he had arrived back at the office from lunch, Scully had returned from her errand, empty-handed. He'd swiveled in his chair to greet her silently, phone to ear, as he'd endured another interminable background check. She had given him a rare, shy Scullysmile as she'd settled back at her desk. he'd wondered, pleasantly surprised. He'd returned the smile from behind the handset and gone back to his call. By the time he'd hung up the phone, she had been immersed in the autopsy files again. Each time he'd taken a break to steal another glance in her direction, she'd been studying those files as though they were the Dead Sea Scrolls. He'd been more than ready to escape the bullpen at 5 p.m. #-#-#-#-#-# "Hey, Scully, didn't you hear the bell? School's out for the day. We can unchain ourselves from these desks." "I know, I uh...," she stumbled over the words, keeping her eyes on the files in front of her. "I just want to get my thoughts organized before I take these files home for the weekend." "I'll wait for you," he offered. She shook her head. "No, thank you, that's not necessary. I'll see you Monday, Mulder." He frowned, then mentally swatted himself for his impatience. His face relaxed into an expression of understanding, and his words were gentle. "Call me if you find out anything, Scully." "Yeah, okay. Bye." She murmured the words from behind the closed curtain of her hair. Mulder retreated slowly, hoping she would call him back, have something further to say to him. She did not. He paused at the glass doors, stealing a glance at her over his shoulder before finally leaving. #-#-#-#-#-# As Mulder approached the front entrance of his building, he spotted a familiar figure following him up the walkway. She strode purposefully, hands clenched, face mottled by the shadows of leafless trees abutting a streetlight. For a split second he saw her as a charging demon -- dark hair, long dark robe, soulless eyes. Diana Fowley. Mulder's back stiffened at the memory of Diana's earlier behavior. What the hell did she want from him? The raging side of his brain screamed back at his rational side. "Fox... I've been waiting for you. I need to talk to you." Her voice was toneless, flat, just as Mulder had experienced it hundreds of times before. Now, though, he had a most unfamiliar reaction to it: his skin crawled, as though she'd scraped her fingernails down a chalkboard. He suppressed a shudder, then took a deep breath and promised himself -- for Scully's sake -- that he would not go off the deep end. "So talk." "Out here?" "The maid hasn't been in this week. What do you want, Diana?" She stepped up to within a foot of him, back straight, and looked him in the eye. "To apologize," she replied. "Fox, I'm sorry for this morning. I don't know how much you heard, but..." she trailed off, apparently waiting for a reaction from him, but he gave her only his continuing glower. She cleared her throat and started again. "I did something stupid this morning." Mulder remembered Scully's response to his offer to get her answers. <"This is my problem and I'll deal with it. But I appreciate your loyalty, Mulder."> He couldn't ask Diana direct questions, but he could... encourage her to talk... couldn't he? "Really?" His response barely hid his sarcasm. Fowley took in a slow breath, but continued to hold his gaze without wavering. "Fox, I found copies of some of Agent Scully's old X-Files reports yesterday. Do you realize that she tore up your theories like they were junk mail? It made me sick." Mulder flashed back to fervent words he'd spoken to his partner months earlier. <"As difficult and as frustrating as it's been sometimes..."> He maintained his eye contact with Fowley, as though daring her to blink first. "Scully makes me fight to prove every theory I have -- it's the way we work together. Hell, if she didn't argue with me over every paranormal explanation I suggest, I'd start to wonder if she'd been kidnapped and replaced with a clone." He winced inwardly as the words left his mouth. He wouldn't put such a plot past their enemies. "She mocked you, Fox. Doesn't that bother you? Doesn't that make you wonder why she was assigned to you in the first place?" Mulder's eyes narrowed; he concentrated on his breathing for a few moments in a vain attempt to hold down his anger. "Just what are you implying, Diana?" "Fox, you know I always believed in you and the X-Files. I've always believed that the truth is out there, just like you do. But Agent Scully... she doesn't. She has =no= faith in the existence of extraterrestrial life. She doesn't take this work seriously like you and I do. I resent that such important work was assigned to someone who would never take it to heart; someone who'd make it all look like some big joke." "Scully approached every X-File, no matter how bizarre, with the utmost professionalism," Mulder insisted. "Her scientific bent gave credence to the X-Files that I could never give it on my own. She made it more respected, not less." "Then why aren't you still assigned to the X-Files, Fox? She ripped apart every theory you ever came up with, didn't she? Don't you get it? With her as your partner, you were doomed to fail." Mulder made a sound that was half laugh, half bark. "Are you suggesting that Scully tried to destroy the X-Files? You've got to be fucking kidding me, Diana. Dana Scully is the most honorable human being I've ever met. She may disagree with my theories, but she always respects the work. She respects =me=. She's saved my ass so many times I've lost count. Without her, the X-Files would have been down the toilet years ago, and me along with them." "Damn it, Fox, =I= am trying to save your ass here! You don't have the X-Files anymore. Ask yourself why. I'm not saying she tried to destroy the X-Files on purpose. She just never believed in the work. If she did, maybe you would still have the X-Files instead of Agent Spender and me. Look at the facts, Fox. Go back and re-read what she wrote. Like I said, it made me sick." She turned her head and scrunched up her face, running her tongue along the inside of her mouth as though a horrible taste were inside. Realization dawned; Mulder stared at Fowley incredulously. "So this morning you were trying to do... what? Punish her? Make her quit?" "Half right, Fox." Her voice grew more quiet, more remorseful. "She was an excellent Agent, a valuable Agent -- when she was at Quantico. Superior instructor, popular with trainees, respected by her peers. That's where she should be." She paused, then lowered her voice. "You could still have the X-Files back, Fox. Agent Spender's heart isn't in it, but he's afraid to say so. I could talk to Skinner, get you transferred back -- " "=No=" Mulder interrupted. "No fucking way. I work with Scully, or nobody." His set jaw announced that there would be no further discussion on the topic. "I thought you said you came here to apologize." "I did. I still think I have a right to be angry at her, but I had no right to... say the things that I said to her this morning." She paused, then took a breath as though to steel herself. "It was incredibly stupid and petty." He took a breath of his own. "I came in at the tail end of things, and in any case I was too far away to hear anything. What did you say?" She paused again. "I found out things about her, Fox." "Things? What things?" "I know about her... medical condition." Scully's voice haunted him. <"How could she have known about.... about =that=? About =me=?"> he repeated, like a mantra. He willed himself to stay rational, lucid, to not give in to his rabid fury. "What are you talking about, Diana? What medical condition?" Fowley cast her eyes toward the ground, looking embarrassed. "I did some... digging. Investigating. I found out about her attempt to adopt that little girl in San Diego. The summary of her hearing mentioned her... abduction, and the results of what was done to her." "You did =what=?" Mulder felt the blood drain out of his face and wash down into his stomach with a gallon or two of burning acid. He turned away from Fowley for a moment and ran his hand through his hair before facing her again. "What the hell were you thinking? That's not the Diana Fowley I used to know. You trampled over Scully's privacy like she was some kind of -- " he sputtered, not knowing how to end the sentence. "Like a suspect," Fowley finished for him, raising her eyes to meet his again. "Yes, that's exactly what I did, Fox. I don't expect you to understand why I did it. I'm sorry, but it's done." Sarcasm dripped from Mulder's voice. "And let me guess -- you didn't find a damned thing about the X-Files." She only muttered, "She doesn't believe, Fox. I don't know why she stayed with the X-Files. Or with you." Mulder's eyes burned like red-hot coals. "Scully stays with me because -- " he broke off, realizing that he didn't know exactly =why= she stayed with him. Loyalty? Because it was easier to stay with him than break in a new partner? Easier than going back to teaching at Quantico? . Her sweet contralto came back to him. <"Mulder, you may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I still wouldn't change a day."> "Scully stays with me because she wants to. God only knows why, but she does. You of all people, Diana, know how easy it is to dissolve a partnership." Even in the dim light Mulder could see her flush red. "That's not fair, Fox -- " "And your attack on her was? What happened with you and me is historic fact, Diana. What you've accused Scully of is =baseless=, in the extreme. You are wrong. Just plain, damn wrong." He ran his hand through his hair again, frustrated, angry beyond reason. "So what now, Diana? I mean, what the hell was the point of this conversation? To relieve your guilt? I don't appreciate being your personal therapist." "I said I came to apologize. My intention was to try to help you, and I let it get out of hand. So I'm saying 'I'm sorry'. To you. And to her, if you think I should." Mulder made the laugh-bark sound again. "Should you =apologize= to her? You've got to be kidding. You've only grossly violated her privacy, acted on the information you gathered to intentionally hurt her, and now you've been standing here basically accusing her of having no work ethic, no responsibility to her duties as an FBI Agent. What the hell is there to forgive?" He shook his head. "I see where this is going, Diana. Don't think I've forgotten how you can play those stupid little 'I'm so pathetic; please help me' games. You want me to apologize to Scully for you. No chance." He took another deep breath and shook his head again. "I can't believe you did something so vindictive, Diana. I never would have expected that from you." His eyes narrowed. "Scully has been through enough. You fuck with her again, and so help me God your ass will be in a very, very deep sling. Is that clear?" "Perfectly," Fowley answered, without wavering. "I'm sorry for being so over-protective of you, Fox. It's hard to remember when you don't have to watch your partner's back anymore." "I'm not your partner, Diana," Mulder said firmly. "Scully is my partner, and she has been for a long time. And she will continue to be for a long time, if I have anything to say about it." Diana nodded. "I understand." They stood in awkward silence. "If you have no other bombshells for me, I'm going to go eat my dinner," Mulder said finally, gesturing with the hand holding his meal. Diana nodded again, then ducked her head in apparent shame. "I'm sorry for..." She paused, then lifted her head again. "I'm sorry. Thanks for hearing me out, Fox. Good night." She hesitated for a moment. Mulder's back stiffened again as old memories returned, and he half-expected her to give him a quick, contrite peck on the cheek. If she had considered it, though, she thought better of it, because she turned and left him. And as she walked away, Mulder unable to see her face, a satisfied smirk crept across Diana Fowley's face. ******************************************************************** Mulder watched Diana until she turned a corner and was out of sight. His brow furrowed. He shook his head, as though to throw off the disbelief weighing down his thoughts, then pulled out his keys and entered the building. He stopped to pick up his mail, then headed towards the elevator and punched the "up" button. The trill of his cell phone jolted him from his thoughts and stabbed at his gut. He transferred his mail to his left hand and pulled out his phone. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me. Where are you?" He tamped down his panic. "I just got home, Scully. Where are you?" "At home, reading the reports on these unsolved child murders. I've made connections between some of them and Morse's MO." Mulder could tell by the timbre of her voice -- indiscernible to anyone else; of that he was certain -- that she had found something important. The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. Mulder considered the opened doors for a moment. If he got in the elevator, he would surely lose their phone connection, and he didn't want to wait until he reached his apartment to hear what his partner had to say. He turned away from the elevator and headed for the stairs. "So what did you find, Scully?" he asked. As he pushed open the stairwell door, she started her explanation. "I've been looking for patterns of Morse's MO in different geographic regions..." Mulder reached his apartment door within minutes, feeling all of his 37 years after climbing three flights of stairs, arms full. He held his mail and the bag of Thai food in his left hand, dry cleaning hooked over one finger, with his cell phone tucked between his right shoulder and his head. With his right hand, he reached back into his pocket for his keys. He barely managed the awkward juggling act, needing three tries to get the door unlocked, then pushed the door open with his right hip and entered the darkened apartment sideways, kicking the door shut with his foot. Throughout his acrobatics Scully continued to describe her findings; Mulder gave her synopsis his rapt attention. "So there seem to be enough similarities to connect Morse to murders across a large area of the Northeast, and in localized sections of the Southeast and Midwest as well -- " Scully interrupted herself when she thought she heard a noise from Mulder's end of the line. "Mulder, did you say something?" Then she =definitely= heard a noise from Mulder's end of the line: the dull *clunk* of his cell phone striking a solid object. "=Mulder=?" Dead air. "MULDER!" ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 4 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 5 - ******************************************************************** Georgetown Washington, DC Friday, 7:12 p.m. "MULDER!" No response. Scully frantically stabbed the "flash" button on her cordless phone, then speed-dialed Mulder's cell phone number again. "The cellular customer you are trying to reach is not avail --" "Flash" again, and then the speed-dial number for Mulder's home phone. Busy. She tried again. Busy. Scully grabbed her coat, keys, weapon, and cell phone, and bolted out the door of her apartment. ******************************************************************** 2630 Hegal Place Apartment 42 Friday, 7:18 p.m. Mulder groaned in response to the ache at the back of his head and the pressure on the left side of his face. Disoriented, he reached to the base of his skull with his right hand. For a dazed second he tried to make sense of the dampness he found there, then felt the throb of the gash. "Shhhhhhhhhhiiiiiit..." he breathed. Realization returned as the solidity under his face registered with the rest of his body. He took a deep breath, which only reinforced the throbbing in his head, and hissed in pain. He took in another breath, shallow this time, and attempted to figure out what the =hell= had happened to him by mentally retracing his steps. He slowly pushed himself up onto his side. Mulder suddenly realized he wasn't alone. Professional training and reflexes took over where his still-fuzzy brain left off. He jerked his weapon from its holster and trained it at the figure hovering near him. The intruder was barely visible in the glow of a streetlight that filtered through the room's window. "Don't shoot, Agent Mulder." The sight of the man before him, hands raised in obvious surrender, made Mulder gasp. "Kurt Crawford?" Mulder gawked at the younger man -- -- before him. In one raised hand, Crawford held a gun. In the other, he held an unsheathed gimlet, the kind Mulder had seen too many times before. Stunned, he leaned back on his left elbow, but kept his weapon pointed at the chest of his unexpected visitor. Mulder gestured at Crawford's raised hands with his SIG. "Put them on the floor, very slowly, then stand up with your hands on your head and take three steps backwards." Crawford complied. Mulder climbed to his feet, struggling against a wave of dizziness. After a moment's thought, he chose to leave the weapons on the floor. That seemed less of a risk than kneeling to retrieve them, when he might not be able to get up again. "Kurt Crawford -- long time no see. Not since..." Mulder trailed off, voice unsteady. At that moment, the pain in his head was eclipsed by the memories of an evening of funky poaching with the Lone Gunmen. That had been a far darker night, for reasons that had nothing to do with the lack of illumination. "Since the Lombard Research Facility, yes," Crawford finished, his voice low. "I was there, Agent Mulder. I remember it well." He paused. "I'm sorry about hitting you, Agent Mulder. I heard the fumbling at the door and thought you were... one of them." He paused again. "I couldn't be certain that I hadn't been followed. When you came in, with your back to me, I could see your neck and knew you weren't..." he trailed off again. "But I still wasn't sure if it was you." He shrugged and gestured with his chin to the gun on the floor. "Your hair is a lot shorter than it was the last time we met. But once I saw your face..." "So the dry cleaning didn't give it away?" Mulder asked. He waved his left hand toward the garments now in a heap on the floor but did not take his eyes off his visitor. Crawford just stared back. "What do you want?" Mulder asked, still wary and now much more alert. "Why are you here? Where the hell have you been for the past year and a half? What happened to everyone and everything that I saw at Lombard?" "I can explain everything, Agent Mulder -- " "That's good, because I want to hear everything. Why don't you start at the beginning?" Crawford squared his shoulders and looked Mulder in the eye. "I'm here because we need your help. We believe we know where Dr. Scanlon is working." Mulder's jaw twitched. "Where?" he demanded. The hybrid swallowed and shifted his weight as though embarrassed. "We don't know the precise location yet, just the city. And in any case, that's not important right now." He took a slow breath. "Even as I stand here, Agent Mulder, there are women finding and removing chips from their necks. Those women will develop brain cancer and die within a year. Dr. Scanlon's new research may help us find a cure. Please believe me -- we're still trying to save these women." Mulder choked out a laugh. "I can't tell you how warm and fuzzy I feel right now, Kurt. You break into my apartment, try to re-arrange my skull, and expect me to trust you on nothing more than a vague sob story? I don't even know if you're really who you appear to be." Crawford gave him a look that Mulder could only classify as beseeching. "Agent Mulder, we... showed you where the ova were kept. Told you that those women are our mothers. You took one of the vials. How would I know that if I hadn't been there? We couldn't disclose that information to anyone without risking the destruction of our work to try to save these women. And if the work were already destroyed, what point would there be in my being here as an impostor? So I =must= be telling you the truth." Mulder's stony face softened as the validity of the words sunk in. "And part of that truth is that I need you and Agent Scully to come with me." At the mention of his partner's name, Mulder's entire body tensed. How scrambled were his brains that he'd forgotten he'd been talking to her on the phone? ******************************************************************** On the road between Georgetown and Alexandria 7:26 p.m. Scully held the steering wheel in a death grip as she drove toward Mulder's apartment, breaking every driving law she could in her haste. She'd made several more unsuccessful attempts at reaching her partner, both at his cell phone (still unavailable) and his home phone (still busy). Gritting her teeth, she punched <0> on her cell phone and waited for what felt like a decade for the operator. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have an emergency situation and need you to break in on a line in use." She spit out Mulder's home phone number and her own badge number. Although she knew the latter to be unnecessary, it gave her a comforting sense of control to use it. Seconds later electronic sounds crackled through the earpiece. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but that line appears to be in use by a modem." Scully thought. She ended the call to the operator without a "thank you" or "goodbye". She hit another speed dial on her cell phone and said a silent prayer. "Lone Gunmen." "Turn off the tape," she snapped, sounding more angry than she'd wanted to. "I need your help. Put me on speaker." A few *clicks* and a muffled "Hey, get over here -- it's Scully" told her that the bearded Gunman had complied with her request. Frohike's voice, sounding distant through the speaker phone, wafted to her ears. "Agent Scully, what a pleasant sur-- " "Save it," Scully interrupted. "I'm on my way over to Mulder's. I was talking to him when his cell went dead. His home phone is busy, and the operator thinks it's hooked up to a modem. I need you to verify that for me, tell me if the person using the modem is Mulder, and tell me what number that modem dialed up. =Now.=" There was a stunned silence for a moment, and then Langly spoke up. "Uh, sure -- just give us a couple minutes." "Don't worry, Agent Scully," Frohike added, clearly nervous at Scully's demanding tone. "Our kung fu can do." "It better," she muttered. She continued speeding towards Alexandria, growing more impatient and anxious with each passing second. She could hear typing, and the Gunmen talking to each other, but nothing to indicate that any of them were approaching the phone again. "I'm running out of time, guys," she asserted, raising her voice so they would hear her at their distance from the speaker phone. "Got something!" Scully heard, followed by the sounds of someone approaching the phone. "Mulder's phone is definitely in use by a modem," Byers reported, almost breathless. "But he's not logged on -- at least not under any of the names that we know him to use." "So who's using his phone line?" Scully knew she was yelling, but didn't care. Returning her attention to the road, she was startled to realize that she was only two blocks from Mulder's apartment. "Still working on that," came Langly's voice from the background. "I'm nearly there, but keep looking," she commanded. This time she remembered to breathe "we'llbeintouch" before thumbing off the phone. She watched in amazement and relief as a car pulled away from the curb on the opposite side of the street, almost directly in front of Mulder's building. Another car was waiting to back into the space, but Scully spun the steering wheel and U-turned into the spot, stopping at an odd angle to the curb. She scrambled out of her car, flashing her badge at the enraged driver whose parking spot she'd stolen, and sprinted into Mulder's apartment building. ******************************************************************** 2630 Hegal Place Apartment 42 7:35 p.m. "Damn it," Mulder muttered. "Scully..." Mulder moved backwards toward his desk, keeping his SIG aimed at Crawford, stepping carefully to avoid the spilled mail, food, dry cleaning, and parts of his cell phone. When he felt himself bump into his desk chair, he reached for the phone on the corner of the desk. The receiver greeted him with the unmistakable screech of a line in use by a modem. He then noticed the laptop computer sitting on the corner of the desk. "What are you doing, Kurt?" he demanded. "Uploading or downloading? What are you connected to?" Crawford paled. "You'll break the connection -- put the phone down, Agent Mul -- " "ANSWER ME!" As though in response to Mulder's outburst, the door of his apartment flew open. In the ensuing blur of action, too quick for Mulder's dulled reflexes, Crawford scooped up both his gun and the gimlet and pointed the gun at the new entrant. And suddenly he and Scully were pointing their guns at each other, and Mulder's was on Crawford, the phone receiver forgotten on the desk. "Drop your weapon!" Scully commanded, her eyes never leaving Crawford, but flicking to take in the gimlet in his left hand. "Both of them!" Mulder took three steps toward the hybrid. "Kurt, what the hell are you doing?" Crawford addressed Scully, still clutching his gun tightly. "Come into the light, slowly." "I said, what the =hell= are you doing?" Mulder repeated, louder, and moved even closer, until he was within six feet of both Crawford and Scully, each now a point of their human triangle. All three stood motionless for several tense seconds. Mulder had a sudden sense of deja vu, recalling a similar standoff between Scully, him, and Skinner when he'd returned from New Mexico -- and the dead -- years earlier. The silence was finally broken by Crawford. "If you're Agent Scully, then you know you can't shoot me. You'd find my blood to be quite disagreeable to you if you did." "What do you mean, =if= she's Scully?" Mulder asked, his jaw clenching. Crawford ignored him. "Come. Into. The. Light," he repeated. "I need to know that you're not one of them." Mulder started to consider the possibility that Crawford had brought up: perhaps it =wasn't= really Scully that stood before them. He tried to remember how long it had been since he'd been speaking with her. Could she have gotten from her apartment to his so quickly? Could this be one of... ? Scully interrupted his thoughts. "How do I know you're not one of the shape shifters?" she asked Crawford, then nodded towards Mulder. "How do you know =he= isn't?" Mulder wondered. While he struggled with those thoughts, Crawford responded to her. "That's why I want to see you in the light. I already know he isn't." Mulder considered his alternatives, then took a step towards Crawford. "Give it to me," he ordered, holding out his left hand, gesturing toward the gimlet in Crawford's left. It took a moment for a stunned Crawford to find his voice. His eyes darted to Mulder quickly before returning to Scully. "=What?=" "You just said you know I'm not one of them. Show me you trust me and give me the damn thing. If that's not really Scully, I know what to do with it." Scully's jaw dropped open, then shut again before she echoed Mulder's earlier words. "Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" Mulder kept his gun trained on Crawford, but directed his words to the one he hoped and prayed was his partner. "Trust me, Scully." Scully glanced down at the floor, at the scattered mail, the broken bits of cell phone, the small dark smear of -- -- on the floor, and started having her own doubts. Was the man before her Mulder? Or was her partner really hidden from her view, perhaps lying injured in his bedroom? She remembered a Mulder who once came to her motel room who turned out to not really be Mulder, and winced inwardly at the recollection of crashing through a glass-topped table. She kept Crawford in her peripheral vision, ready to shoot if he moved a muscle, and peered back over at the one who =looked= like her partner. He'd shifted his eyes toward her, and in those eyes she saw the spark of realization -- he understood her apprehension. He reached behind his head to the gash where Crawford had struck him, and came back with blood-dampened fingers. He held his hand out to her. In the dim light, the dark red color made it look like he'd dipped his fingers in thin chocolate syrup -- her memory supplied, unbidden. She swallowed back the sour taste that rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. "It's me, Scully," he pleaded. Eyes locked on his, she nodded. Crawford shifted his eyes from Scully, to Mulder, and back to Scully again. Finally, grudgingly, he offered the unsheathed weapon to Mulder, who switched his gun to his left hand and took the gimlet with his right. Mulder kept his eye on the hybrid but addressed his next comments to Scully. "Put your gun down, Scully. If he's one of them, I've got him covered --" Crawford tensed; Mulder hastened to add for his benefit, "-- and if =she's= one of them, I've got =her= covered." Scully looked at her partner, but his eyes were again focused on Crawford. She closed her eyes for an instant. Knowing Mulder could see her movements in the corner of his eye, she slowly knelt, placed her gun on the floor, and straightened again. And then they stood, motionless, soundless, for what seemed an eternity. Finally Crawford spoke again, his voice low. "Now come into the light, Agent Scully." Mulder backed up two steps, giving his blessing. Scully advanced two cautious steps of her own into the dim light cast by the streetlamps behind Mulder's building. Almost immediately, Crawford let out a sigh and held up his left hand in a submissive gesture. "My apologies, Agent Scully. I had to be sure it was you." "Give her the gun," Mulder ordered. Crawford relaxed, consciously avoiding any sudden movement, then extended and turned his hand to offer the grip of the gun to Scully. Still without taking her eyes from his, she took the weapon, flicked on the safety, and tucked it in the back waistband of her jeans. She knelt to retrieve her own weapon, eyes narrowing as she continued to watch Crawford, then stood and holstered the SIG. She backed towards the entry door, shut and locked it, and gave silent thanks that the neighbors had apparently chosen to ignore their loud exchange. "All right, what the hell is going on?" Scully asked, advancing back into the room. Mulder finally holstered his own gun and slipped the sheathed gimlet into his pocket. "Mulder, are you all right?" She stopped an arm's length away from him. Mulder nodded, then winced, his fingers flying to the back of his head. "Yeah. Mostly." He looked at her, watching him, and suddenly realized that she was dressed casually: jeans and a soft-looking blue scoop-neck sweater. "Scully," he said, staring, as though he were having an epiphany, "you're wearing jeans." Scully stared back at him, and Mulder got the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that that had been an inappropriate comment. he considered, dropping his hand back down to his side and wiping it absently on his own jeans. And then Scully was at his side, steering him to a seated position on his couch. As she passed Crawford, she gave him an annoyed look that told him "I'll deal with you next." Scully examined her partner for head trauma with one gentle, skilled hand while the other cradled his chin. "What happened, Mulder?" she asked softly. "The Welcome Wagon played a little rough." "I'm sorry," Crawford spoke up. "I didn't mean to -- " Mulder waved a hand, cutting him off. "Forget it. You did what you had to do." He winced again as Scully continued to palpate his skull, looking for signs of injury beyond the obvious gash. "I'll be okay, Scully." Scully leaned closer to check his pupils. "Looks all right," she murmured, nodding her agreement with him. She smoothed the hair on the uninjured side of his head, then straightened, moving her hands to her hips. Mulder missed their heat, but settled for the warmth of her eyes as she looked down, still regarding him with concern. Scully had maneuvered herself so that her back was to Crawford, and the hybrid could see neither her nor Mulder's face. She mouthed to her partner: *You're sure it's him?* *Yeah* he mouthed back. She gave a tiny nod before speaking again. "Let me get you some ice for the back of your head." "It's okay, Scully, I can wait --" She started to turn toward the kitchen, unwilling to accept an argument. "Mulder, you need --" Mulder grabbed her wrist. "=Scully=." She gave him a don't-mess-with-me look, but he cut her off before she could say anything. "He thinks they've found Scanlon." Scully's mouth dropped, then snapped shut. Mulder released her wrist. She turned sharply to Crawford. "Where is he?" "We're not certain of his exact location. We're narrowed it down to a certain city." "=Where=?" The hybrid cleared his throat. "I'd rather not be specific, just yet. But I need to bring you both there." "Why?" she pressed. "Why should we go with you if you won't tell us where it is? Why should we trust you?" Crawford paused, as though deciding how much to reveal. "We have sources," he said finally. "Anonymous. In the research world. A month ago we received verification from one of our sources about Dr. Scanlon. That information led us to re-establish ourselves -- our research -- in a certain city. Scanlon is one of the keys to saving the women who have not yet succumbed to the cancer, and we need to stay as close to him as we can." "And you believe this anonymous source?" Scully asked, frowning. "It's provided us with reliable information in the past," Crawford replied. He waved his hand toward his laptop on Mulder's desk. "I've been downloading information from various sites on the Internet," he continued. "Supplementing our own research from what we can find from other... established organizations. Other researchers, including those in academia." A tiny, triumphant smile flashed over his face. "Not that they necessarily realize that they're sharing." His face returned to its serious cast. "Dr. Scanlon appears to have developed a new gene therapy technique that controls the development of cancerous cells." He gestured toward Scully with his chin. "This technique may be an evolution of the chip in your neck, Agent Scully. The information that I'm downloading may corroborate what we believe he's accomplished." He picked up the phone receiver and returned it to its cradle. "Well, I =was= downloading," he corrected ruefully. "From one of your more prestigious medical journals." "So if you've found Scanlon and established yourself in this new area," Mulder asked, "why did you come to DC to see us?" "Seeing is believing?" Crawford shrugged. "How should I have contacted you, Agent Mulder? Would you have believed that it was one of us if you couldn't see for yourself?" Mulder nodded to indicate his agreement with Crawford's logic. "But you can't tell us exactly where this location is?" Scully persisted, exasperation clear in her voice. The anger she'd kept contained for so long -- years -- was rapidly coming to the surface again. Was it just that afternoon that she'd been wrestling with those demons? Crawford ran his hand over the phone receiver. "Think of us as an island unto ourselves. We have our facility, our equipment, our supplies. Where we are at any given point in time is wherever we need to be." "Enough with this oblique crap!" Scully snapped. "You still haven't told us what you want." Did she really care what he wanted? What about what =she= wanted? Someone owed her answers. About weeks missing from her memory. The damned chip. The cancer. Emily. "I started to tell Agent Mulder before you arrived, Agent Scully," Crawford responded. He stood across from Mulder and Scully on the opposite side of the coffee table and lowered his voice so that it was just above a whisper. "I said Scanlon is one of the keys, Agent Scully. You are another. Although you're the only one left from the group in Allentown, there =are= more women like you. There are MUFON chapters in Europe; women from those groups have been taken and given chips too. Women who haven't had their chips removed yet. And some who have. We can't let them all die. We just =can't=," he said grimly. "Can't let them die? Why should I believe that? Where were you when I was in a hospital, dying?" Scully's voice shook with fury. "Where the hell have you been for the past year and a half?" "Scully..." Mulder murmured. "Where were you when they put this =thing= in my neck in the first place?" she shouted. "Where were you when they created Emily?" Crawford stood mute. "ANSWER ME, DAMMIT!" "Agent Scully," he said quietly, "we didn't =exist= when the child was created, nor..." he gave her a meaningful look, "when the chip was put in your neck." Scully stared back at him, dumbfounded. After a minute of silence had passed, she found her voice. "What exactly are you telling me?" The hybrid said nothing. Scully recalled Mulder's words in her brother's home, after Emily's custody hearing. <"... children were being created"> Oh God. Kurt Crawford was created, too. Trembling, Scully turned to face her partner. "You knew about this?" He winced at her faltering voice. "When I met... all of the Kurts at the Lombard facility, I was told that the abducted women were their mothers. They didn't mention specific names." He met her hurt gaze with a pained one. "I won't tell you I never considered it. But how could I tell you something like that when it was pure speculation?" Scully sat next to Mulder with a dull *thud* and buried her face in her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. Mulder and Crawford both watched her anxiously until she lifted her head to face Crawford again. "What is it you want?" she whispered. Mulder laid a gentle hand on her back. "Come to our lab," Crawford implored. "See our work with your own eyes. Help us help them." "Help you with your research?" "Yes, but not as a scientist," he replied. "We need -- " "You're not using her as some fucking guinea pig!" Mulder exploded. He leapt up, but almost immediately fell back down onto the couch again, head spinning. "We don't want to experiment on her," Crawford assured them both. "Just draw some blood and perform tests on that. Agent Scully, you are the only one so far who has gone into remission. We want to try to chemically replicate whatever caused that remission to save the other women. Between an analysis of Dr. Scanlon's new research and a study of your blood chemistry -- " "I've had numerous blood tests since I went into remission," Scully interrupted. "Nothing unusual has turned up." "We have the ability to conduct more sophisticated, thorough testing than any hospital or laboratory you could visit." Scully realized that she didn't doubt it. "Remission doesn't just happen by magic, Agent Scully," Crawford said. "Surely you know that better than anyone. There was some biological reason for your cancer's progress being stopped so suddenly. We need to find out what that factor was, and how Dr. Scanlon has learned to manipulate it, so we can duplicate it." "I don't know what exactly caused my remission," Scully said quietly. "The new chip, the treatment I was undergoing at the time, or..." She trailed off without finishing, unable to speak words mentioning her prayer to this particular audience. Mulder placed his hand on her back again; she could feel him watching her with concern. "Nevertheless, some process took place that we want to be able to replicate," Crawford said firmly. "Before it's too late for the others. Before it's too late for you." Scully had not yet absorbed Crawford's last remark when Mulder roared, "What do you mean, before it's too late for her?" The hybrid looked from Mulder's enraged face to Scully's frightened one. "We know that you were... injured... at Ruskin Dam. Tell me, Agent Scully, which is worse -- having cancer, or not knowing when you might be called away against your will again?" He leaned closer to her. "Don't you see? If we can save them by finding a cure for the cancer, we can save you. We can save you from that chip in your neck." Scully stiffened as she pictured other women suffering from the cancer as she had. Dying, like Penny Northern and the other Allentown women had. She tried without success to push Penny's deathbed face from her mind. But then it morphed into her own face, the face that sometimes visited her in nightmares, the near-death face of the Dana Scully that would have been had her cancer not gone into remission. The Dana Scully that could still be, if she ever removed the chip. She was sick, so sick of hospitals and medications and tests... "What if I say no?" "We're not going to force you, Agent Scully," Crawford said quietly. "We want you to do this of your own free will." He smiled sadly. "Ironic, isn't it? You were forced into your current medical state quite against your own free will. As were the other women we are still trying to help." He paused. "I know you value your own life, Agent Scully. Do you value theirs?" She blanched. "Of course I do." "Then come with me. Both of you. Agent Mulder, you've seen our lab. Did you tell Agent Scully about it?" Scully answered for her partner. "He told me about all of you. He told me about the tanks. He told me about the ova being kept in cold storage." Suddenly her eyes opened wide. "Oh my God," she exhaled. "Do you still have them?" She waited a breathless eternity before Crawford shook his head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "After the incident at Lombard, we were forced to abandon virtually everything in our haste to leave." Scully stared back at the hybrid, stunned, unable to move. She felt Mulder's warm hand moving in small circles on her back, but otherwise was devoid of sensation. Crawford took three steps backwards. "I'll be back in touch tomorrow morning." While Scully continued to stare at him, he packed up his laptop, then retrieved a bundled-up raincoat from a chair in the corner. As he lifted it, it unrolled, and a few thin streams of water cascaded off of it onto the floor. "Sorry," he shrugged. "Where are you going?" Mulder asked. "I can't stay here any longer, Agent Mulder," Crawford replied. "If they've determined that I've come to Washington, this is the first place they'll look for me. It will be safer for all of us if I leave now." He paused. "I'll need my... belongings back." Mulder ceased the motion of his hand on his partner's back and looked over at her. She blinked twice before turning her pale, expressionless face to meet his gaze. After a few moments she cleared her throat, sat up straighter. In silent agreement, they returned Crawford's weapons. He pocketed the gun and gimlet, nodding his acknowledgment of their trust, and repeated, "I'll be in touch tomorrow morning." And then he was gone. ******************************************************************** Crawford left through the building's back door, the same way as he had entered. As he walked away, his eyes darted back and forth, watching for any vehicles that might follow him. There were none. None that followed him. But two figures in a dark sedan watched him retreat into the night. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 5 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Have I mentioned lately how wonderful my beta reader is? I haven't? Shame on me. This story is infinitely (gasp! adverb! ) better than it would have been without her influence. Take a bow, Jintian. You deserve it. :) Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 6 - ******************************************************************** 2630 Hegal Place Apartment 42 Friday, 8:05 p.m. After Kurt Crawford's departure, Scully remained on the couch, eyes downcast, forearms on her thighs, hands clasped together. Mulder sat with her for the first minute, waiting to see if she would speak. When she didn't, he decided to let her process their meeting with Crawford without him hovering. He rose, then started gathering his scattered belongings from the floor -- mail, dry cleaning, dinner. he thought wryly, placing the dented take-out container in his refrigerator. When he returned to the living room, he saw that Scully hadn't stirred. Mulder sought and found the pieces of his cell phone. Except for a few splinters of plastic, the body of the phone was intact. The battery pack, which had separated from the phone's body, snapped back into place without trouble. He was pleased when he thumbed the phone on and heard a dial tone. "Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'," he quipped. He glanced back over at his partner, hoping for a reaction to his lame joke. Scully was now reclined against the back of the couch, eyes closed and head tilted back as though she were taking a nap. But the strained look on her face told him that she was quite awake. Without taking his eyes from her, he turned the phone off again and placed it on the edge of the desk. Then he walked to the kitchen, checking that the entry door was locked, and filled a large glass with cold water. He returned to the living room with the glass, sat beside her, and took a long sip. Still she didn't move. "Water?" he asked, voice low. He extended his arm to hold the glass in front of her. Scully sighed and blinked her eyes open. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment before sitting up straight and taking the water from him. She took three short sips and then handed it back to him. "Thanks." Mulder nodded, took another sip, and set the glass on the coffee table. He wondered what he should say next, how he should address the bombshell that Kurt Crawford had dropped on them. His partner surprised him by speaking first. "What do you think about what Kurt told us?" she asked, matching his low tone. "Do you think we can trust him?" "Scully, you're the only one I trust." She rewarded him with a tiny smile. Mulder returned it briefly, then chewed on his bottom lip before continuing. "But I don't distrust him either. If he'd wanted to harm us, he had the opportunity. If he'd wanted to force us to go somewhere, he could have done that, too." "I know," she agreed. "If he's telling the truth, then... " She paused. "Then we'll want to pursue it. So we wait to hear from him, and then proceed with caution?" "Of course," Mulder smiled. "You know that 'caution' is my middle name, Scully." Scully exhaled a laugh, smiling and tucking her chin. Then she squeezed her eyes shut, sucked in a slow breath, and raised her hand to rub her forehead. "You okay?" Mulder asked, squinting with concern. Scully opened her eyes and nodded. "I'm just tired." "It's been a long week," Mulder acknowledged. Scully made a sound that was like a polite snort. "Mulder, this day alone has lasted longer than most weeks." Scully took a deep breath, leaned over to rest her forearms on her thighs again, and hung her head. "I'm just tired," she repeated. "Tired of going God knows where, chasing after God knows who, to find out God knows what." "I know, Scully," he said, his quiet voice filled with compassion. "I know you're tired." She rubbed her forehead again; took another slow, deep breath. Then, as though she'd made a decision, she sat up straight again. "I just need a good night's sleep, Mulder," she stated. "That's all I need. Then I'll be ready to go God knows where again." Mulder stared at her for a second, in awe of her strength. Then he reached up and rubbed her back a few times as he had earlier, and broke into a wide grin. "Scully, you're amazing." As if in response to his touch, her stomach growled loudly. He chuckled. "Sounds like you're hungry too." "I guess so," Scully admitted. "I haven't eaten since lunch." "Me neither. Want to split my pad Thai? There's plenty." "Twist my arm." Still grinning, Mulder went to the kitchen to heat up the take-out food. As he worked, his mind drifted, replaying recent events, and his smile waned. They'd had a miserable week in Rhode Island with the Jack Morse case, but that was nothing compared to the hellish day that Scully had had. Ridicule and insults from Diana. Autopsy reports on children from Kersh. A painful lunch conversation. More autopsy reports. And now Kurt Crawford's news. It was a damn miracle she wasn't curled up in a ball in the corner, sobbing. But then, this was Scully. Mulder looked out at his partner sitting on the couch. She was fingering the glass of water, lost in thought. He had to admire her seemingly indomitable spirit. She gave, and gave, and gave, and when any mere mortal would have given up she gave some more. And all she wanted was a good night's sleep? He carried the reheated food to the living room and sat down next to her, holding out one of the plates. "Scully -- " he started. She gazed at him as she took the dish. "Yes?" Faced with her perfect blue eyes, he lost his nerve. Instead, he gestured to her plate. "I gave you all the tofu. I know you like it." She looked down at the plate's contents, then back up at her partner. "Thank you, Mulder," she said quietly. "No problem," Mulder replied. "I told you there was plenty." She shook her head and gave him another small smile. "I wasn't talking about the food." He smiled back at her, and they ate in content, companionable silence. ******************************************************************** *RIIIIIIING* The sound of his phone startled Mulder from his sleep. "Wha -- " he sputtered, sitting bolt upright. He realized that he'd fallen asleep sitting on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. As he sat up, his hand brushed against Scully's. She blinked at him in confusion, telling him that the ringing phone had woken her also. She sat about a foot away from him, and by the warmth he felt along the edge of his hand he must have been touching hers in his sleep. he mused. He pulled his feet off the coffee table and reached for the cordless handset on the coffee table. *RIIIIIIING* "Yeah, yeah," Mulder muttered, flicking on the phone with this thumb. "Hello." He turned his head to look at the clock. 9:45 p.m. "Mulder!" "Yeah, Frohike. What's up?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Scully arch an eyebrow. She gestured for him to let her listen. Mulder moved closer to her and tilted the cordless so she could hear. "You tell me," Frohike replied. "What happened to you and your phone earlier? The luscious Agent Scully was worried about you." "My phone," he said, glancing over at the corded phone on his desk, "was tied up by a distraction." "Distraction?" the Gunman asked. "I didn't... interrupt anything, did I, Mulder?" "No, Frohike, you didn't interrupt anything," Scully spoke up. "What's going on?" "Agent Scully," Frohike blurted. "You're there." Mulder thought. "=Yes=, I am here," she replied, exasperated. "I was talking to you just before I arrived, remember?" Frohike stuttered a few times before Scully continued. "Did you find out anything about Mulder's phone line?" "Uh, yeah. Your 'distraction' accessed three different sites: the British Medical Journal, the New England Journal of Medicine, and the Journal of the American Medical Association." Mulder and Scully's eyes met. "So Kurt was telling the truth," Mulder muttered. "Frohike," Scully said, "can you access those same sites and download anything containing 'cancer,' 'oncology,' or 'gene therapy'?" "Sure, but it'll take some time. We can start that right away. Is there anything else we can do to help, Agent Scully?" The Gunman sounded more solicitous than Scully had ever heard him before. She'd have to catch him calling her "luscious" more often. Mulder leaned a little closer to her to speak into the phone. "Yeah, search for the name 'Kurt Crawford' in car rental records for the past week -- anywhere in the country. And check whether there's a record of him taking a bus, plane, or train to DC. 'Kurt' is with a 'K' and 'Crawford' with a 'C', but check all the spelling variations, too." He shrugged at his partner and lowered his voice. "I doubt he would have traveled under that name, but...." She nodded her agreement. "Anything else? You want some fries with that, Mulder?" "Very funny. Just send me an e-mail with whatever matches you find. You can come by next week to pick out your token of my gratitude." "Deal," Frohike enthused. "You'll be hearing from us." The line disconnected. "Well, that's a start," Mulder said, thumbing off the phone. He stood, stretching, and moved away from the couch. He deposited the phone on top of the TV before moving over to his computer and booting it up. "With luck I'll have an e-mail from them within a few hours." He felt his partner's eyes following him as he opened the e-mail application and returned to the couch to sit next to her. "So you were worried about me, Scully?" he teased. "Yes, and clearly with good reason." Scully sighed. "You certainly do attract the most interesting house guests, Mulder." Mulder scrubbed his face with one hand, fatigued. "Yeah, I was Mr. Popularity tonight. Kurt wasn't the only visitor I had." Scully sat up straighter and looked at him with curiosity. "Why? Who else visited you?" Mulder cleared his throat and looked at his feet. He hadn't wanted to stumble into the conversation like this. "Mulder?" Deep breath. "Diana." One Scully eyebrow went up, and her jaw tightened. "Oh?" "Yeah, she was waiting for me outside the building when I got home. I talked to her just before you called me." He looked up to meet her eyes. He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to add, "She didn't come in. We talked outside." Scully nodded. "What did she want?" Mulder shrugged, his forced nonchalance unsuccessful in hiding his nervousness. "She wanted to apologize for this morning. She... was angry that a 'non-believer' had been assigned to the X-Files, but she let her anger get out of hand. She wanted me to pass along her apology, too. But I told her I couldn't do that for her." "Isn't that what you're doing now?" "No, all I'm doing now is telling you what happened, as your partner. And as your friend. I thought you would want to know the truth. Was I wrong?" "No," Scully admitted. "No, you're not wrong." She paused, brow furrowed. "Did she say how she found out... ?" Mulder hung his head, studying his shoes, deciding how to tell her the truth. he told himself. He lifted his head to meet her gaze. "She thought that you were assigned to the X-Files to destroy the work." "Wasn't I?" "Well, yes, but...." How the hell was he supposed to tell her this? He glanced down at the floor and cleared his throat for a second time before meeting her eyes again. "Anyway, she did some investigating, trying to dig up some damning evidence about you. And in the process... she found out about your petition to adopt Emily, and read the summary of the hearing, which included..." He trailed off and waited for her to absorb the information. She paled. "Oh, my God..." Mulder watched as her face flashed through shock, then resignation, and then a calm that he knew she didn't really feel. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It was bound to happen sooner or later." She maintained the stoic mask, but Mulder could hear the sadness and sense of violation in her voice. After several moments of silence, she asked, "What else?" Trying to lighten the mood, Mulder added, "I also told her if she fucked with you again she'd find her ass in a sling." He grinned sheepishly. "You don't need to protect me, Mulder." Mulder held up his hands in mock protest. "I didn't say =who= would put her ass in a sling. I have no doubt that it would be you." He paused, turning serious again. "What she did was inexcusable, but she had an explanation. She was being petty and stupid -- she said so herself -- and I suppose jealous, too. It's not like her, but that's what it was." "Do you believe her?" "I don't have a reason not to. Why do you ask?" Now Scully studied the floor. "Mulder, I have learned from you to question what everyone says. And to question their motives." She looked at him again and shrugged. "Did she have anything else to say?" Mulder snorted with derision. "She said that she forgets that she doesn't have to watch my back any more." Scully's eyebrow arched again. "And you said... ?" "Just the truth, Scully. That she's not my partner. =You= are, and I plan on keeping it that way for a long time." Mulder paused, watching for any negative reaction. None. In fact, she looked interested, even encouraging. So far, so good. Well, this day had been so miserable for her that she deserved to hear a truth that was CONstructive rather than DEstructive. "What I =didn't= tell her, Scully.... is that you're the best damned partner I've ever had, or could ever hope to have. You're the only one I want watching my back." He paused. Although Scully looked pleased, she said nothing, as though waiting for more. So he continued. "Diana... she offered to get me back on the X-Files, with her. I told her no. It's no contest, Scully. I'd rather work with you on fertilizer duty than be on the X-Files without you." Scully looked stunned. Pleasantly so, but stunned nonetheless. "Come on, Scully, you can't tell me that you didn't know that already." He grasped her arm and squeezed gently. "Just a variation on a theme you've heard before." With his eyes, he gestured towards the door to the hallway. Scully smiled with understanding, looked down for a moment, then raised her head to look into his eyes. But even through the smile Mulder saw the pain left in the wake of the evening's events. Mulder smiled back. "You know, Scully, if this were a movie, this would be about the time that the beautiful heroine throws herself into the arms of the handsome hero." If he hadn't known better, Mulder would have thought that her eyes shimmered with mischief. "Mulder, I know what kind of movies you watch, and we're overdressed for that kind of scene." "You coming on to me, Scully?" "In your dreams, Mulder." Scully pushed herself off the couch until she was standing facing him. She continued to hold her enigmatic smile. "I never got you that ice for your head. Better late than never." She turned and walked towards the kitchen with a purposeful stride. Mulder thought ruefully. ******************************************************************** Scully returned a few minutes later with a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a towel. Handing it to him, she remarked, "Hold this on the back of your head for ten minutes. If it's still bothering you later, apply it for another ten minutes." Mulder nodded, taking the pack. "I think I'm going to head for home before I fall asleep again." "You don't have to go if you're that tired, Scully," he protested. "You can stay here for the night." His partner shook her head. "I want to get up early to finish working on those autopsy reports from Kersh. I'd like to have that out of the way before we go running off on some field trip with Kurt Crawford." Mulder nodded his acknowledgment as he rose from the couch, leaving the ice pack on the coffee table. "All right, Scully. I'll see you tomorrow." He followed her to the door to let her out, placing his hand lightly on the small of her back as she passed him. "Call me if you need anything." "I will," she responded. He watched her until she disappeared into the elevator, then closed and re-locked his door. Yawning, Mulder crossed to his computer, then sat down and put on the wire-rimmed glasses that had been resting by the keyboard. No messages yet. He removed the glasses, leaving them on the desk again, and moved back to the couch. He lay down with the ice pack at the back of his head, flicked the TV on with the remote, and fell asleep to the sounds of The Discovery Channel. ******************************************************************** *RIIIIIIING* The sound of his cordless phone startled Mulder from his sleep. he thought, groggy. He half-fell to his knees off the edge of the couch and reached to the end of the coffee table for the handset. Thumbing on the phone, he tried to mutter "Yeah." What came out of his sleepy mouth was indecipherable. "Mulder?" "Scully?" The serious tone of her voice woke him up faster than anything else could have. He turned his head to look at the clock. 5:36 a.m. Scully would never call at this hour unless... "Are you all right? What's wrong?" "Everything is wrong, Mulder. Everything about this is wrong. I've been awake all night thinking about what Kurt Crawford said. Whatever he has in mind, I don't want to pursue it. I'm not going wherever it is he wants to take us." Mulder's free hand gripped the coffee table in disbelief. "Scully... if what Crawford said is correct, you'll be able to get rid of that chip in your neck. Don't you want that?" "Mulder, we've had carrots dangled in front of us before. We wind up going around and around and we never get anywhere." She sucked in a deep breath, as though rushing to get the words out before losing her nerve. "I'm sick of being used, I'm sick of not knowing where the =hell= I'm going to wake up tomorrow, I'm sick of not knowing what they're going to take from me next. I just want them to leave me alone. I want all of them to leave me alone." Mulder blinked at his partner's unusual outburst. His limbs felt heavy and numb. "Scully... I don't know what to say." Ignoring his comment, Scully continued. "And no, Mulder, before you even ask, I'm not leaving the X-Files and I'm not leaving you. But I'm tired, Mulder. I'm tired and I want to go home." "Home?" he mumbled. "Yes, Mulder, home. You know, that place Dorothy wanted to go in The Wizard of Oz? I've had enough, Mulder. I give up on this one. They win." Mulder felt a chill run down his spine at her final words. "Scully -- you can't mean that. Do you realize what you're saying? You're giving up on yourself. You can't do that, Scully. I won't let you." "I don't want to argue about it, Mulder. Besides..." "Yeah?" he asked, voice full of fear. "You have mail," she said, imitating the computer voice that announced new e-mail. He blinked. "How --" he started, rolling on his knees to turn to look towards his PC. And then suddenly he was falling to the floor, face down, and landed with a grunt. Blinking, he pushed himself up into a kneeling position and took a deep breath. His eyes darted in search of the phone. "Scully?" he called, hoping she would hear him through the receiver, wherever it had fallen. And then he spotted it. Across the room, on top of the television. Right where he'd left it after speaking with Frohike. "Oh, shit," he muttered, sinking to a seated position on the floor. He leaned against the couch and ran his hand through his hair. He sat for a moment, trying to control his breathing and heart rate, telling himself over and over that it was just a dream, it wasn't really Scully, Scully wasn't giving up, it was just a dream... At least the dream Scully had said she wasn't leaving him. His subconscious wasn't =that= self-recriminating. Finally calmed, he looked up at the clock. His sense of time hadn't been off by much in his dream -- it was 5:48 a.m. Then he turned his gaze toward his PC. Sure enough, the new mail icon was flashing. He groaned as he climbed to his feet, then tottered over to the desk, sat down, and slipped on his glasses. Grabbing the mouse, he clicked on "read". One new message, from the Gunmen. Subject: "Kansas City". Mulder mused. He opened the message. "No matches anywhere under any spelling variation we could think of. Sorry." Mulder sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed. "You have mail." Mulder blinked and leaned towards the PC's monitor. Was he dreaming again? No, the new mail icon was flashing anew, and the Gunmen's message was still on the screen. He closed it to check the status of his mailbox. One new message. No subject line. From an address he didn't recognize. He opened the message, sat back in the chair, open-mouthed, and then reached for his cell phone to call Scully. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 6 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 7 - ******************************************************************** On the road between Alexandria and Georgetown Friday, 10:38 p.m. Scully pulled one hand from the steering wheel to cover her escaping yawn. As she returned her hand to the wheel, she glanced at her watch. Home in ten minutes, in bed by eleven. Good. "Tired," she sighed, then huffed in amusement when she realized she'd said it out loud. <"I know you're tired."> Scully's memory returned to Mulder's earlier words. He knew she was tired of chasing, of being chased, of frustration and lies. But could he grasp everything, every nuance? She certainly couldn't pretend to know every facet of his emotions regarding his sister's disappearance. Just as he could never know, never understand, every anguish she felt over Emily. She knew he cared, even though he didn't always show it well. But it was simply impossible for him to have that depth of knowledge without first-hand experience. And in this case, Mulder couldn't understand every painful sensation that Kurt Crawford's reappearance had dredged up in her. Multiple levels of fear, and rage, and guilt. Yes, guilt. Scully's rational side knew that she had "survivor's guilt"; she'd been tormented by -- and still battled -- that hell after Melissa's murder. But =knowing= she felt guilty couldn't stop the guilt from wringing knots in her stomach. So many women who'd had chips in their necks were dead. She was alive. Dozens of families had buried wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters who had succumbed to the cancer. Her family had not. At times, the weight of that realization was crushing. Exhausting. Yes, she was tired. But when her time to leave this life finally came, and she moved on to whatever came next, how could she face all those women? How could she tell them that she had been too tired to fight back? <"I've got things to finish, to prove to myself, to my family... but for my own reasons."> She'd spoken those words in a hospital in Pennsylvania the night Penny Northern had died. Perhaps conscience really was the dead speaking to us from beyond the grave. And the dead had spoken to her, demanding justice, as she'd sat in Mulder's apartment. It was then that she had made her decision. Well, it wasn't really a decision. There was no decision to make. She had simply realized anew what she had to do. "I just need a good night's sleep, Mulder," she'd told him. "Then I'll be ready to go God knows where again." And then Mulder said something about her being amazing, and caressed her back. The corners of her lips curled up at the memory of the soothing sensation. <"Could he really not know?"> Although the context was different, the question she'd asked herself at lunch came back to her. So did her reply. <"For God's sakes, tell him!"> Tell him. There were a lot of things she could tell him. A lot of things she =should=. She'd been doing a lot of thinking about their partnership since the most recent events involving Gibson Praise. In a moment of quiet clarity, Scully had realized that she and Mulder were sometimes so committed to their own mindsets -- the rational and scientific vs. the paranormal and unexplainable -- that they painted themselves into their own corners, with no way to reach each other without destroying the ground between them. Why did their theories have to be mutually exclusive? Scully recalled something her high school biology teacher had told the class on the first day of school: "Half of everything I teach you this year will be wrong. We just don't know it's wrong yet." And so, perhaps, she and Mulder could be wrong about many things. Would she be shocked if someday the existence of Mulder's aliens, vampires, and mothmen could be proven by a strict analysis of facts? Would Mulder be disappointed if everything they ever investigated could be explained by her science? She hoped not. She hoped they would rejoice in such truths. Maybe that day was coming. But in the meantime, she would settle for a few answers from Kurt Crawford that both Mulder the believer and Scully the skeptic would be comfortable with. And for some reason, she believed that they would get such answers. Scully's meditations ended as she reached her apartment building and parked. As she climbed out of the car, the trunk release handle caught her eye. When she'd arrived home earlier that evening she'd forgotten to bring in what she had picked up during her lunchtime errand. She retrieved it from the trunk and brought it inside with her. The autopsy files were in disarray on her coffee table, just as she'd left them. Had her phone call to Mulder been only three and a half hours earlier? She resisted the urge to tidy them. Instead, she took care of the item she had carried in from the car. Then she went to her bedroom, set her alarm for 7 a.m., and prepared for the good night's sleep that she so desperately needed. ******************************************************************** Georgetown Washington, DC Saturday, 5:53 a.m. At first, the sound that filtered through was like the carillon of a far-off church. Then it became louder and more shrill until Scully reached full consciousness on the fifth ring. She blinked open her eyes and reached for the bedside phone, noting the early hour. "Hello?" she said, groggy. But all she heard was a dial tone. Confused, she replaced the receiver and sat up in bed. The phone rang again. She threw the blankets off her legs, flicked on the light on the nightstand, and stumbled to her dresser where her cell phone waited. "Scully." Her voice now held its usual authority. "Hey, Scully, it's me. Sorry to wake you." "Are you okay, Mulder? Why did you call my cell phone?" "I'm okay, Scully. I called your cell because you're going to need your land line. Check your e-mail -- I'm willing to bet that you have a message from an anonymous mailer. I just got a very interesting piece of mail myself, which I forwarded to you. Three guesses who it's from." "I don't think I need three," she said, reaching for her robe. "What does it say?" "Well, that's still a bit of a mystery. It's encrypted." "Great," she muttered. "Hold on a minute, Mulder." Scully shrugged on the robe and headed towards her living room. She scooped her eyeglasses off of the coffee table, being careful to not let her eyes linger on the files there. "What makes you think I've got a message, too?" "Intuition?" "Hmmm." Scully booted up the computer on her desk and slipped on her glasses. "How's your head?" "It feels like somebody's been using it for field goal practice. Got anything yet?" If he was joking about his injury, he was okay, so Scully didn't push. "Just a second." She logged on and opened her e-mail. "You have mail," the PC told her. "That sounds familiar," Mulder remarked. Did she detect some tension in his voice? "What have you got?" "Two new pieces of mail. One from you." She clicked on 'read'. "Yes, that does appear to be encrypted," she murmured, more to herself than to her partner. "Nothing gets past you, Scully." She ignored his joke and returned to her mailbox. "The other -- no subject line, unfamiliar return address." She clicked on 'read' again. "This one's encrypted too. Great," she repeated. "At least it's not Navajo," Mulder quipped. Scully didn't laugh. Instead she stared at the message on the screen, lost in thought, chewing her bottom lip. "No, it's not. It's different from the message that you received, but it looks like the same kind of encryption. The type of encryption doesn't look familiar, though, like the Navajo did." She suppressed a shudder at the memory of the information on the digital tape. Her name. "Merchandise." She shook off the feeling of dread welling inside of her, and became aware of Mulder clicking and typing. "What are you doing?" "Checking a couple other screen names I use." While she waited for her partner, Scully studied the odd-looking message on her screen. It was a very long string of letters, long enough to take up an entire printed page. Some of the characters were upper case, some lower case. There were no spaces or punctuation, and the letters didn't spell anything. She looked for patterns in the characters but could discern none. In fact, it looked as though someone had typed out letters completely at random. What was that saying about monkeys at typewriters pounding out Shakespeare...? After a minute Mulder spoke again. "Nothing else." "So now we just have to break the encryption. Gunmen?" "Scully, you read my mind." The tone of his voice told her he was grinning. "Let's forward these messages to them and head over there. Let's bring printouts, too." "All right, I'll meet you there..." she glanced over at the clock, "in an hour." She moved to disconnect the call, but Mulder's voice stopped her. "Scully?" "Yeah?" He paused. "Are you still tired?" "No, in spite of your early wake-up call. I slept pretty well. Why?" "That's not what I meant, Scully." "Oh." How could she explain to him all that she had thought about in the past twenty-four hours? But then, who was she kidding? Most of these thoughts were not new. Just not very well examined. "Mulder, I made a decision last night about this... this situation with Kurt Crawford." And other decisions before that, too, she mused. "This isn't just about me and the chip in my neck, Mulder. I owe something to Penny Northern, and Betsy Hagopian, and the other women who died. And the ones who haven't yet. The truth is out there, somewhere, and I need to find out what it is." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "Mulder, do you remember when I told you I had the strength of your beliefs?" She could almost hear Mulder nodding, solemn. His voice over the phone was hushed. "I could never forget that, Scully." She nodded in return, imagining that he could sense it too. "I still have that strength, Mulder. Some days... some days it gets a little drained, but it's always there." She took another breath. "Mulder, you told me that the truth would save the both of us. I think it will save them, too. I owe it to them to try." "We both owe it to them," Mulder acknowledged, voice still low. "I'll see you in an hour." A soft *click* disconnected the call. ******************************************************************** Forty-five minutes later Scully was on the road, driving towards the office of the Lone Gunmen. On the floor of the front seat sat her laptop and her briefcase, now stuffed with the autopsy files she'd been reviewing the previous night. Her plan was to meet with Mulder and the Gunmen briefly, then excuse herself to go into the office to finish... "Oh my God," she whispered. "The office." She pulled out her cell phone and punched the familiar speed dial number. "Mulder." "Mulder, it's me." By the background noise she could tell that he, too, was in his car. "I think we've forgotten something." "What's that?" "What about our FBI e-mail?" She heard a slight gasp, as though Mulder had realized he'd neglected something obvious. "Damn. You're right, Scully. We should stop at the office first." ******************************************************************** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC 7:22 a.m. When Scully walked into the bullpen, Mulder was already at his desk, sipping coffee. She recognized the sound of his computer starting up, and guessed that he had arrived only a few minutes before she had. At her own desk, a lidded cup and a small pastry bag greeted her. "Starbucks," Mulder said, lifting his head toward her for a moment. "No way was I going to drink the sludge that comes out of the coffee machines here. Not on a Saturday." Scully placed her laptop and briefcase on the desk behind hers, away from any potential coffee spills. She draped her coat over them and sat down in front of her breakfast. Removing the lid from her coffee cup, she inhaled deeply. "Mmmmm. Thanks, Mulder." She moved to switch on her PC, then realized that Mulder had already booted it up. While she waited for her log-in to complete, Scully opened the pastry bag and pulled out several napkins and a decadent-looking cheese danish. She took a bite, luxuriating in the taste and texture. At Mulder's triumphant exclamation of "Got one!" she stood and looked over his shoulder; another encrypted message commanded his attention. Glancing down, she saw that her own computer was ready. She took another bite of danish and wiped her hands clean before sitting again and opening her e-mail. She had cleaned out her mailbox just before leaving work the previous night; one new message greeted her. *Click* "I've got one too. Encrypted again." Mulder sprang from his chair and came around to her desk. He leaned down, resting one elbow on top of the desk and draping his other arm around the back of her chair. While he inspected the new message, his hand moved towards Scully's breakfast. He picked up the danish and took a huge bite, then held the remaining piece in front of her lips. She took it from him with her hand and popped it into her mouth. Mulder's eyes flicked away from the PC to look at her, then back again to the screen. He swallowed his mouthful of pastry. "Different message than all the others," he murmured. Scully swallowed her own bite and nodded in agreement. "Four messages. Why four?" "I think," Mulder replied, "that these four messages, in combination, will tell us where to go to meet Kurt." Scully turned her head to face her partner. "And he sent them to four different places as a precaution." This time Mulder nodded. "No one could solve the puzzle without all the pieces." He gestured toward the PC on his desk. "I just sent that one to the Gunmen. I hope they're up to a challenge." "Hmmm." Scully clicked 'print' and then 'forward', sending her message to the Lone Gunmen. "Something tells me Frohike would be willing to go the extra mile today." Mulder cracked a smile. Leveraging himself off of Scully's desk and chair, he stood and strode to the printer. He returned with both his and Scully's printouts and handed them to her with a flourish. Scully reached behind her to her coat and pulled two folded sheets of paper from the pocket. She laid them on the desk with the pages Mulder had handed her. "Definitely four different messages. No clear patterns." She shook her head. "Let's go visit the Gunmen." "I'd follow you anywhere, Scully." Mulder retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair as his partner folded the four sheets together and slipped them back into her coat pocket. "Your car or mine?" "Both." Mulder tilted his head; Scully recognized the "waiting for an explanation" expression. "I'm not going to stay long at the Gunmen's, Mulder. I still need to come back here and finish that report for Kersh. But I'd like to hear their initial impression of these messages. And," she gestured toward the laptop as she pulled on her coat, "I'd like to copy at least some of what they downloaded from those medical journals." "Okay, Scully. No problem." They shut down their PC's and gulped down their coffees. Mulder scooped up the laptop and handed Scully her briefcase. Perhaps she just imagined it, but as Mulder guided her out the door Scully thought that he held his hand at the small of her back for a moment longer than he usually did. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 7 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 8 - ******************************************************************** Office of the Lone Gunmen Saturday, 8:10 a.m. Mulder pounded on the Gunmen's door for the third time. "Come on, guys, we know you're in there!" Through the door he could hear the shuffling of feet. Scully waited beside him, not touching him but close enough that he could feel her radiating body heat. "Jesus, Mulder, you know we're not morning people," Frohike muttered, as he unlatched the multiple locks. After a half-dozen *snicks* he opened the door to the Gunmen's unexpected visitors. "I heard that. Top of the morning to you, too, Frohike," Mulder responded. He ushered Scully into the Gunmen's office, hand at her back. Frohike closed and re-locked the door. "So what gives?" Frohike asked, his tone shouting irritation at being roused so early. He looked almost comical, hands on hips, wearing black jeans, a black sweatshirt, and a furry vest, all looking like they'd been rescued from a pile on the floor. Thick gray socks flopped a bit at his toes. Even his face looked like it had been pulled on with haste. "Remind me never to drop by before you've had your first cup of coffee," Mulder quipped. He placed Scully's laptop computer on the nearest clear space, then yanked off his jacket and tossed it on top. "We need your help." "We guessed that." Langly approached from the direction of the Gunmen's sleeping area. He had pulled on jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, complementing the outfit with black high-tops. Byers followed in what was, for him, a casual outfit: dress slacks, pullover sweater, and loafers. Both shared Frohike's half-asleep countenance. Scully set her briefcase on the floor and pulled several printed pages from her coat pocket. "We need you to decipher some encrypted e-mail messages that we received this morning." She moved over to a table and spread out the four sheets of paper. "We also forwarded the e-mails to you." The Gunmen crowded around the table to look at the pages. "Who sent these to you?" Byers asked. "Kurt Crawford," Scully answered. Her eyes remained fixed on the pages on the table. "Wow, that's a blast from the past. He was that guy at the Lombard Research Center in Pennsylvania, wasn't he?" Langly asked. "You told us there was a bunch of Kurt Crawfords there." "Yeah, that's the guy. One of them, anyway," Mulder replied. He stood behind Scully, almost hovering. For some reason he felt uneasy, as though he needed to stand over her to protect her from some unseen force. "He was waiting for me at my apartment last night." "Ah, so Crawford was your distraction," Frohike commented. "Why was he downloading from those medical journals?" "He's looking for evidence that would corroborate a new gene therapy technique," Scully replied. "Gene therapy that he believes Dr. Scanlon developed to control the development of cancerous cells. It may be related somehow to the chip in my neck." All three Gunmen gave her quick, concerned looks at the mention of the chip and the doctor who'd nearly killed her. "Kurt believes that they've located Dr. Scanlon," Scully continued. "But he wouldn't tell us where. Not yet." "We'll do anything to help you find that murdering punkass," Frohike declared. Byers and Langly nodded their agreement. "Kurt told us that he wants us to go with him to their research facility, and that he'd be in touch with us this morning." Mulder gestured to the pages spread out before them. "We got these messages at home and at work." "We're assuming that the messages will tell us where to go to meet him," Scully added. "Their research..." She trailed off, then cleared her throat. "Were you able to download the information I asked for from those medical journals?" Langly paced over to a nearby row of computers. He checked three in quick succession. "They're all finished -- we ran them overnight. Did them separately to save time." "Good. I'd like copies of as much of that information as possible." She gestured toward her laptop. "No problem." The blond man loaded a disk into a CD writer, then typed some commands at each computer. While they whirred, he disappeared into the kitchen. Scully shrugged off her coat, then reclaimed her laptop from where Mulder had placed it. She began to set it up on a nearby table. Meanwhile, Byers and Frohike were studying the mysterious pages and had begun an animated discussion about various forms of encryption. Mulder tried to follow their conversation but gave up when they began debating the finer points of color, font, original language, and other potential attributes of encrypted text. As he gazed at the pages laid out on the table, his mind wandered back to the first e-mail he'd received from Kurt Crawford. The message that had so thoughtfully roused him from his bizarre dream. No, wait, that wasn't the message that woke him up... Shit. "Scully?" His partner looked up as he approached her. Her laptop hummed as it booted up. "Hmm?" "I forgot to tell you earlier," he said, looking sheepish. "The guys didn't have any luck when they searched for Kurt's name in car rental and travel records." Scully nodded. "That's not much of a surprise. We didn't think they'd find anything." "Have any ideas on what other names he might have traveled under?" Her brow furrowed as she thought. "I suppose," she began slowly, "that if, for some reason, he were trying to leave a trail for us to find, he might have used the last name of one of the women from Allentown." "Hey, breakfast time." Langly came from the kitchen carrying a box. "Java's brewing." He set down the box and pulled out a chocolate-enrobed donut. "Breakfast of champions," he declared, taking a big bite. "Langly, take another look at these," Byers urged, gesturing to the four printed messages. "Neither of us recognize this style of encryption. Does it look familiar to you?" Langly studied the pages for a long moment before shaking his head. "I don't see any patterns, no combinations of characters that repeat. It just looks like gibberish." Byers turned to Mulder and Scully. "Are you certain these messages are from Kurt Crawford?" "I think we have to assume that they are until we have some reason to believe otherwise," Scully responded. The bearded Gunman shook his head. "We'll do our best, but this could take some time." "Time," Mulder replied, "is exactly what we do not have." "Then let's get started," Frohike stated. Langly returned to the computer area to retrieve the completed CD and gave it to Scully. Frohike moved to the computers as well, pulling up the copies of the e-mails that Mulder and Scully had forwarded to them and making back-up copies before loading them into their encryption-breaking software. "Another piece of surplus technology bought from Uncle Sam and improved tenfold by us," he announced proudly. "Did you guys keep copies of the passenger manifests and car rental records you checked last night?" Mulder asked. "Of course," Byers replied. He started typing at one of the other computers, pulling up the information. "And you still have a file containing the names of the women from the MUFON group in Allentown?" "Two for two," Langly responded, and then all three Gunmen were typing at a PC. Mulder grinned. "Remind me to give each of you a really big bonus at Christmas." He moved to where his partner sat, standing closer than usual and lowering both his head and his voice to speak to her. He couldn't explain it, but his protective instinct was prodding him again. "I'm going to search those lists for the names of the MUFON women." He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. If Scully noticed his nearness, she chose to say nothing about it. Instead, she nodded her agreement with his plan and very lightly tapped a finger on the closed door of the CD-ROM drive. "I'm going to skim through these files from the medical journals for a little while to see if I can find anything relevant." Then she brushed a few fingers across his arm, and turned toward the laptop to start her work. Neither noticed the three Gunmen watching them, and then looking at each other with raised brows, before Mulder left her side to start his own search. ******************************************************************** After what felt like hours of tedious review, Scully glanced at her watch. Only 9 a.m. She sat back in her chair, rolled her neck, then looked down at the pad of paper she had pulled from her briefcase to use for jotting down notes. It was blank. What she'd read so far contained nothing that she hadn't already seen in one of the other medical journals to which she subscribed. She looked around the room. Mulder sat at one PC, engrossed in his search of the passenger manifests. By the look on his face, he had come up with the same nothing that she had. The Gunmen were crowded around two other computers, and seemed to be enthused about the path they were following. Would they be able to break the encryption? How long would Kurt wait for Mulder and her? Where could the Kurts' research lab be? Damn. Why hadn't they just gone with Kurt to begin with? Why the hell had they let him leave the night before? They let him take his weapons, take his laptop, put on his coat, and walk out the door. Weapons. Laptop. Coat. Coat... "Mulder." He looked up at her. "Hmm?" "I was just thinking. Wondering where the Kurts could have their research lab." Mulder's expression asked her to continue. "When Kurt left last night -- he was carrying a raincoat, and it was wet. Water rolled off of it onto your floor." Mulder's eyebrows went up. "It wasn't raining yesterday." "No, it wasn't. Not in Washington. It must have been raining wherever he came from." "Where he came from isn't necessarily where the rest of the Kurts are." "That's true, but it's all we have to go on at the moment." In less than a minute Mulder was logged on to the Internet, Scully at his side, leaning over his shoulder. Inside of five minutes they'd reviewed weather patterns for the previous forty-eight hours over North America. Most of the continent had been free of rain. However, the remnants of a late-season tropical storm had blown up the East coast, staying well off-shore until it reached eastern Long Island and New England on Friday morning, bringing heavy rain and localized flooding. Mulder jabbed a finger at the weather map. "The Northeast, Scully. If Kurt flew in yesterday from such a relatively short distance, that would explain the coat still being wet." Scully leaned closer to the PC, pointing to the monitor, her forearm on Mulder's shoulder for support. "So it's likely that he traveled from Maine, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, or the eastern part of Connecticut, Massachusetts, or Long Island." "Hmm." Mulder hummed his agreement, then pivoted to look at her. "That will really narrow down the number of passenger lists that I have to look at." "Good," Scully said, straightening. "You can keep checking from that angle." She gestured toward her laptop. "I'm not making any progress here. It's -- " she glanced at her watch again, "almost nine fifteen. I should head back to the office to finish that report for Kersh on those child murders." "Leaving already?" "Mulder, once we take off after Kurt Crawford, who knows when we'll be back? We'll have enough trouble if we don't make it to work on Monday. I don't think we should risk irritating Kersh further by not having that report in his hands on time." Mulder stared at her, an inexplicable panic running through him. For a third time, the feeling of needing to protect her from something unseen crawled over him. His voice lowered. "You have the files and the laptop, Scully. Couldn't you just work on it here? We can drop the report off at the office on our way home." Scully paused before responding. "I'd rather... work on it alone." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand her need for privacy. He wanted to tell her, "I have a bad feeling about us not being together," but knew that that wouldn't go over well. Mulder blinked at her, biting back the uneasy feeling, imagining her response. <"I'm an armed Federal agent, Mulder. I'll be fine."> Finally, he nodded. "Okay, Scully." She turned to go back to her laptop. "Scully... before you leave." She faced him again, eyebrows raised. "This trip to meet Kurt should be as far off the record as possible." He turned in the direction of their three friends, still working at their computers. "Frohike?" The Gunman looked up at him. "We're gonna need some ID's." "Tell me what you need and give me some names." "Driver's licenses. Credit cards." Mulder considered for a moment before adding, "You still have pictures of us, right?" Frohike nodded. "Make us passports, too." Scully had returned to her laptop and was writing something on the pad of paper. She looked up at Mulder, the question in her expression. Passports? Mulder shrugged. "He may have traveled to DC from New England, but the lab may be in Canada." "You don't need a passport to go to Canada," Frohike protested. "I know, but we may still need to prove U.S. citizenship. I just want to be prepared." Scully nodded her agreement with his logic and ripped the top sheet of paper from the pad. "Here's a name for me," she said, walking back toward her partner. Mulder took the page from her and glanced at the name she had written. Then he added a name for himself and handed the sheet to Frohike. Scully approached the other two Gunmen. "Any progress?" "Nothing definitive," Byers replied. "We've tried a bunch of different translations, based on known forms of encryption, but nothing's panned out yet," Langly added. "That doesn't sound very encouraging." "We've only been at it for an hour. We've got plenty of other things to try," Frohike assured her. Scully returned to the table with her belongings, nodding, but Mulder could tell from the set of her jaw that she'd lost much of the optimism they'd had only minutes before. He joined her, observing her preoccupied demeanor as she shut down the laptop. Finally, she slipped the CD and pad of paper into her briefcase and pulled on her coat. "Scully." He touched her arm. "We'll find them, Scully. One way or another, we'll find them." She met his eyes and nodded. "I know." She picked up the laptop and briefcase and made her way to the door. Mulder followed. "I'll call you as soon as there's news," he said softly. "I know," she repeated. Mulder released the locks on the door and opened it to let his partner through. He touched the familiar spot on her back as she passed by, then closed and re-locked the door. And once again the Gunmen diverted their eyes before he turned, to hide that they'd been watching the two agents. ******************************************************************** Saturday, 11:14 a.m. With his focus on Friday flights from the Northeast to DC-area airports, Mulder's search for names of women from the MUFON group had gone much faster. That just meant his disappointment had come sooner: he found no matches. After that, tired of staring at the PC's monitor, he'd printed the passenger manifests for all of the Friday flights. His next task would be to manually search for any name that looked like it might have been used by Kurt Crawford. But now he'd been staring at the black and white pages for so long that the text was starting to swim. Mulder rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Time to take a break. Mulder stood and stretched, looking around the room to re-focus his eyes. Byers and Langly were still working on deciphering the e-mails. Frohike was not in sight. He had been alternating between working at one of the computers, making an occasional suggestion regarding the encrypted messages, and disappearing into a back room. Mulder assumed that that was where he practiced the art and science of creating bogus ID's. Mulder stifled a yawn, then decided a good stiff dose of caffeine was in order. He went to the kitchen and made himself a cup. He picked up a donut when he returned, wolfing it down in half a dozen bites. Might as well get wired on sugar, too. While he finished his coffee, Mulder watched Byers and Langly work on the four messages. A thought struck him. Could any more messages have been sent to them in the past few hours? He went to one of the other computers and checked all of his personal e-mail accounts. Nothing new. Then he pulled out his cell phone and checked his home answering machine and FBI voicemail. Nothing there, either. Well, no news was... what? Good news? Just not bad news? If he'd had any Gunmen-inspired doubts that the four messages were from Kurt Crawford, those doubts were all but gone. No, no, no. Not going there. He was certain that it had been Kurt. And as he'd told Scully, Kurt could have harmed them or forced them to go with him if he'd wanted to. No, his story must have been on the level. Those e-mails must have been from Kurt. Now they just had to get them translated so he and Scully would know where to go meet him. Jesus. Scully. Mulder set down his empty coffee mug and rubbed his eyes for a second time. She was at the Hoover Building, dealing with those autopsy files again. And she'd wanted to be alone while doing it. Scully kept her emotions in check, but this case was so hard for her that she had to physically distance herself from him to deal with her pain. It was just like Emily's death, when he'd offered to stay with her but she'd asked to be alone. Emily. They never talked about her. Hell, they never talked about a lot of things, but they especially never talked about Emily. Until the conversation they'd had the day before, after their meeting with Kersh, the last time Scully had mentioned Emily had been... when? During the case involving the four sisters who had died under mysterious circumstances? Scully had told him she'd seen Emily in a vision. He'd all but told her she was crazy. No wonder she never talked about her daughter. Good work, Mulder. Real understanding of you. And now this damn case with Jack Morse, the autopsy files Kersh had asked Scully to look at, just compounded the fracture in her soul. Then the bullshit from Diana, and the whole matter with Kurt Crawford, her abduction, her stolen ova... <"You have hope, Mulder, and I don't have a damned thing."> He wished there was something he could do for her, to ease her anguish, to give her hope. Something besides finding Kurt Crawford, anyway. But he couldn't think of anything. And if he asked what she needed, she'd say she was fine. Damn it all. "Earth to Mulder." He nearly jumped at the sound of Frohike's voice, then realized he was still holding his cell phone. He must have been staring at it, not really seeing it while he was lost in his thoughts. He placed the phone on the closest flat surface and turned to the Gunman. Frohike held out two sets of driver's licenses, credit cards, and passports. "All set. Finest forgeries money can buy." Mulder took the ID's from him and shuffled through them like playing cards, admiring them. "You're another Michelangelo, Frohike. A true artist." "Flattery will get you nowhere. I'll send you a bill for my services." "That reminds me. I need to make a withdrawal from our account." "How much do you need?" "How much have we got? I haven't checked our balance lately." Mulder left the ID's by his jacket, then followed Frohike to the Gunmen's sleeping area. Frohike pulled up the corner of one of the mattresses. Short stacks of twenty-dollar bills, held together by rubber bands, waited there. Mulder and Scully had realized years before that there would be times when they needed quick money for emergencies. At such times a large withdrawal might be inadvisable (not wanting their withdrawals to be traced) or impossible (due to daily ATM withdrawal limits, or the Consortium finally turning the economic screw by freezing their accounts). So both had started putting aside small quantities of cash on a regular basis, leaving it with the Gunmen for safekeeping. They were able to set aside amounts small enough that no one watching their bank accounts would ever notice. The Gunmen were careful to de-magnetize the strips in the bills so they couldn't be traced through metal detectors. Frohike counted the piles of cash and did a quick mental calculation, knowing each bundle held two hundred dollars. "Close to $4,000. All of it's been de-magnetized." Mulder grinned, recalling Scully's anti-counterfeiting argument for the strip when she'd first met the Gunmen. He wondered if she'd ever gotten back the twenty-dollar bill that Byers had ripped in two. She'd later pronounced his friends as "paranoid"; he knew she now saw that their concerns were often well-founded. His grin disappeared as he realized that she'd lost her innocence -- and a hell of a lot more. "Give me twenty-five hundred," he said, re-focusing himself to the task at hand. "That should be plenty to pay cash for plane tickets, renting a car, hotel, whatever. I just hope we don't have to go into Canada. I don't want to have to screw around with crossing a border." Frohike raised an eyebrow as he handed him some of the bills. "You doubt the quality of my forgeries?" Mulder shook his head. "No, just the fewer checkpoints and security cameras we have to deal with, the better." Frohike nodded his understanding, passing him more of the cash. "This is a lot of money, Mulder. It's gonna be bulky." "Yeah, well, I'll find an impressive-looking place on myself to hide it." He took the piles as Frohike handed them to him. "You know, I never got my free toaster when I opened this account." "I'll have it delivered tomorrow," Frohike said, handing him the last of the requested money. "And Mulder, since you're so loaded now..." "Yeah?" "We're growing boys. We need to be fed. Deciphering encrypted messages and creating fake ID's takes a lot of energy, you know." "Fine," Mulder nodded. "You guys keep working on those e-mails. Tell me what you want, and I'll get the food and bring it back here." ******************************************************************** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Saturday, 11:16 a.m. Mulder was right. The coffee at the FBI was sludge. Scully set down her Styrofoam cup and frowned at it, as though her scolding look would improve the coffee's taste. Needing a break from her work on the report for Kersh, she'd started the pot of coffee and then checked her e-mail, voicemail, and home answering machine while she waited for the brew. She had no new messages, no additional contact from Kurt Crawford. Now she stared at the stack of autopsy reports in front of her. She was nearly finished with her report, but needed to flip through the files one last time to see if any additional details caught her eye. She didn't expect to find anything, but her experience had told her that one final review was a good idea. As much as she wanted to skip that step this time, as sick as she was of the photos and graphic details, she couldn't do it. The dead were speaking, demanding justice, and she wasn't going to shortchange them. Scully reached toward the stack of autopsy files and set the top one in front of her. She read through the pages methodically, closed the file, did the same with the next. And the next. Within 15 minutes she had gone through the entire pile. No, nothing new, just the renewal of her anger at the sick bastard that would kill little children so brutally. The deaths described in the unsolved cases dated back to 1992. Dear God, if her theory was correct, and Morse was responsible for murdering many of these innocents, then he'd been bringing death to families across the country for close to seven years, at least. She always thought she'd known how incensed Mulder had felt about John Lee Roche, but if his feelings had been anything like hers were toward Morse.... Well, it was remarkable that he hadn't put that bullet through his brain the second he saw him. As much as the doctor in her, the healer, hated death, the end of life for these killers couldn't come too soon. And God, how much anguish had the parents suffered, not knowing what had really happened to their children? How did they survive it? How were they able to look at the pictures of those children on their walls, on their mantles, and not break down every time? They were... they were probably able to look at those pictures for the same reason she could look at the one picture of Emily she possessed. Because it hurt more to not look. It would be worse to deny that Emily had lived and breathed and smiled and played. The circumstances weren't identical, but in a way she shared that unique loss, the nightmare of a child's sudden death, with those parents. But one thing she didn't share with them was years of memories. What had she and Emily missed? Her eyes began to sting with threatening tears as she remembered coloring on the floor with her daughter. And what could have been if... if things had turned out differently? They could have made cookies. Cut out paper dolls. Fed ducks at the pond in the park. Would I have been a good mother? As good as mine had been for me? Yes. Yes, I think I would have been. Could have been. Could =be=. No, Dana, you can't, remember? They took that away from you. They made you a thing. A tool for their plans, to be discarded when it was used up. Just a tool for the Consortium's plans. Unbidden, a saying she'd heard years before reverberated in her head. "Man plans, and God laughs." But at whose plans was He laughing? Maybe it was the Consortium's plans, Cancer Man's plans, that God laughed at. She hoped, prayed, that she was one of His instruments for foiling their plans, just as she had been for saving Kevin Kryder. For saving Roberta Dyer, one of the four sisters that Father Gregory tried to protect. She had saved them, hadn't she? Or did she just want to believe that she had? Scully looked down at the autopsy files. Of course the parents were tortured by the pain of not knowing what had happened. Were these children tortured as well, by the not knowing? She was too late to save their lives, but could she ease the pain of their souls? She'd done all she could for them now. She hoped it would be enough. And she would do everything she could for the women from Allentown. She'd been too late to save their lives. But she'd do her best to fulfill their demands for justice, the ones she'd heard the previous night in Mulder's apartment. How ironic, and pathetic, and sick was it that these women who had sought treatment for their infertility had been used to create some... some mockeries of life that they never knew about? No. No. Emily wasn't a mockery. She was a beautiful, beautiful little girl who didn't deserve to be born as... an experiment. Scully squeezed her eyes shut. A tear tracked down each of her cheeks. Oh, Emily. I tried to save you, too. Her head throbbed. Scully opened her eyes and realized that her head was in her hands, elbows on the desk. When had that happened? She rolled her neck, trying to loosen her stiff muscles. Her headache had abated with seven hours of sleep, but the tension in her shoulders was drawing out its intensity again. Pull yourself together, Dana. Right now these children and their parents need you to finish this report. They need you to help them get the answers they deserve. And then there are others who need your help. Scully took a deep breath, pulling herself up to her straightest height. She fished out the bottle of Tylenol that she'd returned to her desk drawer the previous day and swallowed two of the caplets with a mouthful of FBI coffee. Swiveling her chair towards her computer, she raised her hands to the keyboard and clicked on "caps lock". She got as far as typing CONCLUSION before a phone rang, somewhat muffled. Scully closed her eyes against the intrusion, then remembered who would be calling. And why. Her eyes flew open and she pulled the cell phone from her coat pocket. "Scully." "Hey Scully, it's me." The last syllable had barely left his lips before she rushed out her own words. "Have they broken the encryption?" Her question was met with silence. Eager much, Dana? "I'm sorry, Mulder, I'm... on edge, I guess." "It's okay, Scully. I am, too. Unfortunately there's nothing to report yet. They're still working on it." "Oh." Disappointment. <"So why are you calling, Mulder?"> "So what's up?" "I'm doing a food run for the guys. You want anything?" "Umm... no, thanks. I'm not really hungry." Mulder paused. "Okay." He paused again. "How's the report going?" "I have about an hour's worth of work before it's in inter-office mail to Kersh." "What are your conclusions?" Mulder asked the question as though he were tip-toeing around a hand grenade with the pin about to fall out. And Scully knew it. She wasn't sure whether she should be annoyed with the kid gloves treatment or appreciative of his sensitivity. She decided that a neutral answer would be easiest in the long run. "I'm recommending that this case be run through the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database," she replied. "Quite frankly, I don't know why Kersh had me do this work at all, rather than just running it through VICAP to begin with." "To test you? To gather proof of your investigative skills so he can recommend you for another position?" Mulder suggested. "You said yourself, Scully, that he might try to split us up." She was in a bad enough mood already. The thought of Kersh re-assigning her made her blood boil. Her jaw tightened. "Yes, well," she muttered, "if he tries, I'm going to have to give him a special demonstration on doing Y-incisions." "Can I sell tickets? We'd make a fortune, Scully." Scully looked down at the unfinished report and sighed. "Mulder, I should really get back to work here. Was there anything else?" "Well, I've checked my e-mail, voicemail, and my answering machine at home. Nothing else from Kurt." "I checked my e-mail and my messages, too. Nothing." There was silence for a moment. "Scully, you said you'd be done in about an hour, right? What were you planning on doing after that?" Then he added quickly, "Of course, by then the guys will probably have these messages deciphered and we'll be on our way to meet Kurt." Scully chose to ignore his optimism, not wanting to get her hopes up. "I'm not certain what I'll do. Probably go home and read through more of those downloaded files. Why?" "I'm getting pretty antsy, here, Scully, and I think the guys are sick of me hovering. I should probably get out of here for a while after I pick up the food. I think you could stand to get outdoors, too. You want to meet somewhere? One o'clock, say?" Scully shook her head without thinking that he couldn't see her. "Mulder, I should really -- " "We've both been cooped up inside, Scully. Come on. It's a beautiful day. And I want to show you the great ID's Frohike made for us," he added, starting to sound as enthusiastic as a kid on his way to Disneyland. "He really outdid himself." Scully sighed again. Mulder's attempt at distracting her from her thoughts about the Jack Morse case and Kurt Crawford was transparent, but nonetheless appreciated. "All right. Potomac? The usual bench?" "Scully, you're such a romantic." She heard the grin in his voice, but ignored his gentle tease. "I'll see you at one." ******************************************************************** Office of the Lone Gunmen Saturday, 11:46 a.m. "And I want to show you the great ID's Frohike made for us," Mulder enthused. "He really outdid himself." Frohike cocked his head in Mulder's direction, listening but not wanting to let Mulder know that he was listening. He caught Byers' and Langly's eyes and knew they were doing the same thing. "Scully, you're such a romantic." All six Gunmen eyebrows shot up, but they quickly pasted innocent looks on their faces and returned their attention to their computers when Mulder turned back toward them, his conversation over. A huge grin spread over his face. "Decisions made?" Mulder asked. Byers gestured to a list on the edge of the table. "You know the way to the sub shop, right?" "Yeah." Mulder picked up the piece of paper and scanned it. "What are you doing, feeding half the neighborhood?" he asked, still smiling. "You made a generous offer, we're taking advantage of it," Frohike replied. "I don't recall =offering= to buy you lunch. I believe it had something to do with extortion." The grin remained and Mulder grabbed his jacket. He shoved the list and his cell phone in the pocket. "Be back in thirty." Langly followed him to the door and re-locked it after Mulder had left. The three gave each other questioning looks, then Langly broke the silence. "He's in a good mood." ******************************************************************** Half an hour later, Mulder and three hungry Gunmen gathered at the table closest to the kitchen to dig in to the lunch Mulder had picked up. "We still have several things to try with those messages," Byers said, pulling sandwiches and bags of potato chips out of one of the large sacks. "The number of variables used to encode messages makes the possible encryption methods almost limitless." "How much longer do you think you'll need?" Mulder asked. "Hard to say," Langly responded. "Part of it is luck -- trying the right things at the right time." He pulled drinks, straws, napkins, and packages of condiments from another bag, while Frohike removed grease-soaked containers and forks out of a third bag. Mulder made a face that was a cross between impatient and stricken. It wasn't lost on Frohike. "We're hoping to crack it this afternoon," the Gunman added. "I have a feeling we're getting close." Mulder nodded while he collected his drink, sandwich, and French fries from the food spread out on the table. His reverie was broken by a sudden squabble. "Hey! Those are my fries," Langly protested, gesturing at the container in front of Frohike. "You snooze, you lose, kid," Frohike replied. "If you wanted fries, you should have asked for some, =Melvin=." "Right now you're asking for a knuckle sandwich, =Ringo=." "All right, all right," Mulder interrupted. "No wonder we never go out to nice restaurants. I can't count on you to behave." He plunked down his own fries in front of Langly. "Can you boys play nice now?" He grabbed a second sandwich, another can of soda, and two bags of potato chips from the table and placed them in one of the now-empty sacks along with his own sandwich and drink. Byers watched him and cocked an eyebrow, but the face he made was friendly, teasing. "Two of everything, Mulder? And you accused us of ordering a lot of food?" "The extra is for Scully. I'm meeting her at one o'clock. Thought you guys would like to get rid of me for a while." "Sharing a meal with the lovely Dr. Scully? I wouldn't mind that," Frohike smiled. "Actually there's a lot of things I'd like to share with the lovely Dr. Scully." "Get in line," Mulder muttered under his breath, stuffing napkins into the bag. Frohike looked up at him. "No shit, Sherlock." "What?" Mulder snapped his head up at him, startled. "You heard me. But I'll repeat it to emphasize my point." He leaned in closer to Mulder to speak, his words slow and careful. "NO. SHIT. SHERLOCK." Mulder stared. "What the hell does =that= mean?" Realizing he was all but gawking, he re-focused himself on the table, grabbing straws and adding them to his bag. "When are you going to tell her, Mulder?" Frohike asked. "Tell who what?" "You know damn well what I'm talking about," Frohike growled. "No, I'm afraid I don't." He grabbed packages of mustard and mayonnaise and threw them in the bag. Byers and Langly looked at each other. "It's obvious even to us, Mulder," Byers said quietly. "Yeah, we're pretty dense about this sort of stuff, but..." Langly added. "=What=?" Mulder demanded. "We see the way you and Scully talk to each other. Look at each other. Get in each other's faces," Frohike said. Mulder gave them his best confused look. "The way we do =what=?" He looked at Frohike, then Langly, then Byers. "This is a joke, right?" He rolled over the top of the bag to close it, giving it much more attention than necessary. "Give it up, Mulder," Langly responded. "After all these years, we can read you like a comic book." "You're serious, aren't you? Look, there's nothing to read. If you think there's something going on between Scully and me, you're wrong." "On the contrary," Byers corrected. "We're sure that there =isn't= anything going on between you and Scully. And we're wondering why not." "We are partners. Period." He continued rolling the top of the bag, even though it was securely closed. "Give it up yourselves, boys. There's nothing to talk about." "If there's nothing to talk about, then why are you strangling that bag?" Langly demanded. Mulder released the bag, backed away from the table, and grabbed his jacket. "We're partners," he repeated. "That's all." "You're full of shit, Mulder," Frohike interjected. "Or is it just that you're even blinder than we thought?" Mulder shook his head as though he were tired of a drawn-out joke. "I have to go. Call us when you've got those messages deciphered." He threw on the jacket and stuffed the pockets with the money and ID's he'd gotten from Frohike, and a CD onto which he'd copied the various passenger manifests. Then he grabbed the food bag and stalked to the door, snapping open the locks as quickly as he could. When he started to turn the doorknob, he heard Frohike's voice. "Mulder." Mulder stopped, took a breath, and turned to face the Gunmen again. "You should tell her, Mulder," Frohike insisted. "And soon. What the hell are you waiting for?" Mulder had no answer for him, nor for himself. ******************************************************************** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Saturday, 12:40 p.m. Scully deposited the sealed report into the inter-office mail bin. She stood for a moment, just staring at the envelope, as though saying a silent goodbye. Then she took a breath and returned to her desk, slipping on her coat and gathering her briefcase and laptop. She rode the elevator down to the parking garage and locked her briefcase and computer in the trunk of her car. Then she returned to the building and exited at street level, heading toward her rendezvous with Mulder. She was unaware that she was being watched. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 8 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Jintian, for her extra efforts to get this chapter ready so I could post before going on vacation. I couldn't do this without you, Jintian. :) Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. AUTHOR'S NOTE: When I posted Chapter 1, I wrote that Value & Honor would run about 250K. I'm afraid that that estimate was too low. At this point I would say that V&H will total about 350K. I can assure you that this story is outlined in detail, and I know exactly where I'm going with it (too bad Mulder and Scully don't ). I underestimated how much the story would lengthen when I filled in all the little details. In any case, I just wanted to let you know that the ride is going to be longer than I first expected. Thanks for sticking with me, and with them. :) ******************************************************************** - Chapter 9 - ******************************************************************** Along the Potomac River Washington, DC Saturday, 12:56 p.m. Mulder approached the empty bench along the Potomac, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of Scully. Nope, not yet. He'd parked in the garage at the Hoover Building and had considered going up to the bullpen to see if she was still there, but had decided against it. She'd wanted -- needed -- her privacy while working on the report for Kersh, and he was going to respect that need. So he'd walked directly to their bench instead. =Their= bench? Better be careful to not say that in front of Scully. Can't imagine how she'd react to that. She might get pissed at him, translating his possessiveness of the bench into possessiveness of =her=. (Not that she'd really be off the mark.) But even worse, she might laugh at him, and not in a good way. <"You should tell her, Mulder. And soon. What the hell are you waiting for?"> Frohike's parting words rang in his ears. Well, that was the question of the hour, wasn't it? Maybe the question of his entire lifetime. And he'd just answered it. He kept his mouth shut about his feelings for Scully because he wasn't sure how she would react. No, that wasn't right, was it? <"Come on, Scully, you can't tell me that you didn't know that already. Just a variation on a theme you've heard before."> When he'd said that the night before, gesturing with his eyes towards the hallway outside his apartment door, she'd smiled, but... that was all. In fact, she'd run away, in her Scully way, to make the ice pack for his head. Why did she do that? Why did she avoid discussing how they felt about each other? He knew she probably loved him. After all these years, it had to be more than just tolerance, right? And he was pretty sure that she knew he loved her. Most partners, especially those with a bullet wound to the head, would not have gone off to the Antarctic to rescue her. She was a smart woman; she'd have figured out that much. He just didn't know if she realized the kind of love he felt for her. Hell, he wasn't sure if =he= could categorize it. His feelings for Scully went far beyond the love he remembered having for Phoebe or Diana. Of course he loved Scully, and not just in a friendly, partnerly way. But he liked her, too. Respected her. Trusted her. Being with her just felt... right somehow. Comfortable. Like he was where he was supposed to be. Like everything would turn out okay as long as she was nearby. And on the flip side, he knew how terrified he was each hellish time she had been missing. Terrified not just for her, and the pain and suffering she might endure, but for himself. For being without her. It was unthinkable. And if he told her, what would she say? Would it scare her? Did she feel the same way? What if her love for him was just that friendly, partnerly kind? Could she be avoiding the topic to spare his feelings? Nope, too scary to contemplate. A truth too scary to face. Right now, things were just fine the way they were. Don't ask, don't tell. Status quo. Yup. That was the way to go. At some point an opportunity might present itself on a silver platter, like in his hallway, but he wasn't going to push it. He could scare her away, lose everything he had with her, if he did, and he wasn't going to risk it. He could wait for that silver platter. Of course, that might not be until sometime in the middle of the next century, but... All right, enough of that. She's going to be here any minute, and you can't have some forlorn look on your face when she gets here. Find something else to think about. He settled near one end of the wooden seat and placed the lunch bag about two feet away from him, hoping it would send the desired signal to anyone walking by. I'm waiting for someone. Don't even think about sitting here. Go away. Mulder gazed out over the Potomac at the Jefferson Memorial. Dozens of tourists were there, which was to be expected on a beautiful November Saturday. It had been a while since he'd last taken in this view, since they'd last met here, hadn't it? Funny how his memory branded it "their" bench after all this time. But then Scully had called it -- what, the =usual= bench? -- so didn't that mean it held a place in her memories, too? He wondered what kind of a humorous answer he should give her if she asked "Is this seat taken?" as she had when they'd been working on the Flukeman case. The Flukeman case. <"You may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I still wouldn't change a day. Except for that Flukeman thing, of course."> Her loyalty was amazing. Just one of the things he loved about her. An unfamiliar feminine voice interrupted Mulder's thoughts. "Emily, please don't pick things up off the ground. It's dirty." Mulder turned his head in the direction of the voice. Emily? A woman stood on the path nearby with her hands on her hips, her back to him, facing a little girl kneeling in the grass. The child had a ponytail of dark brown hair, the same color as the woman's, and bangs that covered her forehead. She appeared to be about four years old. The same age another Emily would be if... "Is this money, Mommy?" The girl held up something metallic, perhaps a bottle cap. "No, sweetheart, it's garbage. You're a big girl now, Emily, and you should know better than to pick things up like that. Now put it down and let's go, please. Daddy's waiting." She extended her hand to her daughter, who dropped the bottle cap. The girl stood and took her mother's hand, a big grin on her face. They turned in Mulder's direction to continue down the path, and he could see that the mother was quite pregnant, at least six months along. Trying to be unobtrusive, Mulder turned his gaze back toward the Potomac as the pair walked by. When they passed, he turned his head to continue watching as they walked away. His eye caught a familiar face coming from the opposite direction, about twenty yards away. Scully. he silently begged the mother. ******************************************************************** Scully walked briskly down the path, dodging joggers and in-line skaters. She lifted her wrist to glance at her watch. Just about one o'clock; almost there. As she lowered her hand, she passed it over her stomach. She hadn't eaten in almost six hours, and the FBI coffee was burning a hole through her. Maybe she should have taken Mulder up on his offer of lunch, even though finishing the report for Kersh had left her with no appetite. As she rounded a bend she could see Mulder sitting on the bench. In fact, he was looking in her direction, although not at her. What was it that held his attention? A runner coming in the opposite direction dodged some gravel on the path and brushed hard against Scully as he passed her. Still walking, she turned her head to frown at the man. He called "sorry" over his shoulder, slowing only a fraction. Scully returned her gaze to the path, making sure she wasn't about to collide with anyone else, massaging the shoulder that had been jarred. When she looked up again, Mulder was staring directly at her. Even from twenty yards away she could see the concerned look on his face. "Emily, I just said =don't= pick things up off the ground!" Her ear caught by the all-too-familiar name, Scully nearly stopped short at the sight twenty feet in front of her. A small girl squatted at the edge of the path, pulling at -- her mother's? -- hand, reaching toward the grass for something unidentified. The mother used her free hand to rub her pregnant belly absently as she watched her daughter. Her face was a combination of exasperation and affection. "Emily, I know that there are lots of interesting things in the grass, but Daddy is waiting, the baby is kicking, and Mommy is losing her patience. For the last time, let's go!" The little girl stood, grimacing and rolling her eyes in the way that only a child can when mimicking an expression they've seen on an adult. Scully was still walking, but without realizing it had slowed her pace to absorb the exchange between mother and daughter. As she neared them, she caught the mother's eye and gave her a small, sad smile of -- understanding? Admiration? Regret? Glancing at the child again, Scully felt a surge of panic. The girl resembled some of the victims whose autopsy files she had been reading an hour earlier, and now those grisly files had a connection to the name Emily. she chided herself. Still, she couldn't stop the painful thoughts that leapt into her mind. Could this little girl be the next life extinguished by another Jack Morse, or sacrificed on some twisted Consortium altar? Did this Emily's parents have any idea of how easily they could lose their precious daughter? It angered Scully to think they didn't know. How could they be so foolish, so trusting, to =not= know? How dare they be so naive? Scully's rational side rebuked her again. Her parents aren't the foolish ones, Dana. It's you. They don't deserve your anger. And it's not really anger, anyway; it's jealousy. You're jealous of what they have, of what you can't have, and you know it. She flushed with guilt and shame at that realization, and fought to keep her lower lip from trembling. By now, Scully had turned her gaze back to the path, leaving the mother and daughter behind. She realized that her hand had returned to her stomach, which now felt more unsettled and fiery than it had before. Her short-term memory flashed back to the sight of Emily's mother caressing her swollen belly; Scully dropped her hand to her side as though the burning coffee had burst through to scorch her palm. she told herself, taking a deep breath. But as she approached the park bench, she looked up to find Mulder staring at her with a stricken expression. ******************************************************************** Saturday, 1:01 p.m. "Emily, I know that there are lots of interesting things in the grass, but Daddy is waiting, the baby is kicking, and Mommy is losing her patience. For the last time, let's go!" Mulder glanced away from Scully at the sound of the now-impatient mother. The woman's back was to him, one hand holding her daughter's. The other, he guessed by her comment and from the way her arm was crooked, rested on her six-months-pregnant belly. Mulder turned his attention back to his partner, watching Scully slow her pace as she approached the mother and daughter. A tiny, melancholy smile crossed her face as she looked at the other woman. But as her gaze turned down to the little girl the smile disappeared, replaced by flashes of fear, anger, and embarrassment as she left the pair behind. Guilt stabbed at Mulder's gut as he saw Scully move her hand across her own stomach, mimicking Emily's mother. Their conversation at lunch the previous day rang in his head. <"And you think I don't understand loss, Scully? Don't you know I've =felt= loss every fucking day since Samantha was taken?"> <"I know that, Mulder, and I'm sorry. But you have something that I will =never= have. You have hope, Mulder, and I don't have a damned thing. I will =never= have a damned thing, and there is nothing that you or I or anybody else can do about that."> Oh, Jesus. What the hell was wrong with him? How did he think he could ever understand what she had gone through -- what she was going through now? Would he ever learn to just shut the hell up? Mulder watched his partner close the distance to the bench. Scully's eyes were downcast and her lower lip quavered in her struggle to maintain control. As she approached she looked up to meet his eyes; he knew that his expression must have been screaming anguish. He almost looked away, torn between giving her privacy and giving her support, but choosing the latter. He forced his face into a neutral mask. She clenched her jaw, returning her gaze to the path, but the tremble remained as she continued her approach. "Hey, Scully." Mulder greeted her with the most even tone he could manage, his voice pitched low, his heart in his throat. Scully had stopped at the opposite end of the bench, staring at the seat. For a moment Mulder was confused, then he followed her gaze to the bag with their lunches, which he'd placed in the middle of the bench. he chastised himself. He reached over and slid the bag towards himself. Scully sat where the bag had been, her hand leading the way as though she were afraid something sharp would be there. She kept her back ramrod straight, not resting against the back of the bench, and she stared out over the Potomac without a word or a glance in his direction. Mulder had already been sitting forward on the seat, anxious as he watched Scully approach. Now he scooted closer to the front edge of the bench so he could better see her face. Her expression was blank, and her lower lip was still, but her eyes looked haunted. He realized that he was still clutching the bag. Food. Yeah, that would be a safe topic. He cleared his throat, then lifted the bag, holding it in mid-air. "I brought lunch for both of us. I know you said you weren't hungry, but I thought you might be by now." Scully gave an almost imperceptible nod, continuing to stare out over the water. Mulder started to lower the bag back on the bench. He was sitting too close to the end of the bench to place the bag on his other side, away from Scully, so he moved closer toward her and then set the bag down in the space he'd made at the end of the bench. He was now only about a foot away from her. Scully remained quiet and still, looking out over the water with unseeing eyes. Mulder cleared his throat again. "Umm... I finished the search on matches for names of the MUFON women. No luck. But I printed out hard copies of the passenger lists and started going through it by hand to look for anything that jumps out at me." He patted his jacket where he'd stuffed the papers. "Haven't found anything yet, but I still have a lot to look through." Another tiny nod. More silence. "The Gunmen are still working on the encrypted e-mails. Frohike had a feeling that they were getting close. He thought they might break the encryption this afternoon." Scully nodded a third time, but otherwise made no movement. Well, at least she was there with him on some level... but maybe she was just nodding whenever he stopped talking... he told himself. Scully took a long, slow breath. "Scully?" His voice was low, cautious, concerned. She took another deep breath and looked toward the ground before turning her gaze to him. She looked like she was going to speak, and he braced himself for "I'm fine, Mulder." But whatever she was going to say was interrupted when she glanced up and saw a couple strolling hand in hand down the path in their direction. She stopped, bit her bottom lip, and looked back out over the water. Mulder waited until the pair had passed and were out of earshot. He tried again, her name coming out like a gentle caress. "Scully." He waited, hoping that she'd be ready to say something, and then thanking the angels he didn't believe in when she was. "I wonder if her parents know how lucky they are." Mulder could hear the slight tremor in her voice, the effort she put into sounding matter-of-fact. He knew Scully didn't expect him to answer, but he considered asking her what =she= thought the answer was, if only to keep her talking. He didn't have the chance before she spoke again. "Most of the time I don't even think about it." She sighed, clasping her hands and dropping her head to stare at the path in front of them. "I can forget it. Then..." She shifted her body and turned her head in Mulder's direction to look down the path where the mother and daughter had gone. Her expression was wistful, yet pained. "Then I see something like that... and I'm reminded of it all over again." Mulder nodded, knowing she could see him out of the corner of her eye, but said nothing. He waited, wanting her to say everything that was on her mind, and afraid to ruin the moment. "Before..." Scully paused, returning her gaze to the ground, her body still turned slightly toward her partner. "I never thought much about having children. It was always... something that other people did. But something that I assumed I would do someday, even though I couldn't imagine actually going through the process." Mulder continued to wait, fixated on Scully's words. "But at the same time I couldn't see myself getting old and =not= having a family." She paused again. Still Mulder waited. "Kids. Grandchildren." Scully bit her lower lip again and cleared her throat. "I didn't realize how much I would miss that until it wasn't an option anymore." Mulder swallowed hard and nodded again, but still said nothing. He fought the urge to pull her over to him, to take her in his arms and give her the comfort he knew she needed. But he also knew it wasn't time for that yet. He could tell she still wasn't done. "I think I could have been a good mother to Emily," she blurted, pain obvious in her barely audible voice. She suddenly looked much smaller to Mulder. He couldn't stop himself from moving closer to her and covering her clasped hands with one of his own. "Scully." A "look at me" came out in the tone of his voice. After a moment's hesitation, she turned her head towards him. He felt a stab again, this time in his heart, at the anguish on her face and the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. He swallowed again to ease the shaking of his jaw before he spoke. "I know you would have been a good mother, Scully. No one else could have loved Emily or taken care of her like you would have." The words felt to him like the greatest truth he had ever spoken. He desperately wanted to say more, to add encouragement about the possibility of future children for her. But he couldn't find any other truthful words, so he said nothing. Her lower lip trembled again; Mulder watched her bite the inside of her mouth to steady it before she lowered her head, looking at their hands. She pulled one of her hands away and brushed her now-free fingers over his. One tear spilled from her eye and trailed down her cheek. Scully stiffened, then pulled in another deep breath and let it out slowly. She leaned over and picked up a small stone from the ground with her free hand. As she sat back up Mulder released her other hand, moving his to her back. Mulder watched Scully roll the stone between her fingers, pressing so hard that her fingertips turned white. He tried to think of something, anything, to say, then pulled his hand away from her back in reflex when she suddenly moved. She jerked her arm backward and threw the stone into the river with a strength that surprised him. "It's not fair, Mulder. It's just not fair." Scully's low voice shook with rage, her expression a mixture of anguish and hatred. She stared back over the water again, her jaw clenched tight. "I usually..." She swallowed before starting again, as though willing herself to calm. "I usually don't begrudge anyone the ability to have children. It didn't bother me to be around Tara when she was pregnant with Matthew. But sometimes I see..." she gestured down the path with her hand, "and I get... jealous, I guess." Mulder shifted on the bench, uncomfortable. <"You have hope, Mulder, and I don't have a damned thing. I will =never= have a damned thing, and there is nothing that you or I or anybody else can do about that."> He hung his head, guilt-ridden, then forced himself to look at her again. She deserved no less, and she deserved some reassurance. "No, it's not fair. And it's natural that you'd be jealous, Scully." He played his own words back in his head. It's not fair? How about you, Mulder? What haven't you been fair about? He swallowed hard. "Scully, about yesterday... about what I said....about Samantha...." He stumbled over the words, searching for an apology that could never be sufficient. "I'm sorry... I didn't realize..." Scully turned her head to look at him; he sucked in a quick breath. "I never should have compared Samantha to Emily. What happened... to both of them... they were tragedies. I had no right trying to measure which of us has been hurt more." He waited, trying to squelch the panic he felt as she stared at him. Finally she nodded and looked away again, toward the Jefferson Memorial. "Thank you." Without taking her eyes from the horizon, Scully repeated his earlier action, covering one of his hands with her own. Mulder relaxed, both at her touch and at the sense that she had said what she'd needed to about her encounter with the little girl and her mother. He looked down at their hands, then turned his gaze up when her hand shifted a fraction. She was straightening her posture, squaring her shoulders. He studied her face. She looked... confident. Resolved. Ready to take on the world again. He followed Scully's gaze over the water, allowing her her contemplation. After a few minutes of now-comfortable silence, Scully took another long, slow breath. "I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man." Mulder turned to look at her. "Hmm?" She removed her hand from his and gestured across the water. "Jefferson wrote that. It's one of the quotes engraved in the Memorial." Mulder turned back to look over the water at the columned structure, struggling to pay attention to her words rather than to the loss of her hand's warmth. "It seems fitting," she continued. "It's what we've done." Mulder nodded. "I suppose it is, in a way. I never looked at it that way before." Scully was silent for another moment. "Mulder, I thought about something while I was finishing the report for Kersh. Have you ever heard the phrase 'Man plans, and God laughs'?" "Yeah, I have." He made a small snorting sound. "But in our case I think sometimes =we= plan, and Cancer Man laughs." "I wouldn't be so certain about that, Mulder. Maybe in the end, it will be Cancer Man's plans that God laughs at. Maybe that's why we're here. Maybe that's led to everything that's happened to me. To the women in Allentown. To Emily." Mulder paled, his head snapping around to face her. "Scully, I refuse to accept that you were destined to suffer." She met his eyes. "I didn't say that I was =destined= to suffer. It's just... I don't know if I can explain it. I don't know that I've made sense of it myself. I can't believe that our entire lives are mapped out for us from the moment we're born. I think we're... usually free to make our own decisions. To exercise our free will, to direct our own lives. To react to the influences of those around us. To try to influence the lives of others, for good or for ill -- like Cancer Man does." Mulder nodded his acknowledgment. "But then there are occasions when things happen that just seem to... fall into place, somehow. So maybe there are times when people and circumstances come together in such a way that only one outcome is possible. And we become... fated... destined... =meant= to do what we do. When there becomes only one path we can take." Pause. "Like your experience with Kevin Kryder?" Mulder asked, cautious. He watched Scully as she turned to look back out at the Jefferson Memorial. Was it his imagination, or had she flushed a pale shade of pink? Scully sat up straighter. "I know you don't believe that what happened with Kevin involved any kind of intervention, Mulder, divine or otherwise. But yes, that's essentially what I mean. I'm certainly not going to go so far as to say that I was born to save Kevin, but I think I was the right person in the right place at the right time, and in that respect I was meant to...." She faltered, looking like she was choosing her words with care, before concluding, "I was the one who was supposed to help him." She paused again. "Did you ever think that we became partners because of... something more than powers at the FBI wanting me to de-bunk your work? That this was something that would have happened regardless of their influence?" Was it only twenty minutes earlier that he'd been thinking that being with her just felt right somehow? That he was where he was supposed to be? "Yeah. As a matter of fact, I was thinking something like that just before you got here." Scully turned to look at him again. "Do you remember telling me once that what happens to us might not have to do with personal choice, that it might be fate?" God, how could he ever forget being in Melissa's hospital room after... ? He wondered if he was tinged pink himself, from guilt. "Of course." "That's similar to what I'm saying. Maybe, under some conditions, under a particular set of circumstances, there is only one possible outcome. And at some point, because of whatever choices you and I made in our lives, it became inevitable that we'd be doing what we do together." "Searching for answers that other people are determined to hide from us." Scully nodded. "I guess what I'm trying to say... with all the unanswered questions we have, Mulder, I'm sure of one thing. Those men who are responsible for Emily... for the women in Allentown... they haven't yet reached that point where there will be only one outcome. They haven't won yet." She glanced down the path where the other Emily and her mother had gone. "For all the horrible things those men have done, Mulder... there are billions of people who haven't had to experience the... the horrors that you and I have lived through and witnessed. I think if I can keep those horrors from them, I'll be giving the MUFON women, and Emily, the justice that I owe them." "=We=, Scully." Mulder's reminder was gentle. "Remember, I said I owe them, too." "We." She flashed a small appreciative smile. "Yes, we certainly do have that 'eternal hostility' that Jefferson wrote about, don't we?" Mulder recognized the determination in the set of her jaw. "And I'm not letting go of it." Mulder tilted his head toward her. God, she was incredible. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he found himself in awe of her strength. Her determination to keep going no matter what. He reached up and rubbed her back a few times as he had the previous night. "Scully, have I told you lately that you're amazing?" She gave him another small smile, this one of recognition. It was replaced after a moment by a more serious look. "Mulder, I know I said yesterday that I don't have hope. Maybe I don't have hope of ever having children, but I do have hope about other things. We have Kurt's messages, and that's a place to start. That's where my hope starts." Mulder felt a tiny smile curl his lips. He remembered Scully's similar words in a Providence hospital after his mother's stroke. "Yeah, we do, Scully. We have a place to start." Scully straightened her back further, still looking at him. "They took away a part of my life, of my future, Mulder -- a significant part, but not all of it. I refuse to crawl in a corner and die because of what they've taken away from me. If I do that, they win." She glanced at the ground and breathed deeply again, as though storing extra strength, then looked up at him again. "We can beat them, Mulder. I'm sure of it." His eyes were as earnest as his tone. "I want to believe that, Scully. You know that." Scully placed her hand over his again, looking him in the eye. Her lips narrowed into a thin, determined smile. "Mulder, I decided a long time ago that I couldn't stop doing this. Couldn't stop fighting. Like I told you this morning, my strength gets run down sometimes. But I've been re-energized, and I'm ready to keep going. As long as I -- we -- need to. I can think of far worse ways to spend a lifetime, Mulder." Mulder blinked. Twice. But before he could process that thought, Scully stood up and brushed her fingers against his shoulder. "Let's go. There's something I need to show you." ******************************************************************** Saturday, 1:18 p.m. "Scully, have I told you lately that you're amazing?" Scully came close to chuckling; it was the second time Mulder had made such a comment in less than twenty-four hours. If their conversation weren't so serious she might have given him a rare dose of her laughter. But their topics =were= serious, deadly serious. So she gave him another small smile instead, to show she recognized his attempt at tension-breaking humor. She replaced the smile after a moment with a somber countenance, re-focusing on their conversation. "Mulder, I know I said yesterday that I don't have hope. Maybe I don't have hope of ever having children, but I do have hope about other things. We have Kurt's messages, and that's a place to start. That's where my hope starts." She watched the corners of his mouth turn up in a small smile. "Yeah, we do, Scully. We have a place to start." Hope, and a place to start. That reminded Scully of her mother describing, to a very young Dana, how she would feel after going to confession for the first time. Funny how her current conversation with Mulder felt so... well, confessional. <"It didn't bother me to be around Tara when she was pregnant with Matthew. But sometimes I see..."> -- she'd gestured down the path that the dark-haired Emily and her mother had taken -- <"and I get... jealous, I guess."> When was the last time she had confessed an emotion as strong as jealousy to him? In their case, though, perhaps another version would have to be added: Scully straightened her back, keeping her gaze on her partner. "They took away a part of my life, of my future, Mulder -- a significant part, but not all of it. I refuse to crawl in a corner and die because of what they've taken away from me. If I do that, they win." She glanced at the ground and breathed deeply again. She returned her gaze to her partner. "We can beat them, Mulder. I'm sure of it." "I want to believe that, Scully. You know that." Even through his earnest tone, Scully recognized the self-doubt -- the unspoken "You =do= know it, don't you, Scully?" -- in Mulder's last three words. That same self-doubt had led him to seek her reassurance at lunch the previous day, asking whether she felt her loyalty to him was misplaced. As she'd done at that lunch, as she'd done again as she drove home that evening, she asked herself: And, again, she gave herself the same answer: Scully pressed her hand over Mulder's, looking him in the eye as though she were in a staring-down contest with his insecurities. "Mulder, I decided a long time ago that I couldn't stop doing this. Couldn't stop fighting. Like I told you this morning, my strength gets run down sometimes. But I've been re-energized, and I'm ready to keep going. As long as I -- we -- need to. I can think of far worse ways to spend a lifetime, Mulder." She watched Mulder blink as he tried to process what she'd said. It was almost amusing; it wasn't often that she left him speechless. Maybe she should do it again. her memory scolded, once again replaying her thoughts from Friday's lunch. Scully stood. To ensure she had Mulder's attention, she brushed her fingertips across his shoulder. "Let's go. There's something I need to show you." He looked up at her, face blank, head tilted at a slight angle. He blinked again. "Show me what? Did you find something else about the Morse case?" "No, nothing like that. It's not related to a case." Realizing what his next question would be, she added, "It's not related to our visit from Kurt, either." Mulder's brow furrowed as he pushed himself up from the bench, snatching up the bag of food at his side. "What is it, then?" Scully shook her head to indicate that she wouldn't explain. "Where's your car?" ******************************************************************** Georgetown Washington, DC Saturday, 1:55 p.m. "So much for getting outside for some fresh air. But thanks to the bumper to bumper traffic, we certainly got our minimum daily requirement of carbon monoxide." Mulder deposited the bag with their lunches on Scully's kitchen table with a *thud*. He made a face at the noise and placed the laptop on the table with a far more gentle touch. "We could have walked here a lot faster, Scully, and it would have been much healthier." Scully slid her briefcase onto the table as well. "Without a car, what would we do when the Gunmen deciphered the messages from Kurt? Besides, we don't need the attention we'd get if our cars were left at the Hoover Building on a weekend." Mulder fingered the top of the lunch bag, his face relaxing. "I'm glad you had such sound reasoning, Scully. It's the second time today you've insisted we take separate cars. I was about to become very self-conscious about my personal hygiene." He stripped off his jacket and heaved it toward the grey and white striped couch; it landed on the edge of the arm. The jacket slid down the arm and fell to the floor, dragged by the weight of the cash and ID's he'd gotten from Frohike, the CD and hard copies of the airline passenger manifests, and his cell phone. Mulder scowled at his poor lob. "Short shot," he muttered. He stalked over to the couch and scooped up the jacket. He paused to pull out the ID's from the inside pocket before dumping the jacket on the couch, then returned to the table, where Scully stood watching him. His mood brightened considerably as he shuffled through the ID's. He handed the two sets of driver's licenses, credit cards, and passports to Scully, a gleam in his eye. "Take a look, Scully. Like I said, Frohike really outdid himself." Scully inspected them, nodding her approval, and handed them back to Mulder. "I'm impressed. I just hope we put them to use soon." Mulder sifted through the documents again and imitated Scully's nod. "It should be soon, Scully." He laid the ID's on the table and looked at his partner. "So." She raised an eyebrow. "So?" "So I've shown you mine, Scully. How 'bout you showing me yours?" She arched the eyebrow higher, saying nothing, but Mulder detected a twinkle in her eye. "Come on, Scully, enough with the Secret Squirrel stuff. You haven't told me a thing. What is it that you want to show me?" She hesitated a moment, then turned and walked to the coat closet. Mulder watched as she opened the door, pulled out a roll of wrapping paper that was leaning against the wall inside, and shut the door again with a quiet *click*. She crossed the room back to Mulder and offered the roll of paper as though she were presenting a sword: arms extended, hands palm up. Mulder tried not to look confused as he gazed at her offering. The paper wasn't particularly memorable: wide stripes of dark green, navy blue, and burgundy that reminded him of a rugby shirt. Why was she showing him =this=? "I'm a trained investigator, Scully. And that's a roll of wrapping paper." Scully seemed to fight back a smile. "On the outside, yes." She pivoted her wrists downward; the tube rolled to the edges of her fingers. Mulder turned his gaze to her and recognized the confident, resolved look she'd had when she'd been studying the Jefferson Memorial. He looked back down at the roll of paper and took the proffered gift in both hands. He knew his attempt at looking unconfused was failing. "If this is my birthday present, you're a few weeks late." As she dropped her arms, an enigmatic smile broke through on Scully's face, but she made no comment. Brow furrowed, Mulder turned the tube over end-to-end in his hands. It was then that he understood his partner's last comment. There was something rolled up inside the cardboard tube. Had she gotten another message from Kurt? No, she'd said this had nothing to do with Kurt. "Secret Squirrel" was right. What the hell was she hiding in a roll of wrapping paper...? Mulder placed his middle and index fingers inside the tube and slid out the paper cautiously to avoid ripping it. He unrolled it with equal care, feeling Scully's eyes on him. And then he stared, mouth agape; he would have shouted his delight if his stunned brain could have formed coherent words. The muscles of his hands twitched in shock as he stared at the familiar sky, the familiar craft, and the familiar words. I WANT TO BELIEVE. It took Mulder several seconds to get his vocal cords to function. "Scully?" he croaked. He looked up at his partner. By the pleased look on her face, he knew that his own delight was coming through in his wide-eyed, dazed expression. "Where did you get this?" Her smile opened up wider. Oh yes, she was pleased with herself. "Right where you told me it would be, Mulder. Head shop on M Street." Mulder remembered the brief conversation, months earlier, after Scully's pseudo-vacation in Maine. He'd been so focused on Scully's mention of another man that that concern had overshadowed both her question about the poster and his answer. He swallowed, turning his awed gaze back to the symbol of his life's work. After several seconds, Scully's quiet voice pulled Mulder from his reverie. "I have my own version of 'I want to believe', Mulder." He looked up at her again, meeting her determined blue eyes. "I've thought a lot about our work and our partnership since we were refused re-assignment to the X-Files. It's occurred to me that, while our different perspectives are valuable in solving cases, our stubbornness can get in the way. We tend to look at our opposing viewpoints as being mutually exclusive, and it shouldn't have to be that way. We complement each other -- as I said yesterday, we work better together than we ever could separately." She paused, gesturing with her eyes at the poster. "I want to believe that the truth is out there, Mulder... and that we'll find answers that we can both be satisfied with. However long it takes us to find it, and regardless of whether we get the X-Files back officially. The answers are out there -- we just have to figure out where they've been buried." Well, didn't that sound familiar? He grinned. "That's why they put the 'I' in FBI, Scully." She smiled in return. "I'm not saying that I'm going to subscribe to The Alien Abduction Journal, but..." Eyes still locked on his, Scully reached up and wrapped her fingers around his right forearm. Mulder felt a surge of energy run toward his fingers, as though the poster served as a lightning rod. "Mulder, this quest that we share now... I can't imagine doing anything else. I can't imagine doing anything else =with= anyone else. I've always demanded proof from you, some physical evidence to support your theories. I know you don't need this, but I thought you deserved something tangible from me, something more than words or actions. Proof of my commitment to our work." Mulder's eyes flicked to the poster and then back to his partner. "Scully... this is..." He stared at her, momentarily speechless. How the hell could he respond to such heartfelt sentiments from his usually staid partner? His jaw opened and closed a few times, no words coming out. Finally he shook his head. "I don't know what to say." "Well..." She paused, tilting her head at him. "'Thank you' might be appropriate." The mock reproach was complemented by one arched Scully eyebrow and another enigmatic smile. Without taking his eyes from her, Mulder brought his hands together, slowly, reverently, letting the poster roll up like a window shade. He laid the poster across the kitchen table with his free left hand. Grinning, he rotated his right arm slowly, Scully's grasp loosening, until he was able to envelop her arm with his own fingers. He gave a gentle tug. Still smiling, Scully released his arm and stepped toward him. She slipped her arms around his waist as he ran his hand up her arm, sliding it around her shoulder as his other arm came up to complete the embrace. Mulder sighed, absorbing her warmth as he rested his cheek against the silky crown of her head. Then, softly, "Thank you, Scully." His eyes slid closed as he held her to him tightly, reveling in the rare openness she was sharing with him as she returned his fierce grip. After a few seconds he repeated, "Thank you." He inhaled deeply, breathing in pure, natural, unperfumed Scully. It was so, so rare that he experienced this heady rush from being so close to her. In fact, it had been months since... since before Antarctica. Since the hallway. Not identical circumstances, but both were embraces of warmth, of deepest affection; not because one of them was sick, or injured, or just rescued from some horrific danger. Part of Mulder felt surprised, part felt delighted, but mostly, as he had when they'd held each other in that hallway, he just felt... right. Comfortable. Like he was where he was supposed to be. Like everything would turn out okay as long as she was nearby. his memory echoed. Wow -- maybe opportunity was presenting itself on that silver platter a lot sooner than he'd expected. Maybe this was one of those "inevitable moments" that he and Scully had talked about as they sat on the bench by the Potomac. <"You should tell her, Mulder. And soon. What the hell are you waiting for?"> Mulder tightened his embrace for a moment; Scully made a sound between a sigh and a hum, returning the gesture. Well, if he was going to tell her how he felt about her, this would be a good time, wouldn't it? Or would it ruin the moment? And just what should he say to break the ice, anyway? <"Hey, Scully, the Gunmen were asking about you and me..."> No. <"Nice back muscles, Scully. You been working out?"> NO. <"Hey, Scully, wanna --"> =NO!= Try something simple, Mulder. Something honest. <"This is nice, Scully. We ought to do this more often."> Yeah. That'll work. But then... what would =she= say? Well, she could tell you she likes it too, couldn't she? You'll never know unless... you just say it. Mulder suddenly realized that he was moving one of his hands in small circles on Scully's back, was gently nuzzling her hair with the side of his face. When had he started doing that? And when had Scully tightened her hold around his waist? Stop thinking, Mulder. Just say it! "Scully?" There was a pause before a very relaxed Scully sound came back to him. "Hmm?" Justsayitjustsayitjustsayit... Deep breath. "This -- " *RIIIIIIING* A muffled trilling came from the direction of the couch, startling Mulder from his short speech and stilling his body. FUCK -- the sound came from his jacket, damn it! Mulder squeezed his eyes, and his arms around her, tighter. Maybe if he just ignored it... "That's you," Scully murmured into his chest. He exhaled his words into her soft hair. "I didn't hear anything." Scully pulled away from him gently; as he opened his eyes to look down at her he was elated to see reluctance in her eyes. He kept his hands gripped loosely at her shoulders. Scully looked toward his jacket, then back at him, but she didn't move away. Voice low, she stated, "Mulder, it could be the Gunmen." Mulder sighed, then released her reluctantly, trailing his hands down her arms, feeling like a starving man being dragged from a sumptuous feast. He moved to his jacket and pulled out his cell phone, feeling irritated, resigned, and relieved at the same time: at least it was just a phone call and not a bee sting. He thumbed the phone on and forced his voice to be neutral. "Mulder." At the sound of the caller's voice Mulder scowled, his body stiffening. He turned and took a few brisk steps away from Scully, gripping the cell phone as though he intended to crush it. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, barely civil. "What do you want, Diana?" ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 9 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. Looking for prior chapters? They're available at http://www.thebasementoffice.com. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 10 - ******************************************************************** Georgetown Washington, DC Saturday, 2:18 p.m. "What do you want, Diana?" Scully watched Mulder's body language as he responded to the call from Diana Fowley: tight, taut, curled inward. She was surprised by how much it pleased her that Mulder was so angry. Well, how about that? It was certainly turning out to be an... unusual day, even for them. Mysterious messages from Kurt Crawford, an early visit to the Gunmen, a wrenching morning finishing the Jack Morse case report, an emotional roller-coaster of a meeting with Mulder at the Potomac, declaring her loyalty to him and their work in ways that left him speechless -- twice in one hour. And, less than a minute earlier, she had been wrapped in Mulder's arms. She'd known that he would appreciate the poster, as well as the sentiment behind it, but... the embrace had been a surprise. The good kind, thankfully. God knew she -- =they= -- could use a few more pleasant surprises in their lives. Diana Fowley certainly had miserable timing, though. But... at least it was just a phone call and not a damn bee. Not a stupid little bee. Not a disease-carrying, miserable, interrupting little... Before her ruminations could go further, Scully caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Mulder had shifted position, leaning against one of the stuffed chairs of her living room, and now his frustrated gaze was lifted in her direction. She thought the frustration was due to his conversation, but gave him an apologetic grimace anyway and rebuked herself for daydreaming. -- her mental breath caught on the word -- Scully felt a chill and wrapped the coat she was still wearing around herself in a quick hug. She turned towards the kitchen, flushed with embarrassment at having been caught standing there, even though her rational mind told her that she was in her own home. If Mulder really =wanted= privacy he could have moved to another room. Besides, she hadn't been paying attention to what he'd been saying. Still, she felt like she was intruding; this was Mulder's conversation, not hers. The considerate thing would be to give him some solitude. Okay. So... Scully looked around the kitchen, regaining her composure, and spotted the phone on the wall. They were waiting for a call from the Gunmen... this would be a good time to check in with them. She'd use her bedroom phone, reinforcing her intent to give Mulder some privacy. She moved back into the living room. She thought she heard Mulder mutter, "I can't -- " before stopping abruptly, as though interrupted. He stood in profile: head bowed, jaw clenched, eyebrows arched, free hand poised on his hip. Apparently sensing her entrance, he looked toward Scully again; she gestured toward her bedroom with one hand and mimed holding a phone receiver with the other. Mulder managed to nod his understanding of intentions and shake his head at his cell phone in exasperation at the same time. As she walked down the hall toward her bedroom room she heard Mulder's voice, muffled but obviously irritated. Scully entered her bedroom and shut the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, sinking into the down comforter, and reached for the phone on the nightstand. Before she could lift the receiver, a muffled trilling came from her coat. She dug her hand into the pocket and pulled out her cell phone, bringing it to her ear and thumbing it on in one fluid motion. "Scully." "Agent Scully?" Frohike's voice over a speakerphone was unmistakable. "Is everything okay? We just tried Mulder and got his voicemail." "He's here, but he's on his cell phone." Scully's words came out in a rush; she felt her body tense in anticipation. "What's going on -- did you decipher the messages?" "Yes," Byers said, more emphatic than necessary. "Do you want them over the phone, or do you and Mulder want to come back here for them?" Scully paused, knowing that the cell phone wasn't secure. But without knowing what the messages were, she couldn't judge whether they could afford the extra time to go back to the Gunmen's. She glanced at the corded phone on the nightstand... a safer option, at least. "I'll call you right back," she stated, thumbing off the cell phone without waiting for a response. She shoved it back in her coat pocket, and punched in the Gunmen's number on the other phone. "Lone Gunmen," came Langly's voice, still through a speakerphone. "Yeah, it's me." Scully reached for the pad and pen next to the phone, then hesitated again. "Just a minute." Should she pull Mulder away from his call...? She reached behind the nightstand and pulled out the neatly coiled wire that connected the phone to the wall jack. She knew from experience that the extra-long wire would extend to the end of the hall. She tossed the coil on the floor, then picked up the phone from the table. "How were you able to break the encryption?" she asked, rising and moving towards the door she had just closed, feeling the jittery effect of adrenaline running through her bloodstream. "We'd been expecting something very sophisticated, but it wound up being simple -- so simple we never thought to try it earlier," Byers replied. "You recall that the encryption was a long string of letters -- some lower case, some upper case -- that appeared to be generated at random." Scully opened the bedroom door, stepped into the hallway and strode toward the living room. "It turned out that it wasn't the characters themselves that matter," Langly broke in, "it was whether they were lower case or upper case. We created binary strings by changing all of the lower case characters to zeros, and all the upper case characters to ones." At the end of the hall, Scully peered into the main room. Mulder was still on his cell phone, looking no less annoyed, speaking too low for her to judge how much longer he would be. He would probably welcome an excuse to end the call, but... Scully was loathe to interfere when her partner's attitude toward Fowley seemed one hundred percent negative. Decision made, she turned around to return down the hall. "We took those binary strings and converted them into new text," Frohike continued. "Then we had upper and lower case characters again, and some numbers. But now everything lower case is gibberish -- just filler -- and the numbers and upper case letters are the real message." Scully re-closed the bedroom door behind her and sat on the bed again as Langly finished the Gunmen's story. "Once we had one message broken, the rest were easy." Scully set the phone at the back of the nightstand and dragged the pad of paper and a pen toward her. She inked a test doodle on the pad. "All right, go ahead. What are the messages?" "The first message is a name, 'George T'," Byers reported. "The man's name, and then the letter 'T' like an initial." "George T," Scully repeated, recording the word on the pad. "The second is also one word: Saturday." Her pen scratched deeply into the paper. "Saturday." "The third message is a sequence of numbers," Frohike continued. "Actually, it's two identical sequences. The entire original message was duplicated, including the gibberish parts." He recited the numbers, Scully transcribing. When he was finished, she frowned at the numbers on the pad. 10301613 10301613 Langly interrupted her thoughts. "We assume that means ten thirty p.m. 'P' and 'm' are the sixteenth and thirteenth letters of the alphabet." Scully jotted '10:30 p.m.' next to the numbers but continued staring at them, searching for any additional, hidden meaning. "Why is it duplicated?" "We don't know that," Frohike admitted. "It's probably just a transmission glitch. Happens sometimes with e-mail." Her brow wrinkled. "All right. What's the last message?" "The last one made the least sense, at least to us," Byers responded. "It's three words: red, green, park." "Red, green, park?" Scully mused, copying the words to paper. "Does that mean anything to you?" Langly asked. "No, not in particular," she responded, tapping her pen on the pad like a metronome. "It could mean a lot of things." She shook her head slowly, as if trying to get the jumbled clues to fall into place. "Anything else?" "No, that was everything," Frohike responded. "All right." She pursed her lips, eyes narrowed, still staring at the writing on the pad. After several moments of silence, Byers spoke up with a gentle prompting. "Is there anything else we can help with, Agent Scully?" "No," Scully replied, startled out of her thoughts. "No, I don't think so. Thank you -- all of you -- for your help on this. We appreciate it." "Let us know if you need anything else," Langly spoke up. "We like a challenge." The corners of Scully's mouth turned up at the comment. "We'll be in touch," she assured them. "Thank you again." She heard their speakerphone click off and slid her own phone back onto its base. She sat another moment staring at the messages. Then she tossed the pen back on the nightstand, scooped up the pad, and hurried out of her bedroom. ******************************************************************** As she entered the living room Mulder was pacing in front of the fireplace, head bowed, both hands on his hips. A quick scan of the room told Scully that his cell phone was near his jacket on her couch, looking like it had been flung there carelessly. Mulder stopped pacing and turned her way when she walked in, his expression apologetic. "Sorry, Scully, I didn't mean to -- " "It's all right, Mulder." She cut him off in a rush of syllables, neither wanting nor needing the apology. She shoved the pad of paper into his hands and continued past him toward the computer on her desk. "The Gunmen broke the encryption." There was a pause before Mulder responded with a drawn out, "How?" Scully couldn't see his face as she knelt under the desk to flip on the PC's surge suppressor, but by his incredulous tone she knew his countenance had been replaced with a surprised but happy one. As she stood up, a corner of her mind realized with satisfaction that the look on his face wasn't nearly as priceless as the one he'd had when he opened his poster. She pushed the thought away -- later, she told herself -- as she booted up the computer and summarized how the Gunmen broke the encryption. "The first three messages -- they're fairly clear," she continued, turning to watch her partner's concentration as he scanned the writing on the pad. "The last one is less obvious." Mulder pointed to the pad in his hand. "This third message -- the ten thirty p.m. -- why are the numbers duplicated?" "Frohike thought it was just an error in the transmission." Mulder paused as he considered that information, then shrugged and looked up at her. "So we're supposed to meet someone named George T. at ten thirty p.m. Saturday -- meaning tonight. This last message -- red, green, park -- must be the 'where'. Any ideas?" "Nothing yet beyond the obvious -- the meeting place is a park. The red and green doesn't mean anything to me, though." She turned and sat at her computer, now ready, clicked the mouse a few times, then typed a few words. "Let's see what a search of the 'net turns up." She picked up her glasses from the desk and slipped them on. "We know we're looking for a location in the northeastern U.S., maybe southeastern Canada." Mulder moved to her right side, tossed the pad of paper onto the desk, and leaned over, forearm resting near the mouse pad. He draped his left arm across the back of Scully's chair. Was it her imagination, or was he invading her personal space more than usual? Before she could decide, the PC's screen filled with the search's first twenty matches. "I searched for a match on red, green, park -- all three words," Scully said, scanning the page, then flipping through the next few screens before returning to the first. "I didn't see anything relevant after the first screen; did you?" She turned her head toward Mulder, nearly bumping noses with him; he shook his head in answer to her question. "I saw three possibilities on this first screen in the geographic area we need," he commented, holding Scully's gaze for a split second before she cleared her throat and turned back to the screen. "And none of them are parks in the traditional sense," she added, silently damning her quickened pulse. Not now, not now... She clenched her jaw, determined to give her full attention to their search, and tapped the monitor twice with a slender index finger. "Red Beam Parking Garage at T.F. Green Airport in Warwick, Rhode Island. Baseball's Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox and the Green Monster -- " "That's the wall out in left field," Mulder supplied, his tone helpful. Scully threw him a quick, exasperated 'yes Mulder, I knew that' look. "And the third," she gestured toward the screen with her chin, "the website for the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority. How does red, green, park fit in there?" she mused, clicking on the site's link. The top of the home page had "MBTA" in bold letters, the "T" black inside a white circle, the other three letters fire-engine red with a thin black outline. But what drew Scully's attention was what appeared to be part of a multi-colored subway map in the upper left-hand corner of the page. "Red and green," Mulder said, leaning close to Scully to jab at the corner of the screen. He pulled back his hand and placed it over Scully's on the mouse, guiding the cursor towards the 'schedules and maps' icon and clicking on it. A second click brought up a map of the subway system. Scully glanced down at her hand, hoping Mulder hadn't noticed her tiny, involuntary tensing at the pleasant warmth of his touch. She returned her eyes to the monitor -- pay attention, Dana! -- as Mulder removed his hand to poke at the screen again. "Boston's subway system has four color-coded lines," he said. "Red, green, blue, and orange -- " "And the Red and Green Lines intersect at a station called Park Street," Scully finished, following his gesture to the station name on the screen. Mulder nodded. "Park Street station is right at the edge of Boston Common. We used to go up to Boston sometimes when I was a kid. Last time I got to wander around there was in early ninety-five. Remember when I went up to Worcester for a couple days? For those follow-up interviews at Excelsius Dei?" Scully flicked her eyes from the map, to her partner, and back to the map. She had to stay focused on sorting out this red-green-park mystery, not think about... anything else. "Mmm, I remember. I had such a bad cold that week, I couldn't fly up with you." Out of the corner of her eye, Scully saw Mulder nod. "When I was done with the interviews I spent half a day in the Boston field office doing paperwork, making copies, that sort of thing." "No doubt endearing yourself to the local agents in the process," Scully said, turning toward her partner again with a small smile. "Scully, you wound me," Mulder replied, feigning hurt. "I'll have you know I bought two boxes of Girl Scout cookies and three raffle tickets while I was there. In fact, one of those raffles won me a pair of tickets to a Celtics playoff game. Pissed me off that we were on a case and couldn't use them -- I wound up giving them to one of the agents up there. So I made us quite a few friends in the Boston office." Scully gave him a small nod of approval. "I'll keep that in mind." She turned her attention back to the monitor. "So we have three possibilities," she mused. "A subway station, a parking garage, and a ball park. I'm sure Kurt has done his homework on us, so he'd know you're a sports fan. That would make Fenway Park the obvious choice." Mulder nodded again. "I would have thought of that eventually even without an Internet search." "Mmm." Scully pursed her lips, turning the idea around in her head. Something just didn't seem right. It shouldn't have been so easy. Mulder studied her look of concentration. "What is it, Scully?" Scully faced her partner again, frowning. "Fenway seems =too= obvious, doesn't it? The Gunmen said that the method of encryption was very simple... so simple that they hadn't thought of it earlier. Instead, they took the 'obvious' route, which was to look for a very sophisticated encryption method." She gestured toward the pad. "This red-green-park message could be similarly deceptive." "Deliberately obvious to mislead anyone who intercepted the messages," Mulder said slowly. "The answer is in front of us, but it's not the first one we think of." He grinned. "Scully, you're getting to be as paranoid as I am -- looking for subterfuge and hidden meanings in everything we see." Scully gave him a look of mock disapproval. "Paranoia has nothing to do with it, Mulder. I applied logic and reasoning to the evidence at hand." She paused for a moment. "So discarding Fenway as a meeting place, we have two remaining possibilities. Since you know the area, you can take the Park Street station; I can go to the parking garage in War -- " "No," Mulder cut in, climbing to his feet stiffly, hands on hips again. "We shouldn't -- " He stopped himself and paused. His posture softened as he looked down at the ground, then back up at his partner. His voice lowered in volume. "We shouldn't have to split up, Scully. Like I said, the answer is in front of us -- we just have to figure out what it is." He leaned over and snatched up the pad of paper from the desk, his other hand still on his hip, lower lip edged out in a frustrated pout. Scully stared back at him, head tilted a few degrees to the side, eyebrows raised. He'd all but whined that morning when she'd told him that she was going to the Hoover Building to finish the Morse report. But he'd retreated when she'd pushed back, explaining that she needed to work on it alone. Would a calm, rational dialogue once again win over her paranoid partner? She drew in a slow breath, glancing down at her watch then returning her gaze to him. "Mulder." She paused. Mulder didn't respond, seemingly absorbed in the words on the paper. A sigh of exasperation come from the back of her throat. "Mulder, it's twenty to three. We have to be in New England in less than eight hours. At this point, our only option is to fly -- " "Which gives us plenty of time to figure out what we're missing," Mulder interrupted, without looking at her. Scully had a vague sense that her partner was holding something back, but pressed forward with her argument. "If we wait too long the flights may be sold out." She gestured toward the kitchen table. "As good as those ID's that Frohike made are... the less time those phony names rattle around in a computer somewhere, the better." Scully paused again, and again got no reaction from her partner. She pressed her lips into a thin line before continuing. "Mulder, I think we should get to the airport as soon as possible. Buy tickets for the first flight to either Boston or Warwick. We can try to figure out where to meet this 'George T' en route." "And if we fly to the wrong place?" Mulder challenged, still not looking at her. "Boston and Warwick are only about an hour's drive apart," she replied, forcing a calm tone around her frustration. "And if we need to, we can still cover both locations at ten thirty." Mulder shook his head, making no attempt to hide his own frustration. <=What= is the problem, Mulder?> Scully re-phrased that thought, but still heard the exasperation spill out in her words. "Mulder, is there an issue with us covering different locations?" Mulder clenched and released his jaw. "Half an hour, Scully. Just give me that much time, okay?" Scully bit the inside of her lip to hold back a sharp response, watching him as he continued to stare at the words in front of him. He was concentrating, looking as determined as he had when he'd been working on the profile for Jack Morse. She watched him run down the list, mouthing the words as he read them. Trying to force them to fit together the way he'd tried to make sense of the senseless actions of a killer. Sometimes... Mulder's obsession with a goal could be utterly infuriating. Scully turned back to the PC and studied the subway map for a moment, taking a deep, quiet breath. She clicked on the "back" key to return to the MBTA's main page. "The only message that seems ambiguous is the red-green-park," she announced, matter-of-fact. "I'll see if I can find anything else on these sites." When he didn't acknowledge her olive branch, she looked over her shoulder, her frustration at his reticence growing anew. For a split second she saw him looking at her, but as she turned he shifted his gaze to the monitor, appearing... concerned? guilt-ridden? She wasn't sure. But then the look disappeared; his head cocked to one side and he blinked. "Scully... look at that." Scully followed his gaze to the screen. Mulder leaned over as he had earlier, one arm again across the back of her chair. He tapped at the MBTA lettering at the top of the screen with a knuckle, holding the pad of paper tucked in his palm. "That symbol, Scully -- the black 'T' in the white circle -- it's at the entrance of every subway station in Boston. The locals refer to the subway as the 'T'," he said, a spark to his voice. He straightened, standing the pad against the monitor, and pointed at the 'George T' Scully had transcribed. "The 'T' in this message -- it isn't part of the name. It's telling us where the meeting place is!" Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her as she looked at the messages on the pad, then up at the monitor, then back to the messages. "It fits," she agreed, nodding slowly. She turned back towards her partner, meeting his eyes. "Some of the best medical research facilities in the world are in Boston. It would be an ideal place for Scanlon, and the Kurts, to work." Mulder nodded, then looked at his watch, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Why don't you find out about flights to Boston," he said, moving towards the couch. "I'm going back to the office for a little while." Scully swung further around in her chair to track him with her eyes, brow creasing. "Why are you going back to the office?" Mulder picked up his cell phone and jacket, shoving the phone into one of the pockets, not looking at her. "That was Diana that called before." Scully stood, considered her response, nodded her head once. The adrenaline jitters were coming back, but she forced her voice to be even. "I heard that part." Mulder glanced up at her before turning his attention back to his jacket, pulling out a thick wad of cash. Scully tried to read his expression, but it was neutral. Although he couldn't see it, she arched her eyebrows. "She asked me to meet her." He moved to the kitchen table, Scully following until she was a few paces away from him. Mulder placed the money on the table, then looked at her again. "That's about half the cash I got from the Gunmen," he added, pulling on the jacket. Now he had that concerned/guilty look again, Scully noted. And if Mulder was going to delay their departure for Boston, something serious was going on. "Why does she want you to meet her?" He placed his hands on his hips. "She wouldn't give me details over the phone, but she said she received a disturbing e-mail at the office... something that indicates that lives may be in danger, and she thinks I'll know something about it." "Why you?" He shook his head. "She wouldn't say. She just said it was urgent that I come to see this e-mail she received." In the span of a few seconds, Scully waged an internal debate. one side of her demanded. The other side responded, "Look, Scully," Mulder spoke up, interrupting her thoughts. She met his gaze. "After..." He paused, looked at the ground, and then back up at her. "After yesterday... I know Diana isn't your favorite person right now. Believe me, she's not mine either. But you know I can't let my personal feelings interfere with responding to a potential threat." He paused again, as though waiting for her reaction. But she wanted to hear what else he had to say, so she out-waited him. "This won't take long," he continued, still looking her in the eye. "Diana knows damn well that she can't get me involved in anything, not in an official way, without going through Kersh first. So I'll look at whatever this thing is, give her my opinion, and get the hell out of there. I'll go home, I'll pack, and we'll still have plenty of time to get to Boston." Scully inhaled and nodded, but still needed to force calm into her voice. "Fine. I'll check out what flights are available and call you." Mulder half-smiled, half-grimaced and turned back to the kitchen table. Scully walked around to the opposite side, still trying to read him, and laid her hands on the top of one of the chairs. She watched Mulder scoop up his ID's, leaving hers on the table, and tuck them in an inside pocket of his jacket. Next he grabbed the paper sack with their lunches, removed a drink and a bag of chips, and deposited them on the table. Then he pulled out a wrapped sandwich and looked up at her. "Liverwurst." She stared at him. What...? "Joke. Turkey, lettuce, and tomato." He laid it on the table. Tucking her chin, Scully squeezed her eyes shut and bit back a smile, remembering the joke's grim origin. But she knew Mulder's attempt to break the tension between them was just a diversion; she still didn't know what was going on with him. And she didn't know how to ask without bringing up Diana Fowley -- the one subject she didn't trust herself to address calmly at the moment. They could talk about it later, maybe on the flight to Boston, she decided. She willed her clenched jaw to relax, then lifted her head and eyes. She found Mulder studying her again. She watched him shift his eyes down to the paper sack as he rolled the top closed. He picked up the bag, turned toward the door, then stopped as something on the table caught his eye. He picked up the rolled poster, flashing a full smile this time. "Thanks again, Scully." He turned to look at her, and she gave him a small smile in return. "You're welcome again." "I can't tell you..." he started, then faltered, and didn't continue. To Scully's amazement, his face flushed a pale shade of pink as his smile faded. He swallowed, but said nothing more. "I'll call you as soon as I've got the flight information," Scully said finally, voice gentle. Mulder hesitated, then nodded, and turned back toward the door. Then he looked down at the poster in his hand and slowed his step, stopping about three feet from the door. Growing concerned, Scully watched him, his back to her. But as she was about to speak his name he let himself out, not looking back, turning the deadbolt and doorknob awkwardly with the hand that held his lunch. Scully stared at the door for a few seconds, confused by the friction and awkwardness that had arisen between them. Was it Diana's call? The trip to Boston? Something else? Scully looked down at herself, realized she still had her coat on, and shrugged it off. She shivered at the early November chill in the air, draped the coat over the back of the kitchen chair, and went to the thermostat to push up the heat. Despite having no evidence that the timing of Agent Fowley's call was anything but a coincidence, Scully couldn't shake the feeling -- the same as she had had after the incident at that nuclear power plant in Arizona -- that something wasn't right. <"I hope you haven't been betrayed."> she'd said to Mulder, after Agent Fowley had submitted her report to OPR. He was convinced he hadn't been. Agent Fowley was protecting the X-Files, he'd said. Even Fowley's verbal attack on her the prior morning was, Fowley claimed, borne out of a desire to protect the work. Was her insistence on seeing Mulder more of the same -- whatever "same" really was? Scully returned to her desk and pulled up a website to check flights to Boston, still fighting the uneasy feeling. She felt the knots in her shoulders tightening again, and decided it was time for more Tylenol. She stood and moved toward the kitchen, lost in thought. <"You're not worth it."> She'd said that to Fowley the previous morning in the kitchen of the Hoover building, refusing to concern herself with the other Agent's pettiness. Was there something worthy of her concern after all? ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 10 - ******************************************************************** Author's note for Chapter 10: if you're interested in seeing it, the MBTA website that Mulder and Scully visited is at www.mbta.com. Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. Prior chapters are available at http://www.thebasementoffice.com. Author's note: What I had intended to be Chapter 11 was coming out much longer than I'd expected, so I split it into two chapters. Look for Chapter 12 in about a week. This one's for you, Lynne. :) ******************************************************************** - Chapter 11 - ******************************************************************** Georgetown Washington, DC Saturday, 2:55 p.m. Four hours hadn't yet passed since Scully had taken her last dose of Tylenol, but she tapped two caplets from the bottle to her palm anyway. She glanced at the wall clock, although she'd looked at her watch only a minute earlier. She filled a glass at her kitchen faucet, then swallowed the pills with a mouthful of the cool water. She closed her eyes, sipping the remaining water. She willed her tense muscles to relax, but met with little success. Her mind kept racing around the messages from Kurt Crawford, the call from Diana, Mulder's high-strung -- for =him=, she thought, without humor -- behavior, their impending journey to Boston. She lifted the half-empty glass to her forehead, the chilled surface giving her a few moments of relief from the throb between her eyes. Too bad it couldn't make the images in her head sluggish, more manageable. Couldn't all the aggravation just go away? For five minutes, even? Scully drew in a breath, a reverse sigh, then released it in a puff of air. No, Dana, it's not going to go away, at least not on its own. Finish what you're doing and get back to work. She returned the glass to her lips, drinking faster. As she felt the soothing water run down her throat, into her stomach, she realized that she hadn't swallowed anything else besides coffee since early morning. Perhaps she should eat the lunch that Mulder had brought her, she reasoned. It might very well improve her headache, and in turn make current events seem more manageable. <"I brought lunch for both of us. I know you said you weren't hungry, but I thought you might be by now."> Sometimes he gave her what she needed even when she stubbornly resisted. The corners of her mouth turned up for a moment as she opened her eyes. Scully set the empty glass in the sink and then headed toward the kitchen table. She reached past the cash and ID's Mulder had left for her, scooped up her sandwich, chips, and drink, and continued into the living room. Scully placed her lunch on one corner of her desk, then sat in front of the PC. The website she'd pulled up earlier to check flight information was waiting patiently for her. First things first, Dana. The pad of paper on which she'd written Kurt's messages was still propped in front of the monitor, left there by Mulder. Scully laid it to the side of the keyboard, then studied the screen, reaching for the mouse. *Round trip or one way travel?* Scully hesitated a moment, then clicked "One way." Who knew how long they would be with the Kurts? She continued clicking and typing the requisite information, including a request to see all non-stop flights first. In this case speed was a greater priority over cost, their rendezvous with Kurt only seven and a half hours away. *Find flights?* the screen prompted. Point, click, wait. With one eye on the screen, Scully opened her drink and unwrapped her sandwich. When the aroma of the moist turkey reached her, her mouth watered. Suddenly ravenous, she took a large bite. Ahh, yes. Sustenance. She closed her eyes as she continued to chew. It felt good to work her jaw up and down, she decided, to loosen the muscles taut from stress. She opened her eyes just long enough to reach for her drink; she took a long sip of the lemon-lime soda and reveled in the feel of it gliding down her throat. Yes, much better. Scully tipped her head back, stretching out neck muscles, and exhaled a long relaxed sigh. After several seconds she tilted her head back up, rolled her shoulders slowly. Well, she mused, rueful, that was about ten seconds of making everything go away. Time to get back to work again. She opened her eyes; the information she had requested was on her monitor. She sat up straighter, took another bite of her sandwich, and exchanged her drink for the mouse. Point, click, scroll. Scully scanned the listing quickly, clicking onto numerous additional screens. Three airlines, Delta, United, and U.S. Airways, provided non-stop flights to Boston. Some flights departed from National Airport, others from Dulles Airport. Only one flight was scheduled for departure from Baltimore-Washington International, which Scully immediately discounted as an option. Nodding to herself, she noted that the flight time was an hour and a half from DC to Boston. Scully took another bite of her sandwich, another sip of her drink. She ripped open the bag of chips, popped one in her mouth, and reached for the mouse again. She ran several additional searches, specifying each airline in turn at both National and Dulles Airports, printing out the results. Type, click, chew, sip, repeat. Within minutes, Scully had printed off all of the information she wanted. As she set aside the empty wrappings of her lunch, she glanced at her watch. Hmm... already after three o'clock. Mulder would be reaching the Hoover Building soon. Scully felt her jaw tighten again as her mind's eye flashed to Diana Fowley in the basement office; she nipped at her bottom lip and pushed the thought from her mind. That was just inviting her headache back in full force. She wouldn't let the woman do that to her. So. If Mulder spent half an hour there, half an hour to get home with traffic... fifteen minutes to throw some clothes in a bag... she could pick him up at 4:30. With traffic, they'd have to allow an hour to get to the airport. She shuffled the printouts and determined that U.S. Airways would be the airline they'd use. That airline had flights as late as 8 p.m. from Dulles, and 8:30 p.m. from National. Flights with Delta and United stopped at 6 p.m.; they would be virtually impossible to catch if they only reached the airport at 5:30. One detail nagged at her, though: flights on U.S. Airways might be available, but how many seats were open? Could they get to the airport and find them sold out? Maybe they would need to risk making reservations with their phony ID's after all. Only one way to know for sure -- call the airline. Scully shut down her PC, then scooped up the printouts and the pad with Kurt's messages. She crossed the short distance to the phone with brisk steps, but stopped before touching it. When the Gunmen had called she'd chosen to not use her cell phone for reasons of security. Similarly, she decided, she should avoid her cordless living room phone. She moved down the hall toward her bedroom. Scully tossed the papers on the bed, then reached for the phone on the nightstand. As her fingertips brushed the handset she hesitated, looked at it with suspicion. Damn -- she should have checked it before using it earlier. After all, Kurt had been concerned that he had been followed. Although she'd never found a bug in her home before, it wouldn't be the first time she or Mulder had been subject to surveillance. Frowning, she turned the phone over. Nothing looked unusual, but she unplugged the wire that led to the wall jack. Nope, nothing there. She plugged the wire back in and repeated the motions at the phone jack itself, and with the wire between the base and the handset. Nothing. She shook her head; was it possible she was becoming too paranoid? Scully scanned her printouts, but found no phone number for flight information. With a frustrated click of her tongue, she called directory assistance. "U.S. Airways reservations, please." Within a minute, Scully was listening to the airline's bland "on hold" music. As she'd done earlier, she uncoiled the phone's wire from behind the nightstand, then carried the phone's base to the closet. With the handset tucked between shoulder and chin she pulled open the door and studied the bags on the top shelf. Her usual overnight bag had seen a lot of service lately; had in fact just been returned to the closet after their trip for the Morse case. It was illogical to try to exorcise the memories of that trip with different luggage, she knew. Nevertheless, she grasped the soft padded handles of her large duffel bag with her free hand and pulled it down. She tossed the bag on the bed and zipped it open, then the music over the phone cut off. "Thank you for calling U.S. Airways. This is Debbie; may I help you?" Scully sat next to the duffel bag, swapping the phone base for pad and pen. "Yes, I need to confirm the availability of non-stop flights today from Washington, DC, to Boston, Massachusetts, for two adults. I'd like to leave Washington from either National or Dulles airports." Scully heard the sound of typing in the background. "First class, or lowest available fare?" Without thinking, Scully rolled her shoulders again. For a split second she envisioned the sardine can of economy class, then the comfort of first class. But then she thought about the roll of cash -- =their= cash -- that Mulder had left with her. It was a lot of money, but not =that= much. "Lowest available fare, please." A pause, and more typing. "From Dulles, only an eight p.m. flight is available. The four p.m. is full, and the six p.m. has been canceled." "Dulles, eight p.m. only," Scully repeated, jotting it down on the pad. "Is that flight close to being full?" "No, there are plenty of seats left." Another pause, and more typing. "From Reagan National there are flights available every hour on the half hour, from three thirty to eight thirty p.m. None of those are close to being full either." "National, three thirty to eight thirty, every hour," Scully transcribed. She thought of their finances again. They should have an idea of how much money to have handy to pull out at the ticket counter... no sense in flashing more cash than necessary. "How much is the fare?" "The one-way fare is two hundred ninety-eight dollars per person. May I make a reservation for you?" "No, thank you, I'm not ready to make reservations yet. Thank you for your help." "Thank you for calling U.S. Airways." Scully hung up the phone and returned it to the nightstand. She looked down at the flight times she'd written on the pad, then glanced at her watch. If she picked Mulder up at 4:30, they could easily get to National, which was fairly close, by 5:30. Even if it took an hour to buy tickets, they could take either the 6:30 or 7:30 flight. With the flight taking ninety minutes, that left plenty of time to make their 10:30 meeting in Boston with this mysterious "George." The 8:30 flight, or the 8 p.m. out of Dulles, was cutting the time too close. "Good -- National it is." Scully shook her head in amusement at having spoken the words aloud. Well, it felt good to have her direction back again. Better mood now, Dana? Food can do wonderful things for the disposition. Hadn't her mother always said something like that? And apparently it helped Tylenol to do its job, too; her headache was almost gone. And just in time to call Mulder. She lifted the phone receiver again and speed-dialed his cell phone number. ******************************************************************** On the road between Scully's apartment and the J. Edgar Hoover Building Saturday, 3:05 p.m. Mulder drove with his left hand on the steering wheel, his right gripping his half-eaten sandwich. He chewed deliberately, re-playing the events at Scully's apartment in his mind. And coming to one clear conclusion: He never should have answered his cell phone. Because if he hadn't, he wouldn't be on his way back to the office. Because he wouldn't have talked to Diana. Because he and Scully would still be... He smiled, almost able to feel his arms around her again. And hers around him. Neither of them was hurt or traumatized, either -- what a concept. And the poster... he glanced down at it, leaning against the passenger seat. That had to be the biggest shock of all. It was so... =demonstrative= of Scully to get it for him. And maybe -- just maybe -- she would have been even more demonstrative if he'd gotten to say what he'd wanted to say. Which he would have, if his damn cell phone hadn't rung. But it had. And he'd answered it. And now he was on his way back to the Hoover Building. Shit. But then, if it hadn't been Diana's call, it might have been the Gunmen's, with their news about Kurt's messages. Or Kersh, calling with some bullshit fertilizer emergency, just to make his life miserable. Or even a damn wrong number. Maybe he and Scully were destined to always be interrupted. He sighed and took a gulp of his drink. Damn Diana and her lousy timing. Whatever it was she wanted him to see, he was willing to bet there were a dozen other agents capable of handling it. If he and Scully had to be interrupted, couldn't it have been for something important? Some information about this "George" person they would be meeting, maybe? Well, at least he and Scully were going to meet him together. Jesus, he'd practically bitten Scully's head off, arguing against them going to different rendezvous points at 10:30. Every nerve ending in his body had screamed that splitting up was a bad idea. While he usually didn't question his intuition, he couldn't deny that Kurt Crawford's reappearance had dredged up some of his worst anxieties and fears. Scully's cancer. Her abduction. That damn chip. Mulder sucked in a breath, suppressing a shiver. Yeah, lots of anxieties, all right. No wonder his protective instinct was going into overdrive. He exhaled, loud in the still air of the car, his mouth suddenly dry. He took another swallow of his drink, then reached toward the bag of chips on the passenger seat. His hand brushed against the poster, and a smile flashed across his lips. Really, he couldn't believe she'd given it to him. That she had her own version of 'I want to believe'." That she'd bared her devotion to their work -- and to him? -- so explicitly. Damn. He should have held her, touched her, again. He'd wanted to, as he'd stood by her door, unable to find the words to tell her what the poster, and her declarations, had meant to him. Like an idiot, he'd let himself think about it long enough to worry how she would react if he'd embraced her again. His first hug had been in reaction to her giving him the poster. If he'd done it again, how would he explain it -- an encore? So he'd lost his nerve, and the moment was lost. Damn Diana and her lousy timing. A car horn behind him startled him out of his reverie; Mulder realized he was stopped at a green light. He stomped on the gas pedal. Only a few more blocks to the Hoover Building. This had better be good, Diana. =Damn= good. If you dragged me over here for another half-assed attempt at apologizing, like your little visit last night... Her visit last night. <"You could still have the X-Files back, Fox. Agent Spender's heart isn't in it, but he's afraid to say so. I could talk to Skinner, get you transferred back -- "> Christ, what if she pitched =that= idea again? Surely he must have made it clear he wasn't interested, but... What if that was why she wanted him to come to the basement office? What if... what if... Holy shit. What if it wasn't her idea? Diana's suggestion had seemed so outrageous at the time. Why hadn't he examined it more closely? Stunned, Mulder considered the possibilities. What if someone else -- Skinner? -- was trying to give him and Scully a way to get the X-Files back? <"I'm no help to you outside the majority, Agent Mulder."> After OPR had refused to give the X-Files back to him and Scully, Skinner had implied that he would help when he could. It was Skinner who had given him the file on the EBE in Phoenix. After that fiasco, though, Skinner had been ordered to have no contact with his former agents. Since Diana and Agent Spender reported to him, he could have suggested to Diana... Christ. Mulder's mind clicked over the steps, rapid-fire. Diana would replace Spender with him. He'd be back on the X-Files. He would work with Scully unofficially, like they had the first time the X-Files had been shut down. Then he would finagle Scully back on officially. But then, how to get Diana =off= the X-Files? She was a capable investigator, certainly, but once Scully was back on Diana would be a third wheel. Another issue: would Scully even agree to come back with Diana there, even if it were only temporary? Jesus... what the hell was he thinking? Getting the X-Files back meant getting them back for =both= Scully and him. Otherwise, no deal. He'd told his partner as much the previous day. <"It's no contest, Scully. I'd rather work with you on fertilizer duty than be on the X-Files without you."> And it wouldn't be right to jerk Diana around like that. To use her like that. No matter how pissed off he was at her for what she'd done and said to Scully. Mulder pulled into the Hoover Building's garage and parked as close as he could to the doors. As he cleared the empty wrappings from his lunch off his lap, his cell phone rang. "Mulder." "It's me." Mulder smiled at the soft sound of Scully's voice. Amazing -- she didn't sound pissed off at all. In fact, she sounded almost... upbeat. Considering his high strung -- for him! -- behavior at her apartment, he was lucky she wasn't reading him the riot act. "Hey, Scully. What's up?" "Where are you?" "In my car. I just got here." She made a small humming sound. "I found what we need. How soon...?" He nodded into the phone. "I'm gonna go for a new land speed record here, Scully. I'll call you when I'm leaving." He could almost hear her nodding in return. "I'll be here." For a moment Mulder considered apologizing. Sorry for being such an ass before, Scully. But he could see his watch out of the corner of his eye. Apologize and run? No -- he'd tell her later. On the plane, maybe. So instead he said, "I'll be in touch," and thumbed off the phone. Mulder sat for a few seconds, eyes squeezed shut, picturing himself driving off without seeing Diana. But then he saw himself trying to explain his no-show to her later. No, it would be easier to just get it over with. Besides, if this e-mail really was something he could help with... Mulder huffed out a breath, opened his eyes, and realized he was staring down at the poster. He reached over and stroked it with the back of his finger. Once, twice, three times. New land speed record, Mulder. Remember? He sighed, pocketed his phone, and went to meet Diana Fowley. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 11 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. Prior chapters are available at http://www.thebasementoffice.com. ******************************************************************** - Chapter 12 - ******************************************************************** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Saturday, 3:16 p.m. Mulder walked down the familiar basement hallway and stopped at a closed door. The door was familiar, too, but now the nameplates on it were foreign. Ugly. He sucked in a breath and frowned before rapping his knuckles against it. Dammit, he shouldn't have to knock on his own door! No, not mine anymore, he thought. He stared down at his Nikes, chewing his lower lip, then lifted his head again. But someday. This will be Scully's and mine again. He waited, but received no response to his knock. Mulder glanced down at his watch. Diana couldn't be gone; it wasn't that long since he'd spoken to her. He ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as he touched where Kurt had hit him the night before. He turned up the collar on his jacket. No need to give her a show. So where =was= Diana? Perhaps she was in the back area of the office and hadn't heard him? He was about to knock again when he heard her voice. It sounded like, "All right," and was followed by the dull rattle of a phone being returned to its base. Oh, of course. "Diana?" he called. "Come in, Fox. It's open." As he turned the knob and pushed the door open, Fowley stood, moving toward him in greeting. "Sorry, talking to my mother. She sends her regards." Mulder dipped his chin in a half-nod, trying to ignore the sudden grip on his stomach. It was an innocent comment, but he really didn't want to deal with memories of Diana's family. "You had the door closed?" Yes, Virginia, that was a stupid question, but at least it changed the subject. Fowley shrugged. "You know how drafty it can get in here with the door open." Mulder nodded again, slowly. "Yes. I remember." So much for changing the subject. Fuck it -- let's just get this over with. "So where's this e-mail I need to see?" Gesturing toward her PC, Fowley moved behind her desk. Mulder followed a few steps behind. He glanced toward the wall, where his poster used to hang, until he realized that Diana was talking again. "I'm sorry for dragging you all the way over here on a Saturday, but I knew you would want to see this as soon as possible." She paused; Mulder met her gaze. "And I wanted to talk to you about this face to face." Fine -- get on with it. He forced a neutral look to his face, a patient tone to his voice. "So let's see it." Mulder watched her shift piles of requisition and expense forms to the side, excavating the mouse. A click cleared the screen saver and revealed an open e-mail message. STOP THEM BEFORE THEY KILL MORE INNOCENT WOMEN AND CHILDREN. Shouting, Mulder mused, his mind clicking into profiler mode automatically. The person who sent this wants us to pay attention. Or, they're unfamiliar with netiquette. Mulder's eyes trailed up to the "from" line. It looked like one of a thousand different variations on a spam address. If the sender were knowledgeable enough to disguise the address, then he -- or she -- would know what typing in all caps meant. The message itself suggested someone who wanted to be a protector. If the whole thing wasn't a prank or a hoax. Mulder's eyes dropped down a line, noting that Diana was the only recipient listed. So far, not much to go on. "That's it?" "No." She scrolled down the screen. "There are two photos attached." She clicked on one of the attachments, and after a few seconds the screen was filled with a familiar face. Mulder felt his stomach lurch. Scanlon. The photo was grainy, but there was no mistaking who it was. Mulder had never met Dr. Scanlon during the brief period when the man had "cared" for Scully, but he knew the face. After Scully had signed herself out of Allentown Bethlehem Medical Center, they'd procured numerous photos of Scanlon from hospital security cameras and personnel records. And he'd had a few nightmares over the years that had engraved the image into his brain. Mulder stared at the color head shot, apparently taken from a distance, outdoors, with a powerful zoom lens. The bright blue sky of the background gave nothing away as to location or season. Scanlon's hair was shorter than Mulder had seen in the hospital records, but that didn't mean much. The e-mail photo could be recent, or several years old -- and that assumed it hadn't been altered. "Do you know him?" Diana's voice startled him out of his reverie. Still staring at the photo, Mulder nodded. There was no reason to withhold the truth from her. The X-Files may have burned, but the summaries given to Skinner were still around in all their triplicate glory. "Kevin Scanlon. M.D., or at least we think he's one. He's a suspect in a murder investigation. From a case Scully and I worked on about a year and a half ago. He disappeared and has been a fugitive since then." "What kind of murder investigation?" Mulder licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "We believe he hastened the deaths of some women suffering from brain cancer. At least two women. Maybe a dozen." "Brain cancer? Isn't that what Agent Scully had?" Mulder refused to acknowledge the touch of compassion he heard in her professional monotone, interpreting it as guilt over her treatment of Scully the previous day. Good -- she deserved to feel guilty. He nodded once in response to Fowley's question, jaw clenched. "Scanlon treated her for a few days, before we knew he was a suspect." "And the case was an X-File?" Mulder paused, trying to push away the picture in his head. Scully, sitting at Penny Northern's bedside in her last hours. Scully had been so close to Penny then, both physically and in terms of her own frail health. It could have been Scully lying there, exhausted, waiting for death to lead her away... "Fox?" Mulder flinched as Fowley touched his arm; he sensed her draw back immediately. Eyes burning, hands fisted at his sides, Mulder nodded his acknowledgment. "Yeah, it was an X-File. The women were all members of a group called MUFON -- Mutual UFO Network." Fowley nodded. "Yes, I've heard of them." Mulder turned his head to look at her, eyebrows raised. "I was in Europe, Fox. Not on a deserted island. I kept up on some things, you know." Mulder nodded absently, turning back toward the monitor, drumming the desk with the fingers of his other hand. He tried to focus on the message, not the memories. Who had sent this warning about Scanlon -- Kurt? But why the hell would he send it to Diana? And how did she know to ask him about it? "If you didn't know who this man was, why did you think I'd have any insight into the message?" Fowley reached for the mouse again. "Because of this second photo. The one that I wanted to talk to you about." With a few clicks she opened the second photo attachment, and this time Mulder felt a white-hot knife twist in his gut. It was Kurt Crawford. Like the photo of Scanlon, this was a color head shot, taken outdoors from a distance. Crawford's face was turned down a fraction as though he were walking against a brisk wind. The background was a pale grey sky, with a wisp of muddled green in one corner that could have been leaves. Unlike the photo of Scanlon, the man in this e-mailed image was identical to the Kurts that Mulder had met before. Identical to the Kurt he had met just last night. A Kurt who had turned up from out of nowhere, after disappearing for a year and a half, with no explanations... No. No. The implication... that Scanlon and the Kurts =together= were responsible for those women dying... for Scully almost dying... it made no sense. The e-mail had to be a hoax. The Kurts couldn't be working with Scanlon, they were trying to stop his work, trying to help, trying to help Scully and those other women... "I recognized him." Diana's voice interrupted Mulder's careening thoughts. "When I saw that picture, I remembered. I saw him enter your apartment building last night, while I was waiting for you to get home." She tapped a finger on the monitor just under the photo. "Who is he, Fox?" Mulder tried to force words from his mouth, but realized that his jaw was hanging slack. He clamped it shut, swallowing hard, fists balled on his hips. "His name is Kurt Crawford." "How is he connected to Scanlon? Was he a suspect, too?" "No." Mulder drew out the syllable, lips barely moving. "No, he was never a suspect." Who sent this? Why did they want him to think that Kurt and Scanlon were working together? Why did they want =Diana= to think that Kurt and Scanlon were working together? Why did they want Diana involved at all? What was she being used for? Maybe the theory he'd had in the car was wrong. Maybe someone other than Skinner was putting the bug in Diana's ear to get him back on the X-Files. But who would try to manipulate her like that? Another mole like Blevins? And why? He needed a copy of the e-mail, the photos. He needed to show them to Scully, get her thoughts. Get the Gunmen to go over them. "But there was a connection between these two men?" Fowley persisted. "Tell me what this is about, Fox." Mulder reached over to grab the mouse, hesitated, then clicked on "print." He couldn't afford the electronic trail involved in forwarding the message to the Gunmen -- not even an indirect trail. A hard copy would have to do. "Kurt Crawford was a member of the same MUFON group as the women who had died." In quick succession he printed the photo of Scanlon and the e-mail message, then returned to the photo of Crawford. "He was the one who suggested that there was a conspiracy behind the deaths." Mulder moved to the printer in the corner of the office. It was a brand new, very expensive, color laser printer. Impressive -- apparently Diana had the right touch with those requisition forms on her desk. "Crawford had been afraid that his life was in danger," he continued. "He disappeared after downloading some information from the PC of one of the women who died." His back to Fowley, Mulder took the three sheets of paper from the printer, folded them, and stuffed them in his inside jacket pocket. "We assumed that he had been killed." True, just some details left out -- like the fact that there were multiple Kurts. To protect them, Mulder had left that piece of information out of his official report. The rest Diana could have discovered for herself. Mulder returned to Fowley's desk as he finished with, "There was never any indication that he and Scanlon might have been working together." He stopped at the corner of the desk, staring at the photo of Kurt again. Whatever was going on, whatever the intent of the message and the photos, it all came down to two questions: who had sent the e-mail? And why to Diana? And once again, Fowley interrupted his concentration. "Fox, did you see this man last night?" Her voice was quiet. Concerned. "Surely he must have gone to your building looking for you." Mulder hesitated. He didn't want to lie to Diana, but he'd be damned if he would let anyone else touch the case that had cast such a pall over Scully. Had so irrevocably, so heinously, altered her life. He certainly wouldn't allow Diana to be involved, not after she'd been so callous to Scully. Besides, it would be better -- safer -- for Diana to be kept out of it. She had no idea what he and Scully were up against. Mulder shook his head, looking up at her. "I didn't see him on my way up to my apartment, after you left. And he didn't come knocking on my door." Yes, that was the truth, too. More details left out, that's all. Mulder was glad that the upturned collar on his jacket covered the evidence of his meeting with Kurt. "Maybe he was planning on coming to see me, and changed his mind." Diana's brow wrinkled. "Or maybe he didn't want you to see him. Maybe he's following you. Keeping tabs on you." Mulder shook his head again, feeling an itch to leave before he had to compound his mistruths. "I don't think so, Diana. Why would he follow me now, after all this time?" Fowley's hands migrated to her hips. "You said he wasn't a suspect, Fox. Maybe he should have been one all along. Apparently someone thinks he had something to do with those deaths." Yes, it was definitely time to go. Mulder took a half step backwards. "Diana, I don't know what to tell you. I don't know why this message was sent to you or what it's supposed to mean. I've told you the basics of the case. I suggest you get the file from Skinner and read the details for yourself." Mulder stared down again at the photo of Crawford, the same questions shouting at him again: who sent it, and why to Diana? Did someone want him working with Diana? Did someone want him away from Scully? If that was the intent, it sure as hell wasn't going to work. Whatever the answers, he and Scully would find them where the Kurts were. In Boston. Starting with their meeting with George at 10:30. Reflexively, Mulder glanced at his watch. Already after 3:30. Time to go... "Am I keeping you from something?" At Fowley's chilly words, Mulder dragged his hand across his stubbled chin. Diana had never been an easy one to lie to. "Yeah, I have some personal business that I need to take care of this afternoon." Diana stared at him coolly, so he continued. "Legal stuff, Diana. Related to my father's estate. You know how that crap never ends." Fowley sighed. "Yes, unfortunately I do." She took a step closer to Mulder and gestured toward her PC. "But you're not just going to walk away from this, are you?" "Diana, I've told you what I could. I don't think I can give you any more help. Read the file, and take it from there. I'm sure you and Agent Spender can handle it." "Fox, I need your help on this. Or, more to the point, you need mine. You know that." Mulder's eyes narrowed. We had this conversation last night, Diana. I don't need you watching my back. He kept his words quick, biting. "I need your help? What I =need=, Diana, is to get the hell out of this office. You know damn well I shouldn't even be talking to you. If I'm found anywhere near an X-File my ass is toast. Until and unless A.D. Kersh says otherwise, whatever you've got there -- " Mulder jerked his head toward the PC -- "it belongs to you and Agent Spender." Like =hell= it does. Fowley met his tone with her own sharp, raised voice, stabbing a finger toward the monitor again. "Fox, this message is about someone who was at your apartment building last night. Someone who may be dangerous. Someone looking for you. Maybe =your= life is in danger. Why don't we at least stake out your building, watch for him to come back again tonight -- " "NO, Diana!" Fowley was all but shouting. "How could A.D. Kersh have a problem with that? Damn it, Fox, aren't you concerned about this at all?" Mulder matched her tone, eager to finish the argument and get out of the Hoover Building. "I'm more concerned about my job than I am about this message. I mean, look at it, Diana! It's an anonymous message from some savior-wannabe, going off on a case that hasn't had a lead in a year and a half. It's a vague warning with no solid information. This is =exactly= the kind of bullshit I'd expect from a hacker, some bored college kid." He slowed, emphasizing his next words. "So no, Diana, I'm not taking any chances on pissing off Kersh. Have Skinner talk to him." "Fox, why are you being so stubborn? Since when are you so concerned about playing by the rules?" I'm not, Diana. Trust me on that. "Since I got put on probation. You remember that little OPR meeting, don't you? 'Refusal to cease all material association with the X-Files will result in immediate dismissal.'" He waved up toward the skylights and the sidewalk beyond them. "Fired FBI agents have a hard time finding new jobs, Diana. If you want help on this case, have Skinner talk to Kersh. Get the green light for Scully and me to work on it and -- " "Agent Scully? Why her?" "Why her?" Mulder's eyes grew wide. "Because this was her case, too. I told you last night, Scully is my =partner=. Or have you forgotten that conversation?" Fowley pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes. "I'll speak to A.D. Skinner first thing Monday morning." "Fine." Mulder twisted toward the door. His over-stuffed inside jacket pocket rubbed against him, reminding him of the printouts he'd shoved inside. Had Diana picked up on his inconsistency? He'd taken the printouts, yet was refusing to help without Kersh's approval. If she did notice, well... Fowley followed a few steps behind Mulder, stopping at the edge of her desk. Mulder yanked open the door, slipped through, and then shut it behind him with an adamant thud. ******************************************************************** Fowley stood grounded in place, listening. When the ding of the closing elevator doors echoed down the hall, she reached back for the phone on the desk and dialed an outside line. "Agent Spender, this is Agent Fowley. Please call me at my cell phone as soon as you get this message. It looks like we have a case to investigate." ******************************************************************** Georgetown Washington, DC Saturday, 3:38 p.m. Scully carried her packed duffel bag to the living room and dropped it onto the couch with an impatient plop. For the third time in ten minutes she checked her watch. Why hadn't Mulder called? It was getting close to half an hour since he'd arrived at the Hoover Building. He had said that he would make his meeting with Agent Fowley brief. He had said that he would call when he was leaving. Maybe she should just head over to his place. If need be, she could start packing for him. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. Ten minutes. In ten minutes she would leave for Mulder's apartment. She'd call him on the way if she still hadn't heard from him. Decision made, Scully strode to the kitchen. She collected the cash and ID's from the table, her coat from the chair. She returned to the living room, tossing the coat and ID's next to the duffel bag. With quick flicks of her fingers and wrists, Scully counted out $700 for plane fare, then stuffed the wad into the front pocket of her jeans. She went to her desk and pulled an envelope from one of the drawers, noticing that she'd left the wrappers from her lunch next to the PC. Had to take care of that before she left. She put the remaining money in the envelope and unzipped a compartment at one end of the duffel bag. The cash joined the flight lists she'd printed and the pad of paper with Kurt's messages. Scully turned back to the forged ID's. Frohike really had done a nice job, she mused, shuffling through them. She ran the tip of her thumb over her "new" name on the passport, driver's license, and credit card. A stab of guilt shot through her; Scully hoped that the deceased woman whose name she had borrowed wouldn't mind. Hoped she would know, somehow, that she'd chosen the name with respect. To honor the woman's intelligence and dignity. Scully slid the driver's license into the other front pocket of her jeans. The other ID's she tucked in the pocket of her coat. Scully went back to her desk and gathered up the trash in a neat ball. As she started to turn back toward the kitchen, a glint from the corner of the desk caught her eye. Tasteful brass frames of various shapes and sizes held her family in miniature. In the center of the collection, haloed by golden metal, was her only photo of Emily. Someone else who deserved to be remembered with respect and honor. Eyes suddenly heavy, Scully drew her forefinger around the perimeter of the frame. Then, as if to silently introduce her daughter to the rest of her family, Scully ran her finger over the tops of the other photos. Melissa, tall and graceful, in one of her flowing dresses. Bill, Tara, and Matthew at the baby's christening. Charles at his college graduation; an old photo but her favorite of him. Her Mom and Dad at the surprise party they'd given him after his last promotion. Out of eight people, three of them were gone. Scully lingered over the photo of her parents. Ahab was in his uniform, looking somehow relaxed and stern at the same time. Just as she remembered him. If you could see me now, Ahab. Would you have ever guessed it? That your little girl would turn into the rule-breaker she is today? This trip I'm going on -- I'm disobeying the direct orders of my superiors. And it's far from the first time. Would you approve? Or at least understand? If Melissa and Emily are with you, then you've got to know that what I'm doing is right. She stood and gazed at him, earnest, as if he might answer her. The shrill ring of the phone shook Scully from her contemplation. She jerked up her wrist to check the time again. Quarter of four. She rushed past the cordless phone in the living room to her bedroom, lifting the receiver on the third ring. "Hello?" She huffed out the word, half-breathless. "I'm on my way home." Scully's pulse quickened at the grimness in her partner's voice. "What happened?" Her stomach clenched when the question was met with silence. "Mulder?" "I'll tell you when I see you." God. What now? "All right. I'll pick you up... " she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, "four thirty?" "I'll be ready." As she set the phone back in its base, Scully realized that she was clenching the ball of trash in her other hand. Shaking her head, she returned to the kitchen. Whatever Diana had shown Mulder, it was serious. Scully tossed the trash in the can, then washed her hands. As she dried them, she eyed the garbage can. She didn't know how long it would be before she'd be back. Should she take the time to empty it? No -- even if it sat a week, there was nothing in there that would evolve into a new life form. It could wait. Finding out what Mulder had seen -- and getting to Boston -- couldn't. Scully went back to the living room to gather her things. If she got to Mulder's apartment early, so be it. ******************************************************************** J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, DC Saturday, 3:55 p.m. Diana Fowley thumbed on her cell phone on the first ring. A male voice crackled through the line. "She's picking him up at four thirty. They're taking U.S. Airways from National. Rendezvous after the event as we discussed." The line disconnected. Fowley slipped the phone into her pocket as she shut down her PC. She snatched up her belongings and hurried from the basement office, locking the door behind her. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 12 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Author's Notes: Can I get a big *OH YEAH* for Jintian, the best beta reader on the planet? (Go ahead, argue with me. I dare ya.) Honest, folks, you wouldn't want to read what I write before Jintian does her kung fu on it. Truly, I am blessed. :) Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. Prior chapters are available at http://www.thebasementoffice.com. Author's Notes: Oh, hello. It's nice to see you all again. My Muse finally got her act together and graced me with a new chapter. I promise that it *WILL NOT* be another four freakin' months before you see Chapter 14. Are you listening, Muse? ******************************************************************** - Chapter 13 - ******************************************************************** Alexandria, Virginia Saturday, 4:24 p.m. Scully drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in a tuneless rhythm as she circled Mulder's block for the fourth time. This was ridiculous. Even all the illegal parking spaces were taken. She glanced at her watch, mentally calculating the time it would take to reach the airport. Traffic had been crawling on the way to Mulder's apartment; getting to National Airport would take a good hour. Damn it. Scully thrust one hand toward her jacket pocket, intending to grab her cell phone. She cursed under her breath as her seat belt got in the way. With one eye on the road and the other watching for any open parking places, she yanked on her jacket blindly to free it. When she felt something give way she stole a look down; a corner of the pocket was torn. "God -- " she muttered, then cut herself off, stomping on the brake pedal as she realized she was about to run a stop sign. Momentum pressed her into the shoulder harness, then slammed her back into the seat as the car jerked to a stop. Scully pulled up some slack on the seat belt, freed the damaged pocket, and yanked out the cell phone. As she accelerated, beginning another circuit around Mulder's building, Scully punched one of the familiar speed dial numbers with her thumb. She blew out a frustrated sigh as Mulder's home phone rang. ******************************************************************** 2630 Hegal Place Apartment 42 Saturday, 4:20 p.m. Mulder hunched over the open garment bag that was spread open on his bed. He hadn't emptied the bag since their return from the Morse case in Providence; packing for Boston had been a blur of replacing dirty clothes with clean. He glanced at his watch -- ten more minutes until Scully picked him up -- and flipped through the bag's contents, mentally ticking off what he'd need. Suit and shoes -- check. Underwear, socks, T-shirts -- check. Map of Massachusetts -- check. Flashlight -- check. When he was satisfied that he had everything, Mulder closed the bag and moved to the end of his bed, where he'd tossed his jacket. The inside pocket bulged with everything he'd collected during the day; he left his cell phone and the ID's that Frohike had created there but removed everything else. Half the cash he'd gotten from the Gunmen, the airline passenger manifests, and the CD migrated to the outer zippered compartment of the garment bag. Mulder shoved the rest of the cash into the front pocket of his jeans, then turned his attention to the printout of the e-mail that had been sent to Diana. Just seeing the two photos of Kurt and Scanlon was enough to start his stomach churning again. Frowning, he shoved the garment bag toward the middle of the bed and sat down with a heavy thud. Mulder flipped through the pages, turning ideas over in his mind, then stared at the photo of the familiar hybrid. Kurt couldn't possibly be working with Scanlon, could he? If he were, why would someone have waited so long to let him know that -- and been so vague in doing so? Hell, the e-mail hadn't even been sent to him. It had gone to Diana. Why did someone want her involved in this? If Kurt =was= working with Scanlon -- if his intentions were malicious -- he could have made his move when he first showed up the previous night. And if he wanted to lure them somewhere, why go to the trouble of sending Scully and him those four encrypted e-mail messages? It simply made no sense. Mulder kept coming back to the same conclusion: the Kurt who had visited them the night before was sincere. He wanted to help Scully, and the other women like her. And he needed them to go to Boston. Which meant that the e-mail to Diana was a hoax. Which meant that someone knew that Kurt had contacted them. Which meant that someone had sent the bogus e-mail to Diana to use her. They were using Diana to separate him from Scully. To put Scully in danger. Fuck that. The phone on the nightstand rang, jolting Mulder from his thoughts. With a start, he realized that his free hand had been savagely picking at a loose thread on the garment bag's padded handle. He jerked his hand away and snatched up the phone receiver, answering with a gruff voice. "Yeah." His partner's similar clipped tone got his attention. "There is =nowhere= to park near your building, Mulder. I'm circling your block like some kind of hawk." At her words, Mulder pictured his partner as a stern, regal bird: eyes piercing, watching for their enemies, missing nothing. Hawk-Scully had scalpel blades for talons; she'd carve into anyone who tried to separate them. The latter image forced a twisted smile to his face. "Keep circling, Scully. I'll meet you out front -- I'll be down in a few minutes." He dropped the receiver back into its base. Mulder stared at the photo of Kurt for another few seconds, then folded the pages of the e-mail and dragged pinching fingers down each crease. Until he and Scully were back in DC, wild horses couldn't drag him away from his partner. He shoved the printout into the garment bag's outer pocket, jerked the bag and his jacket off the bed, and left his apartment without a backwards glance. ******************************************************************** 4:30 p.m. Mulder squeezed past two cars parked at the curb as Scully's car jolted to a halt in the street. The car behind her honked its outrage while Mulder tossed his garment bag in the back seat and then climbed in the front. The car surged forward almost before he had his door closed. "Same to you," Scully muttered, glancing first in the rearview mirror and then at her watch. "Traffic's a mess," she stated as Mulder snapped his seat belt into place. "We'll be lucky if we get to the airport before Thanksgiving." She flicked her eyes toward her partner and returned them to the busy road. "So what couldn't you tell me over the phone, Mulder? What happened with Agent Fowley?" Mulder scrubbed his face with his hand, studying her tense profile. "Based on the e-mail she showed me, someone knows that Kurt contacted us." Scully snapped her head to look at him, then turned back to the road again. "What was in the e-mail?" "Hold on a second." Mulder turned to reach his bag in the back seat. "I can show you exactly what she showed me." The traffic light ahead of them turned yellow; Scully accelerated to beat the light but then thought better of the idea, braking instead. Mulder lurched forward, stopped by his seat belt, and looked at her in surprise. "Sorry," she sighed, catching his eye for a moment before looking out the windshield again. Her fingers resumed their drumming against the steering wheel. Nodding, Mulder stretched back toward his bag again, tugging on his shoulder harness. Just another inch... He felt Scully press her palm firmly against his shoulder and sat back in his seat, surprised at the contact. "Careful," she said, dropping her hand to where the seat belt fastened at his hip. What...? he thought, feeling his pulse pick up. Scully removed her hand and gestured to the torn pocket of her jacket. "These seat belts can be lethal." Mulder shot her a grin, releasing his seat belt and his breath. "I'd better not see the repair bill on your next expense report, Scully." He twisted in his seat and squeezed over the gear shift between his and Scully's seats, pressing against her arm. Pleased, he noticed that she didn't pull away to give him room. Holding the top of his seat with one hand, he opened the outer compartment of his garment bag with the other and pulled out the folded e-mail. He made sure he grazed her arm as he pushed himself back into his seat and re-fastened the seat belt. The sun had begun to set; Scully flipped on the map light as Mulder snapped open the folded sheets and handed them to her. He sat in silence, watching his partner stare at the warning message and the two photos. Several moments later he quietly intoned, "Green light," as the traffic moved in front of them through the intersection. She jerked her head up and accelerated, thrusting the pages at him and switching the light back off as she brought her hand back to the steering wheel. Mulder waited as she processed the information. "Someone sent that to Agent Fowley? Why?" Scully paused, forehead wrinkling, her eyes fixed on the traffic in front of them. She rubbed the space between her eyebrows with her forefinger, then dropped her hand back to the steering wheel. "And why did she show this to you? How did she know that you'd recognize Kurt and Scanlon?" "She didn't know about Scanlon. But she saw Kurt enter my apartment building last night." Did he hear Scully mutter "great" under her breath? And if it was, was that because of his comment, or because of the sea of brake lights ahead of them? Before he could answer his own questions, she spoke again. "What did you tell her?" Mulder bristled at the biting tone of her voice. Why did the temperature around them have to drop twenty degrees every time they discussed anything related to Diana? But, he chastised himself, remember what Diana did to Scully, how she violated her privacy. He couldn't blame Scully for still being pissed off. He was still angry himself. After all, how would he feel if the shoe were on the other foot? If one of Scully's old boyfr -- No. Not going there. Get back to the topic, Mulder. "I told her..." What was it he'd told her? "I told her what was technically the truth. That I hadn't seen Kurt on my way up to my apartment, and that he hadn't come knocking on my door." Scully's eyebrow quirked, but she gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgment. "And I told her the basics of the case from Allentown -- nothing she couldn't have found out for herself by reading the report we gave Skinner." He summarized the rest of his basement conversation with Diana Fowley, including her theory that Mulder was in danger and his insistence that she have Skinner talk to Kersh. As traffic came to a halt again, Scully glanced at her watch, then at her partner. "You know those photos don't really tell us anything," she said, nodding toward the pages in Mulder's lap. "There's nothing that dates them, or proves where they were taken. They could easily have been doctored." "I know." "So what's your take on them?" Mulder snapped his finger against the pages. "I think this whole thing -- the idea that Kurt is working with Scanlon -- is a hoax. We talked about this last night, Scully -- if Kurt had wanted to harm us, he had the opportunity. If he'd wanted to force us to go to Boston, he could have done that, too." "And if we're being lured to Boston, why use four encrypted e-mail messages to do it? That certainly seems like overkill." Her brow furrowed. "But why send that warning message and those photos to Agent Fowley?" Mulder scowled, looking past his partner and then meeting her eyes again. "To get me to investigate the warning that's in this e-mail with her. Someone was watching her, figuring out a way to use her to get me away from you." Scully's eyes widened, then she turned her gaze back to traffic as it started to move again. "Because the Kurts want my help." How many times today had he been gripped by this need to protect her from something unseen? "Because they want to stop you from helping them, and you're more vulnerable if I'm not with you." He expected her to rail against that 'v' word. But instead her tight, controlled voice asked, "What about Agent Fowley?" What about her? Mulder wondered. He was glad that he hadn't given Diana more information, but at the same time felt a twinge of guilt. Someone must have been watching Diana. Watching her because of him, because of the X-Files, because of what his work had done to Scully. Could she possibly be in danger herself? No, he reminded himself, they don't want Diana. They wouldn't risk exposure by going after her. She was just a tool. They want Scully. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to make Scully pull over, turn the car around, go back to his apartment where he could lock the door and stand guard... "They're not interested in her, Scully. They want you." She pulled in a breath and sat up straighter in her seat, lips narrowing. "I was alone part of the day today, Mulder, and no one came near me." His pulse quickened again. "Are you sure?" "=Yes.=" She all but spat the word out, then rubbed her fingers against the space between her eyebrows, and huffed out a sigh. "I'm sorry. That wasn't necessary." She paused, pursing her lips. After a moment she gave a slow nod. "There was a jogger that bumped into me, on the path near where I met you at the Potomac. But I'm certain that was just an accident." A slight quaver -- one Mulder knew only he would detect -- gave away her uncertainty. It mirrored his own. "I hope you're right," he muttered, staring at the pages in his lap. He pulled out the photo of Kurt, studying his face. Could he be wrong? Would this hybrid want to harm Scully? This hybrid. =This= hybrid. "Scully?" "Yeah," she said, voice soft. He looked up at her, concerned at her far-off tone and expression. "What if there's more than one kind of Kurt? Ones that are on our side, and others that are working with Scanlon. Good Kurts and bad Kurts, if you will." Her professional facade slipped back into place as she flicked her eyes to him and back to the road. "Good Kurt/Bad Kurt? That sounds like the name of a bad self-help book, Mulder." He chuffed out a half-laugh. "No, hear me out, Scully. What if this has been a huge, elaborate hoax -- to get us to believe that the Kurt we met last night was really one of the Kurts we met in Pennsylvania?" Scully's words came out slow, deliberate, cautious. "Then you're saying that we're walking into a trap." "We could be." "Why go to all the trouble? Why build up our faith in a 'bad' Kurt?" Mulder stared at her with dark, earnest eyes. "Maybe what they have planned for us -- for =you= -- in that lab in Boston is more than what this Kurt described to us last night. So they're building up our confidence so that we'll go along with it." "If he wanted something from us, Mulder, he could have taken it. Forced us to do what he wanted. We agreed on that point." "Maybe," Mulder said, chewing on his words before releasing them, "what this 'bad' Kurt needs is something that has to be given willingly." "Like what?" Mulder was silent. Scully's fingers once again beat against the steering wheel. "Mulder?" He reached over and laid his left hand over her right, stilling her nervous drumming. He gave her fingers a quick squeeze before dropping his hand back to his lap. "I don't know," he admitted. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to speculate. ******************************************************************** Scully kept her eye on the bumper of the car in front of her as they continued to crawl through traffic. After all, a fender-bender would make them even more late in getting to the airport. She barely registered Mulder's movements as he replaced the e-mail and photos in his garment bag. Her mind couldn't stop churning through everything Mulder had said. Were there Kurts that were working with Scanlon? Was she the target of all this? If so, why now, after all this time? What could they want from her? And why did Diana Fowley's part in this just seem so... wrong? Hopefully they would find out in Boston -- but first they had to get out of this damn traffic. "How's your headache?" What...? She looked at her partner, startled, before realizing that she'd been rubbing her forehead again. "It was better before you got in the car." As soon as the words left her mouth, Scully blanched. "I'm sorry, Mulder -- I didn't mean that the way it came out." He nodded. "It's okay, Scully -- I knew what you meant." She caught his eye, nodded in return, and gave her attention back to the road. "It had pretty much gone away, but now... I'll be fine once I take some more Tylenol." A pause lasting a heartbeat went by before Mulder asked quietly, "Are you sure?" "Mulder..." She sighed. "The only things I'm sure of right now is that we need to get to Boston as soon as possible -- and that we need to be even more careful than usual." "That's why I have you to watch my back, Scully. I don't trust anyone else to do it." She cast a glance in his direction; he had turned to look out the side window. Scully felt a pleasant squeezing to her heart, contradicted by the simultaneous clench of her stomach. Something was horribly wrong about this whole thing -- something about Fowley, but something she couldn't put her finger on. And, therefore, something she couldn't explain to her partner. With a grim sigh, she glanced at her watch again and continued to inch the car toward the airport. Within a minute she was drumming her fingers across the steering wheel again. ******************************************************************** Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport Arlington, Virginia Saturday, 5:28 p.m. He scanned the terminal from his vantage point near a bank of phones, concentrating. He felt her. She was close. Very close. The replacement chip in the neck of the one called "Scully" functioned perfectly, as he knew it would; tracking her had been a simple matter of following its signal. He was displeased that the Kurt had managed to elude him again, but it was a minor matter. Knowing the humans' predictability, she and the young Mulder would lead him directly to that Kurt and the rest of his kind -- traitors to the Project. The Kurts were foolish to think that they would remain undetected. They would be found. They would be eliminated. To keep up appearances he had to affect certain human traits. Gestures, mannerisms, that kept humans fooled. So he blinked once, twice. Then he gave a little tug at the collar of the flannel shirt he wore. Its previous owner, whose face and body he had duplicated, now lay dead in the trunk of a car. By the time the naked corpse was found, he would be long gone. The Kurts would be gone, too. No longer a problem to the Project. He squinted -- another mannerism -- and looked across the terminal at the human stream flooding through the automatic doors. Yes. There they were. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 13 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. More Author's Notes: A big wave across time zones to Jintian, beta reader extraordinaire. And big hugs to Special Guest beta reader Audrey Roget -- glad I hooked you all over again. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. Well, so much for getting my freakin' Muse to assist in the timely completion of this chapter. I apologize for making you wait. ::Forte checks under her collar for bees:: Please note my new (at least, "new" since the last time I posted a chapter of V&H!) URL: http://www.thebasementoffice.com/. All prior chapters of "Value & Honor" are available there both individually and in a single compiled file. The site also includes a summary of all chapters posted to date (excluding this one). ******************************************************************** - Chapter 14 - ******************************************************************** Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport Arlington, Virginia Saturday, 5:26 p.m. "Jesus, Mulder. This is worse than I thought it would be." Scully threw the words over her left shoulder, counterbalanced by the duffel bag slung over her right. She hurried toward the US Airways ticket counter, dodging other passengers with every step. Mulder, his eyes sweeping across the crowded terminal, followed a short distance behind her. "Damn it." Mulder somehow heard Scully's muttering over the din of flight announcements and other passengers' conversations. He followed her gaze to see scores of people waiting at the ticket counter; the line of travelers and their luggage snaked back and forth too many times for him to count. Sensing something out of the corner of his eye, Mulder returned his attention to the crowd around them. A blond man in jeans and a kelly green cardigan walked across the terminal towards them, his nose in the latest Tom Clancy paperback and his free hand pulling a wheeled suitcase. As though the event were playing out in slow motion, Mulder realized that the man was on a collision course with Scully: he seemed oblivious to everything except his book, and Scully was focused on the ticket counter and not on the GQ refugee who was only steps away from her. His eyes followed the man in the cardigan; one hand reached forward blindly to grab his partner's shoulder. "Scu -- " His comment was cut off as he lurched to a halt, pressed up against Scully's back. She had stopped short herself, her body stiff against his, her right hand held up and out to prevent the man from cutting them off. The man halted as Scully's hand pushed back against his chest. Another man, in a plaid flannel shirt, stopped behind him, both men sporting blank, wide-eyed faces. For a moment Scully glared at them, her right hand still stretched out. Without shifting her eyes she withdrew her hand and pushed away from her partner. She shouldered past the two strangers toward the ticket counter. Mulder followed, checking over his shoulder after a few paces. Green Cardigan and Flannel Shirt were following them to the ticket counter, he noted. Green Cardigan was again reading while he walked -- idiot! Flannel Shirt paced behind him, checking his watch and tugging at his shirt collar with his free hand. Moments later Mulder dropped his garment bag next to Scully's duffel bag as they joined the long queue for the ticket counter. She clutched the laptop case to her chest and rocked on her heels, then stood on her toes and craned her neck to estimate the waiting time to the ticket counters. Scully was not given normally to fidgeting, but the rolling tap of her fingertips on the laptop echoed his own uneasiness: that feeling he'd had all day that something just wasn't right. Something that was putting Scully in danger. One eye on his partner, Mulder scanned the people in their immediate vicinity. A tired-looking woman stood in front of them, lecturing the two young boys with her to stop fighting. Green Cardigan was still reading while he stood in line behind them. At least he wasn't an accident waiting to happen while he was standing still, Mulder thought. Flannel Shirt stood behind him, squinting at a monitor on the wall. Mulder swept his eyes over the rest of the surrounding crowd: business people in suits, families, backpack-toting college kids. Standard airport fare. At the startled gasp from Scully he turned toward her at the same moment she crashed into him. His arms immediately went around her in an effort to stabilize them both, narrowly preventing the laptop from slipping to the floor. "HE STARTED IT, MOM!" "NO I DIDN'T! YOU PUSHED ME FIRST!" The mother yanked the boy who had fallen into Scully off the ground by the arm and swung him around so that her back was to Mulder and Scully. "I am =sick= and =tired= of you two fighting! How many times have I told you..." Scully shook her head, sucked in a long breath through her nose and blew it out through her mouth, her frustrated growl barely audible in the din. But it was enough for Mulder to know that she was seconds away from losing her temper, especially when she made to leave his hold with a jerk. He loosened his arms, though he didn't release her fully, his hands settling on her upper arms. "Are you all ri -- " "I'm fine, Mulder," she hissed, glaring at the mother's back as the woman continued her diatribe to the boys. Mulder pursed his lips as Scully broke away fully, glanced at her watch, then turned to study the monitors. They'd been in far more frustrating situations before, yet he could almost see the tension radiating off of her stiff form. His Scully-instinct told him to just leave her the hell alone, but under the circumstances neither of them could afford to be "off." He worked his jaw, preparing to speak. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE." A uniformed man with a bullhorn walked behind the end of the ticket line. He continued as the crowd quieted to only a moderate din. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you're already ticketed and are not making a change to your flight information, you can go to curbside check-in. If you're already ticketed and have only carry-on baggage, you can go straight to your gate for check-in." A few people struggled their way out of the crowded line and, to Mulder's relief, they finally moved forward. Scully said nothing, shoving her duffel bag forward with a kick and a chuff of breath, nearly clipping the mother and kids with it, though he knew it wasn't intentional. A gentle nudge near his ankle made him turn. "Sorry," Green Cardigan smiled, pulling his bag back toward him. Mulder stared at him a moment -- was that bump intentional? His gaze seemed to make the other man uncomfortable, as he shifted his own eyes to look past Mulder, then cleared his throat. "Seen and not heard, I believe the saying goes?" The southern Virginian drawl was delivered with a raised brow and a nervous smile. "At least that's what my mama always said. She wouldn't tolerate fightin' in public, that's for sure." Mulder held his glare, then finally gave the stranger a slow nod when he showed no indication of wanting anything from him or Scully. He returned to his attentive stance behind his partner in time to catch her checking her watch with a jerk of her arm. He leaned down close to her ear, trying for a low, neutral voice. "We have plenty of time, Scully." She turned her head toward him, her lips nearly touching his jaw. Her own voice was low, but staccato. "We have five hours, Mulder. That's not much time at all. At this point driving isn't even an option. We're out of choices." "When's the last flight, Scully? Eight thirty? That would get us into Boston by ten, and it's only a few miles from the airport to Park Street. We'll get there by ten thirty with no problem." She pulled back, giving him a cool look. With pointed frustration, her eyes darted from him to her watch to the monitors above, forming a precise, repetitive triangle of growing annoyance. "KNOCK IT OFF! MOM, HE HIT ME AGAIN!" Mulder glared over Scully's shoulder at the two arguing boys and their ineffectual mother. Maybe they'd get lost -- or at least go to curbside check-in -- if he flashed his badge at them. At that thought, he leaned toward Scully, checking that no one was paying attention to them as he dipped his head to her ear. "We can always just go to the head of the line," he whispered, tapping his chest over the pocket where he'd stowed his FBI credentials. Scully closed her eyes, her lips pressed together; it looked to him like she was giving him a ten count. Great. He straightened and waited for the inevitable logical argument. She didn't disappoint, finally opening her eyes to state softly, "Mulder, if we show our badges..." She shook her head and continued, "Kersh found us in Nevada, didn't he? If we're not careful, we're going to find an FBI welcoming party at the end of the jetway in Boston." "Oh, come on, Scully, what could they say? We're just a couple friends going to have a fun weekend in --" He broke off, realizing that she wasn't paying attention to him, but rather was staring at a man across from them in line talking on his cell phone. "Hold this, please," she said, pushing the laptop case into his chest. He took it from her with a small, "Ooof," and watched as she squatted down to her duffel bag on the floor. Mulder gave the crowd one more scan before lowering his eyes again to watch her. She opened a compartment at the end the duffel bag, pushing aside some papers, small tools, and other supplies she carried in the field, and finally extracted a folded piece of paper and a pen. She re-zipped the compartment, stood, and brushed the hair from her face, reaching for her cell phone in her jacket pocket. Referring to the page in her hand, she dialed. Ah -- =now= he got it. "QUIT POKIN' ME, BUTTWIPE! MOMMMMMMM!" "=ENOUGH=! DO I HAVE TO SEPARATE YOU TWO? OR SHOULD WE JUST FORGET ABOUT THIS VACATION AND GO HOME RIGHT NOW?" Scully rolled her eyes and tugged on Mulder's arm, cell phone to her ear. He questioned with a crinkle of his brow and she answered by pulling him until they'd switched places. He now stood between her and screaming mother and kids; she was using him as a sort of shield from the bellowing. Scully pressed a key on the phone and hunched over, her head toward Mulder's chest, her free hand over her uncovered ear. After a moment she said, "Yes, I need to make two reservations -- " Mulder noticed that Green Cardigan had looked up from his book with a rather appreciative glance at Scully's ass; he narrowed his eyes at the man and shoved him away with an imaginary, "Back off, pal." It worked, as the man cleared his throat, turned, and went back to his book. Mulder couldn't help taking the opportunity to admire his partner himself; her position gave him an unusual view of her shoulders and back. Only hours earlier, his arms had wrapped around her, and he swallowed hard at the memory. "What are you waiting for?" Frohike had asked him. It was a damn good question, one that didn't have an easy answer. Scully's voice, louder now, brought him back to the matter at hand and he lifted his eyes from her to resume his lookout as she spoke. "I said, I need to make two reservations on the 6:30 flight from National Airport to Boston." A pause, and then she hunched over further. "What? Are you certain? There were plenty of seats when I called -- " Another pause; she straightened a bit again. "What about standby... I see... yes, we'll take the 8:30 flight." She jotted down a flight number. Mulder flinched in spite of his earlier confidence. If the 8:30 flight was delayed or canceled... "One way, coach," Scully continued. "No, I don't want to use a credit card now... I, um, I'm calling on a cell phone. I'll just pay at the ticket counter. Yes, thank you." After giving their fake names to the person at the other end, she thumbed off the phone and slipped it back into her pocket. She hung her head with a muttered, "I don't believe this." With a quizzical look, he bent his head and felt her breath tickle his ears she supplied, "Well, at least we have reservations now -- but best we could do is the 8:30 flight. The 5:30 flight was canceled for some reason, and those passengers got bumped onto the 6:30 and 7:30 flights. That's probably part of the reason there are so many people on this line." At his nod, she continued, "We'll still have to pay at the ticket counter with our cash. I could have paid on the phone with one of Frohike's credit cards, but..." Mulder nodded again, understanding what she wouldn't say aloud: the longer they went without using the phony credit cards, the better. The announcer's voice broke in. "Ladies and gentlemen, once again: if you're not making a change to your flight information, you can use curbside check-in." Several more people left the line, pushing through the throng and climbing under and over the cording that gave the line some semblance of order. "Good Lord, look at those sheep -- moving from one long line to another." Mulder and Scully both turned their heads toward Green Cardigan, who gave them a broad smile. "I'm staying right here -- my flight's not until 7:30. Did I hear you say you're going to Boston, too? Are you going to the NAL conference?" Off of Scully's startled look, he used his paperback to point over his heart, where "Brian" and a design of an open book were embroidered in white on the kelly green sweater. "National Association of Librarians? Well, if you don't know, I guess that's not why you're going." His smile broadened, directed at Scully. "Still, Boston's a nice city, isn't it?" Mulder recognized the Scully version of a panic face as it darted across her features. It took her only a second to recover her poker face, looking the man in the eye. "I'm sure it's lovely. I apologize for disturbing your reading." Mulder watched Brian's smile fall and his eyes widen as he realized he'd stepped over a boundary. After a moment the blond man shrugged, mumbled, "No problem," and went back to his reading. Smart move, Mulder thought. There's persistent, and then there's fucking stupid. Keeping an eye on Brian, Mulder looked around; they'd moved a little closer to the front of the line but they still had at least a half hour to wait. For a third time, the announcer repeated the curbside option; the mother with the unruly boys left the line and he and Scully moved forward. Brian kept reading; Mulder still wasn't sure whether he was a threat or not, but in any case preferred to keep the man in sight, as annoying as he was. Flannel Shirt left the line, too. Maybe he didn't want to be the next object of Brian's ass-watching, Mulder mused. As he finished his sweep of the surrounding crowd, he checked his watch. Nearly 6 p.m. He wished he and Scully could leave the line as well, but they had no choice but to wait. ******************************************************************** 5:55 p.m. The man stopped once he'd put ten yards, a hundred people, and a thick pillar between himself and the young Mulder's scanning eyes. He tugged at the collar of his stolen flannel shirt, lifting his eyes to the monitors. Still on schedule. His hearing, many times more sensitive than a human's, had easily picked up the conversation between Scully and the young Mulder. As he had expected, they'd revealed their plans. Now he merely had to reach Boston before they did. It would be much easier to terminate them, but he no longer had that option. He could only proceed with the elimination of the Kurts. He watched the crawl of the ticket line off the reflection in the monitor. For now, he needed to wait for the human in the green sweater. ******************************************************************** 6:40 p.m. "Ladies and gentlemen..." Brian looked up from his book at the announcement. "... would any passengers with confirmed reservations for US Airways Express flight 6535 to Boston at seven thirty please step out of the line and go to the ticket agent at the end of the row." That was him. It figured; there was only about a five minute wait before he would have gotten to a ticket agent anyway. He gave the duo in front of him a quick glance; they'd been studying some kind of paperwork for more than half an hour. Must be some kind of big-shot business people, he decided. In any case, his upbringing demanded a show of good manners, despite the cold reception from the woman and the burning, jealous looks from the man that he'd gotten earlier. "I was almost at the head of the line anyway," he joked, grabbing the handle of his wheeled bag. Each gave him a curt nod and he wished them a safe trip before squeezing past them on his way out of the line. He hoped he'd have better company on the flight. ******************************************************************** 6:43 p.m. "Next in line, please!" Scully cradled her laptop in one arm and moved forward, feeling Mulder close behind, doing away with pleasantries to tell the ticket agent, "We made our reservations by phone about an hour ago." She reached into her jeans pocket for her phony driver's license; from the corner of her eye, Mulder's appeared as well. Together, they placed them on the counter. "Any baggage to check?" the agent asked, eyes trained on her keyboard. "No, all carry-on." They answered the ticket agent's standard pre-flight security questions. To Scully's relief, the agent barely glanced up at them. "That's six hundred ninety-six dollars for the two one-way adult fares." She saw Mulder's hand move towards the front pocket of his jeans; she reached over and covered his hand with her own: no need for anyone to know they were =both= carrying a lot of cash. Mulder met her eyes as she silently transmitted her plan to pay. His chin dipped a fraction, and he moved his hand from his pocket to rest at the small of her back. From the front pocket of her own jeans, Scully pulled out the wad of bills that she'd stowed earlier for this purpose and handed them to the ticket agent. The other woman didn't bat an eye -- how often do people pay cash? Scully wondered. She'd done it once or twice herself, but... It took less than a minute to complete the transaction. The ticket agent handed the "licenses" and four dollars in change to Scully. She gave Mulder his, then ran her thumb over the name on the driver's license -- the name she had chosen -- as she had done at home, trying to assuage her guilt at using it. Sensing Mulder's eyes on her, she looked up to see him staring at her hand with a subtle crease of his brow. Clearing her throat, she stuffed the license back in her pocket and turned her attention to the ticket agent. "All right, Ms. Franklin, you and Mr. Risheloo are all set. Be at the gate half an hour early for boarding." She wrote the gate number on the folder for Scully's ticket and circled it. "Enjoy your flight." ******************************************************************** 6:50 p.m. Freed of his checked bag, Brian relaxed with his Tom Clancy paperback (certainly not a literary masterpiece, he was quick to admit to himself, but good airport reading) in a row of seats close to the gate door. At the commotion that drifted his way, he glanced up to see the boys from hell being dragged in his direction by their overworked mother. They wouldn't last five minutes in =his= library, he told himself. With a resigned sigh, he checked his watch and slipped his ticket into the novel as a bookmark. He pushed himself to his feet, tucking the book into the pocket of his cardigan. Not too long until boarding, he figured. Time for a quick trip to the restroom, and a few more minutes of relative peace. ******************************************************************** 6:51 p.m. He took measured steps down the corridor of the terminal. He blinked twice, then refocused on the man in the green sweater, a dozen yards away but walking towards him. He watched the man run one hand through his blond hair while lifting the other to brush something off his sweater. The man was oblivious to his observer. That would have to change. As he watched his subject close the gap between them, he molded his expression to mimic human distress and illness. He paced himself to be at just the right point in the hallway... With a twist in his step he staggered into the blond man, wheezing and clutching his stomach with one hand. "God, I'm sick," he groaned. "Where's the bathroom?" The other man jerked backwards a step, waited for him to look up, then pointed toward the men's room fifteen feet away. Not good enough. He doubled over as if about to be ill. After a second's hesitation and a mumbled expletive, the man in the green sweater gripped his upper arm and half-dragged him to the restroom. They disappeared around a corner into privacy. Several minutes later the blond man left the men's room alone, gripping his plane ticket. He checked his watch, blinked twice, and started down the corridor again. The book was gone. ******************************************************************** 6:57 p.m. Well, there goes Brian the librarian, Mulder thought with envy, watching him step past them to board. The man didn't even acknowledge them, after all the pestering he'd done in line. Despite the annoyance he still felt with the man, Mulder almost wished Brian would look Scully's way. With a smile or two, maybe she could talk him into giving up his seat. At least one of them would make it to Boston well before ten thirty. Brian disappeared down the hallway, though, and he sighed, facing the woman at the counter again, listening to Scully's negotiations with the gate agent. "Are you sure there's no chance of us getting on the seven thirty flight?" The pert brunette on the other side of the counter gave Scully a condescending smile. "I'm very sorry, ma'am, but every seat and every stand-by slot is filled on the seven thirty flight. You'll need to wait for your eight thirty flight." Mulder knew -- even if she would never admit it to him -- that at that moment Scully wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk off the woman's face by slapping her FBI credentials on the counter and subtly hinting that the woman's credit rating would be irreparably damaged if she and her companion were not on that seven thirty flight. But he also knew that she was still concerned about tipping their hand to Kersh. "I don't mean to be difficult," his partner continued, "but it's very important that we get there as soon as possible. It's an emergency, actually." The gate agent's eyes narrowed, although the rest of her expression retained the same fake-friendly appearance. "I may be able to make special arrangements if this is a bereavement situation. Are you traveling to a funeral?" Mulder thought. He started to piece together a plausible lie in his head. After all, he'd already used a similar story on Diana that day... "Well," Scully started, pulling her laptop tighter against her chest, "um... well..." "=Will=" Mulder cut in. "The funeral was, uh, last week. This trip is to see the lawyer about my father's will. We have an appointment very early tomorrow. If we aren't there on time, we'll have to wait at least another week to see him." He gave the woman behind the counter a tight, sad smile. "Your lawyer works on a =Sunday=?" Mulder looked the brunette in the eye, expressionless, his voice firm. "He's a family friend." But by the stony look on the woman's face, she was no longer buying any of it. "We'll do the best we can for you," she said, her voice as bland as her dismissive face. "Take a seat -- " she glanced at their tickets laid before her on the counter -- "Mr. Risheloo, and we'll call you if we can get you on the seven thirty flight." After a long pause, Scully scooped their tickets off the counter, gave the woman an icy, "Thank you," and walked away. Mulder followed her to a far row of seats; she dropped her duffel bag and sat down hard, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. He sat next to her, mentally planning another "We have plenty of time" speech. His partner beat him to the punch. "And I thought =I= was a bad liar," she muttered, picking at the torn pocket on her jacket. Mulder blinked back his surprise, then looked down; needing something to do with his own hands he picked at the loose thread on the handle of his garment bag. "It wasn't the best lie I ever told, but at least it was a consistent lie. Diana bought it." Shit. As soon as he'd mentioned Fowley's name, he wished he hadn't. "Di -" Scully cut herself off as she half-turned toward him. She faced the window again, still clutching the laptop to her chest. "Yeah," he said, and cleared his throat. Why did every mention of Diana have to turn into a struggle? "I told her I was looking into my father's estate. She bought it, hook, line and sinker." Maybe humor would ease the tension...? "See? I can lie with the best of 'em." Too late, he realized his words carried more weight than he intended, as Scully turned her head, her eyes piercing him with residual anger. "Yeah," she whispered, "I found that out last Christmas." She swung the computer into his lap and stood, walking away. Cursing under his breath, Mulder watched her disappear into the restroom. ******************************************************************** 7:25 p.m. She'd been in the restroom for almost 15 minutes: splashing water on her face, holding a cold, wet paper towel to the back of her neck, and kneading her shoulder muscles, not caring who saw her. But what she really needed was to eat something and get another dose of Tylenol into her. She also owed her partner an apology. She returned to the gate area, now less congested since the seven thirty flight had boarded. The smaller crowd made it easy for her to see from a distance that Mulder wasn't where she had left him. She picked up her pace and within moments reached the spot where they had been sitting. No sign of Mulder, no sign of their bags. "Hungry?" Scully whirled around at the sound of Mulder's voice to find him loaded down: their three bags were slung over his right shoulder while his left hand juggled a drink carrier and a large grease-stained bag. "Mulder, you're going to hurt yourself," she admonished, moving to his side and carefully removing two of the bags from his shoulder. "You shouldn't carry so much weight on one side. You're unbalanced." Mulder broke into a grin. "I knew it was only a matter of time before you realized that about me, Scully." She ducked her head to hide her own smile and plopped her bags on the floor in front of the seats. "I know this isn't your meal of choice," Mulder continued, dropping his own luggage and holding out the "Burger Heaven" bag, "but I figured you might be needing something to eat and this, while not the most nutritious, *was* the fastest." She looked at his contrite face, his gentle eyes, and felt her animosity of minutes ago fade. The headache, combined with the stress of their impending journey, had sharpened her tongue and weakened her self-control. And she'd taken it out on him by bringing up mistakes of the past. "Mulder, I'm sorry for --" "I know it's been long day, Scully," he interrupted, grasping her elbow with his free hand, urging her to sit. "It's okay." She gave him a small smile and reached for the bag, their truce simple, as always. "So... got a grilled chicken sandwich in there for me?" "Of course, and two cheeseburgers for me," he grinned. "And large fries. But I'll eat your fries if you think that's too much --" "Gimme that," she said, watching his smile broaden as she dug in. Some time later, her fries balanced on her lap with the remnants of her sandwich, Scully pulled out the passenger manifests. They'd scoured them earlier while waiting in line, but perhaps they'd overlooked something. "Find anything?" Mulder mumbled through a mouthful of special sauce and questionable meat by-products. "Nope," she answered, popping a French fry into her mouth. "But it's worth another look, don't you think?" Mulder half-turned and reached for the drink carrier on the seat next to him, coming back with what looked like... "Trade you a chocolate sundae for half of those," he winked, gesturing at the papers. This time, her eyes smiled, too. ******************************************************************** 8:15 p.m. As they walked down the jetway and made their way onto the plane, nagging thoughts of Diana re-emerged in Scully's food-satiated mind. She really wanted to discuss the woman and her involvement in all this with Mulder, but she was too tired and too stuffed with carbohydrates to debate coherently. And this wasn't a topic to address when she wasn't at 100%. She knew for certain that she wasn't up to the discussion when she let Mulder place her duffel bag in the overhead compartment without so much as a token protest. ********** Mulder took his partner's silence in stride. Her mood this afternoon had not been light, to say the least. He knew the food had gone a long way toward a reconciliation of sorts, but for the moment his best bet was silence, especially if there was a chance of Diana's name coming up again. And it should: at some point in the very near future they should re-open their discussion about the e-mail and attached photos Diana had received that day and had shown to him. The images of Scanlon and of Kurt Crawford still weighed heavy on his mind. Beside him, Scully slipped the laptop under the seat in front of her and dropped into her window seat, settling back heavily. Mulder forced their bags into the crowded overhead compartment, marveling to himself that Scully had allowed him to take hers rather than doing it herself, and then sat next to her in the aisle seat. At least they had the two seats to themselves; he didn't think he could have put up with being stuck on the three-seat side of the plane with another talker like Brian, even if the man had turned out to be harmless. Scully rolled her head to face her partner and gestured toward the overhead bin. "Thank you, =Mr. Risheloo=," she said softly. Her tone and her eyes asked a question, and Mulder shrugged comically. "A name I saw on a newsgroup. I just liked it." The edges of her lips curled up, and she nodded in acceptance. The flight attendant's drone about safety procedures faded into the background and he saw her glance at her watch, her lips pursing. As the pilot's voice broke in to announce they were preparing for takeoff, Mulder gave her a nudge with his elbow. "Don't worry -- we'll make it okay. The flight lands at 10 o'clock. We'll flash our badges just before we land and be the first off the plane. We can grab a cab and be at Park Street long before 10:30." He gave her his best reassuring smile. "Five years together, Scully, and how many times have I been wrong?" She didn't answer, but he wasn't sure if it was from irritation, exhaustion, or just humoring him. "=Never=. Not flying, anyway." That got him a reaction: she grimaced, but with a slight tuck up at the corners of her mouth. She quickly erased it, though, and looked at her watch again. Sighing, she closed her eyes and opened them again, looking at her watch. As she let her arm fall to the armrest, Mulder slipped his hand over her watch. Nonchalantly rubbing circles over her hand and wrist with his thumb, he said, "Scully, you're going to pull a muscle if you keep twisting your wrist like that. You're unbalanced." A chuff blew out of her mouth and he was rewarded with the feel of her arm relaxing under his touch. Her eyes closed and she exhaled deeply, sinking as far into her seat as the coach class cushions would allow. Mulder could see from the easing of the lines in her forehead that the Tylenol she'd taken with their dinner was kicking in. Good. "You might want to get some rest yourself, Mr. Risheloo," she murmured. So much for talking. Well, he wasn't eager for conversation anyway. Mulder watched his thumb enjoy its meandering on her skin. It reminded him of her doing something similar at the ticket counter with her driver's license; since he'd just told his own story he wanted to ask her about her own choice of pseudonym, but decided that that could wait, too. Within a few minutes her breathing slowed, and her upper body leaned toward him until her head rested against his shoulder. "Scully?" he whispered. He leaned close, striving to hear if she answered over the roar of the plane as it sped down the runway. She didn't respond. <"What the hell are you waiting for?"> Frohike had asked earlier that day. He'd missed an opportunity hours earlier in Scully's apartment; he wasn't going to miss this one, however minor. Leaning over, he pressed his lips to the top of her head and held them there for several seconds, recalling what he'd planned to say to her when they'd embraced. <"This is nice. We should do it more often."> Yes, they should. Especially when circumstances weren't pressing, like they were now. Concern for her safety rose in him yet again; worry over what They wanted with her. As usual, there were unseen forces at work... or maybe not so unseen. They'd soon find out. Mulder sat back, his chin brushing the top of his partner's head, and joined her in sleep as the plane ascended. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 14 - ******************************************************************** Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Author's Notes for Chapter 14: The "National Association of Librarians" is a made-up organization. Or if it isn't, please let me know. I hope I didn't offend any librarians with my choice of profession for Brian. "Value & Honor" takes place in November of 1998. Airport security described in this chapter reflects practices in place at that time. And I conveniently ignored the issue of Mulder and Scully getting on the plane with their weapons, since 1013 ignores it, too. "Thank you" to Risheloo, who early on helped me with a nagging question. As promised, I've immortalized you within this fic to thank you for saving my sanity. Big heaping beta thanks to Jintian Li, Audrey Roget, and especially Mish, who went *far* above and beyond the call of duty on this chapter. Cupcakes, anyone? ;) And thanks to all you persistent stalkers -- you know who you are. Value & Honor by Forte (Forte1354@aol.com) Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc. All prior chapters of "Value & Honor" are available at my website, http://www.thebasementoffice.com/, both individually and in a single compiled file. The site also includes a summary of all chapters posted to date (excluding this one). SPOILER ALERT: Author's Notes at the end of this chapter include a spoiler for the S8 ep "Medusa." ******************************************************************** - Chapter 15 - ******************************************************************** Logan International Airport Boston, Massachusetts Saturday, 10:15 p.m. "Sir, perhaps you didn't hear the announcement I just made, but you need to return to your seat and buckle --" "I'm a Federal Agent," Mulder interrupted, pulling out his ID, voice low as he stared down the flight attendant, "and I have an announcement of my own. My partner and I need to be the first people off this plane." He held the open ID close to his chest, his back to the other passengers and his free hand pressed against the wall as the rumbling plane taxied toward the gate. The wide-eyed young man stared at Mulder, glanced down at the FBI credentials, then lifted his head again and nodded. "We should, uh, be at the gate in about two minutes." Mulder muttered, "It's about time," glancing over his shoulder as he returned his ID to his pocket. Scully had collected their bags during his brief exchange with the flight attendant and was making her way up the aisle, ignoring the glares of the other passengers. Fifteen minutes earlier, their frustrating day had only gotten worse. Jolted awake by the jarring landing of the plane, they'd found themselves fitted together like two pieces of a puzzle: her head on his shoulder, his leaning on hers. Clearing her throat, Scully had pushed away and stared out her window as though world peace rested on her ability to determine their distance from the terminal. Mulder had retreated too, wondering why the hell they had to have such moments. He'd leaned back in his seat, eyes shut, trying to re-focus on their upcoming meeting with their informant, George, and only half-listened while the gawky flight attendant explained their delay: there was nowhere to park the plane. After ten minutes the plane had finally started to roll toward its gate. Mulder had wasted no time bolting toward the attendant and making known their need for a speedy deplaning. Mulder watched Scully drop her duffel and his garment bag, a slight wince crossing her face when the straps slid off her left shoulder. As she straightened, the plane came to a shuddering halt at the gate; he grasped her upper arm to steady her at the same moment as she threw her right hand against the opposite wall. She looked up at him, and he gave her a sheepish grin, releasing her. To his surprise she gave him a hint of a smile in return as she adjusted the strap of the laptop case over her right shoulder. As the flight attendant prepared to open the door, Scully looked from her watch, to the door, and then back at Mulder. She didn't voice what they both knew: they had no chance of making it to the Park Street "T" subway station for their 10:30 rendezvous with George. "Ready for a dash to the taxi stand?" she asked. "I'll race you," Mulder replied, stooping to grab the two bags. "Loser pays for the cab." An eyebrow arched. "I got the plane tickets. You get the cab." "Fair enough." Mulder noticed that his partner didn't object to his carrying one of her bags, as she hadn't when he'd originally taken it from her to put it in the overhead compartment. Before he could comment, the plane's door opened and they pushed past the flight attendant to sprint up the jetway. Within minutes they were climbing into a creaky, dirt-streaked cab, Scully leading and snapping out their destination to the driver. Their quick access to transportation was compliments of a flash of Mulder's badge. Both settled heavily into the cracked vinyl back seat, their bags crammed at their feet. They had a few minutes of quiet while the taxi traveled out of the airport and through the tollbooth at the entrance to the Sumner Tunnel, leading to Boston's North End. Scully heaved out a sigh, grabbing the crank for the window and jerking the glass down several inches. She pulled in a few long breaths from the blowing air. At Mulder's concerned look, she muttered, "Last passenger must have been smoking." Before her partner could respond, a muffled trilling rose from her pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the name on the display, her already tense brow drawing into a tight frown. "Agent Fowley," she said, thumbing the answer button while shooting a glance at Mulder. A hard edge of impatience sharpened her greeting. "Scully." Silence. At the "No Service" message on the display, she shoved the phone back in her pocket, turning back to Mulder. "Lost the signal in the tunnel. What do you think she wants?" "I don't know. Maybe she was going to try that apology on you." "Or maybe she's looking for you." He barked out a derisive laugh, turning to look out his side window. "God, I hope not." After a beat, Scully responded, "I'll check my messages later. In case she calls again, where did you tell her you were going this weekend?" "I didn't. I just said that I was going to see the lawyer about my father's estate." "Well, that certainly gives me plausible deniability regarding your whereabouts," she deadpanned. Mulder turned back toward her, trying to decipher the look on her face. Irritated or droll? Before he could decide, both partners were startled by a burst of honking from a nearby car; Mulder caught the tiny flinch that passed over Scully's features. "Hey -- you okay?" He reached over and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'm fi -- " She stopped and sighed, apparently deciding that "fine" was not the answer she wanted to give. Glancing at her watch, she finished with a simple, "We're late." As Scully faced the window again, her unspoken avoidance putting an end to the conversation, Mulder checked his own watch. He sighed and turned as well, just as the end of the tunnel came into view. ******************************************************************** Park Street T Station Boston, Massachusetts Saturday, 10:38 p.m. The Park Street T station looked unimposing at street level, just a covered entranceway to stairs and escalators leading down to the subway system. A crossing point for the Red and Green Lines, it was a popular station, as evidenced by the activity nearby. Saturday night revelers gathered on benches skirting Boston Common, chatting and sipping their beverages of choice. At the corner, standing on a crate under the streetlight, a man holding a Bible preached a sermon to fallen leaves swirling on the ground in the breeze. A nearby pedestrian mall supplied a steady musical thumpthumpthump in the background and added a gentle waft of coffee to the crisp autumn air. All status quo for a Saturday night on The Common, but with their attention on their meeting Mulder quickly zeroed in on something odd. A Boston police officer stood at the T entrance, turning away everyone trying to enter the station. Mulder stole a glance at Scully, catching her concerned look back at him as she quickened her pace to the station's entranceway. "Sorry, this station is closed," the officer told them when they approached. Mulder and Scully both flipped out their ID's. The officer stiffly nodded his acknowledgment, eyes flicking to the bags they carried, and they returned the ID's to their pockets. "Why?" Scully asked. "What's going on?" "Looks like a homicide," the officer replied. His eyes darted from left to right, then past their shoulders, before he re-established eye contact. "Some guy waiting for a train. Apparently he was lured down to a deserted end of the platform and attacked. We had several calls to 911 about fifteen minutes ago from people who heard him yell for help." Mulder glanced at Scully, the turbulence in his stomach definitely not a leftover from the bumpy landing of their plane. By the tensing of her jaw, he knew she was thinking the same thing. George, their contact. "Is the victim still down there?" Scully asked. "Are there any medical personnel on the scene yet? I'm a doctor." The officer shook his head. "I haven't seen any, but they could have gone in a different entrance." He motioned over his shoulder. "If you want to go down and check, go ahead." Mulder and Scully left the officer as he continued to turn away annoyed tourists and locals. They descended the stairs quickly, bags slung from their shoulders, the dull thud of their feet on the stairs sounding unnaturally loud in the near-empty station. "Lured to a deserted end of the platform? That makes no sense. Kurt wouldn't send someone that gullible to meet us," Mulder asserted as they descended. Scully nodded. "If the victim is George, it's more likely that he realized he was in danger, and was trying to find a way out. Or possibly he =didn't= know he was in danger, and was looking for privacy for some reason. Or a pay phone, maybe." They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through an open gate that bypassed the turnstiles -- obviously opened to accommodate the gathered law enforcement officials -- and continued down the cement platform about two hundred feet. They could see that something was lying on the ground, behind a thick square cement pillar, but their view was obscured by the group of officers standing around it. In addition, two EMT's were kneeling nearby, packing up some equipment. "I'm a medical doctor," Scully repeated, showing her ID to the group. "Do you need any assistance? The officer upstairs said there had been a homicide." A few of the officers turned toward them. Mulder flipped open his ID as well, and again they received unenthusiastic nods of acknowledgment. "Thanks, but we don't need it," one officer responded. "Looks like we've got another MIT or Harvard prank on our hands. They're always trying to pull =something=." He shook his head, muttering, "We don't have time for this crap." Then he addressed the EMT's. "Sorry to have wasted your time, guys." They shrugged, picked up their equipment, and left, walking towards a stairway in the opposite direction from where Mulder and Scully had entered. Mulder replaced his ID again, Scully mirroring his action. "I'm Agent Mulder. This is my partner Agent Scully. What happened?" he asked, moving closer to the scene. The officer squinted. "Does the FBI have some interest in this?" "No, we just happened by and thought you might need my medical services," Scully replied, flicking her eyes toward her partner and back to the officer. "You just happened by?" Scully should really leave the lying to him, Mulder thought. "We're in town for a seminar. We flew in a couple days early to try to get in a little sightseeing." He gave the man his best disarming smile. "Flights are cheaper with that Saturday night stayover, you know." "Yeah, yeah, OK." The frazzled officer, as expected, waved away Mulder's explanation, and continued disbursing the details of the scene with fading interest. "There were several calls to 911 about an attack -- big beefy guy dropping some smaller guy to the ground -- and a security guard for the T swore he saw a dead man lying on the ground here." He shrugged. "But when the EMT's arrived, all they found was this." The officer curled his fingers to grant them permission to approach, and muttered again. "Fuckin' chemistry students." The partners moved around the group of officers, finally able to see what the officers in blue considered a collegiate prank. On the ground was green goo, still bubbling under clothing sprawled out on the cement in the shape of what had once been -- =Not= George. No need to voice the name; as Mulder caught Scully's shocked stare, they both knew who this slick puddle of slime was. While virtually nothing remained of the body, both Mulder and Scully recognized Kurt's raincoat and tufts of his familiar hair. "Shit." Mulder leaned a fraction closer to his partner and muttered into her ear. "I guess he really was a 'good Kurt'." He straightened and addressed the officer. "Did you find anything nearby, or in the clothes? Wallet, briefcase, cell phone, anything like that?" The officer's eyebrows shot up. "We checked, but no. Why would we?" Mulder studied the green remains as though they were some sort of reverse tea leaves, able to tell him events of the past. Was it the Bounty Hunter that attacked him, or someone else with the right knowledge and the right tool? Did he have his laptop with him? Is that what the killer really wanted? Realizing he hadn't answered the police officer, Mulder forced out a shrug and offered a nonchalant "Just wondering." "Mulder, look at this." Mulder turned his attention to his partner, who had knelt near the remains and was studying the bottom of Kurt's shoes. She pointed to a pale orange substance embedded in a crack in one of the heels. He dropped the two bags he carried next to Scully's laptop and crouched next to her to examine her find. "It looks fairly fresh, not dry or cracked. Smooth, but not really the right color for mud or clay." She bent and sniffed. "No detectable odor." Before Mulder could share the fertilizer comment that leapt into his mind, Scully looked up at to the officer. "Would you mind if I take a scraping of this to be analyzed?" The Boston man gawked at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Knock yourself out, Agent." Mulder watched Scully reach into her duffel bag and remove a clean plastic bag and a Swiss Army knife from the bag's pocket. She made short work of the evidence-gathering, her economical scrape, tuck inside, and closing knot accomplished in less than fifteen seconds. By now most of the police officers had left, although the one they had been speaking with remained. Scully stood and caught his eye. "What are you going to do with..." she hesitated, then finished with, "the rest of this?" The officer shrugged. "I'm ready to leave -- this is the T's problem now. I figure they'll just toss the clothes and hose down the cement to clean off this green crap." Mulder noticed a pang of regret cross Scully's face, quickly replaced by her professional mask. "Thank you for your help," she told the officer, who returned her comment with a disinterested wave. Mulder gathered their bags, handing Scully the laptop, and followed her back to the cement stairway leading to the street. At the top of the stairs, Mulder's unease about the whole situation escalated, once he spied all the people still milling about. What if their contact was still here, or if the Bounty Hunter lurked about? No one seemed to be approaching them. A TV news van was unloading some yards away, attracting on-lookers, and he started toward it, scanning the crowd. "Mulder? What are you doing?" Scully grabbed his arm, halting his progress. "We're not supposed to be here -- we can't afford to wind up on Boston's eleven o'clock news. What are you looking for?" "Not what, Scully, =who=. If that's Kurt down there -- and I have no reason to believe it isn't -- what happened to this 'George' character we were supposed to meet?" He bit his lip. "Something's not right here, Scully -- we're missing something, and I can't figure out what it is." Scully eyed the TV cameras with disdain as she steered her partner toward the street, lifting a hand to hail a cab. "Mulder, the sample I took is bound to give us some clue. For all we know, that =was= George. There's no reason that the Kurts must all go by the same name, and just the raincoat doesn't necessarily prove that it was the same Kurt who was at your place last night. There must be a thousand raincoats just like that one in Boston." "So you're saying," asked Mulder as a cab pulled up at the curb, "that not only do they look identical, they share the same horrible taste in clothes?" "It's possible," she stated, giving him a glare as she entered the back of the cab. After he got in beside her, he craned his head one last time, searching the dissipating crowd as they sped away. No use, he surmised. No one had made a move in their direction, and even if it was the Bounty Hunter at work, he could be anyone in the crowd, if he was even still nearby. With a sigh, Mulder lolled his head in Scully's direction. "Think they share the same toothbrush, too?" Before he could be the recipient of a full-fledged Scully huff, the cab driver addressed them, his gaze capturing Mulder's in the rearview mirror. "Where to?" "Any good, cheap motels around here?" Mulder replied. "Depends on how long you plan to stay." The man's tone was straightforward, but there was no mistaking his implication. Cutting off his partner's scathing response, Mulder answered, "We're just tourists who can't afford $200 a night, okay? Just steer this thing towards a motel that won't break the bank." The driver fell silent, turning at the next intersection. Leaning toward his partner, his voice low above the din of the driver's talk radio show, Mulder said, "Unless the idea of hourly rates appeals to you?" He wasn't disappointed; her cheeks crinkled in the way they did when she was trying to stifle a smile. "Mulder..." "Professional reasons, I mean, since I'm sure the bacteria counts must be at fascinating lev--" "Mulder, shut up!" Chuckling, he returned to the matter at hand, settling back in the seat. "I wasn't kidding back there, Scully," he said, sobering. Instantly, she picked up on his change of thought. "About something not being right?" "Was it the Bounty Hunter who did this, who knew that Kurt was there?" Rapid-fire, his questions burst from him as he tried to make sense of it all. "Did this person know we were coming here, too? We should have been more careful -- we should know by now that we're being monitored." Scully's jaw tightened as if she hesitated to speak, but after a moment she asked, "Could this have anything to do with that e-mail Diana showed you? We know that meant someone knew Kurt had contacted us. We didn't think it made sense that Kurt could really be working with Dr. Scanlon, but maybe we should reconsider that theory." "Then why would he have been killed? And why have us come to Boston only to find that he'd been killed?" Scully shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe Kurt =was= on our side. Maybe it was this George character that killed him." "But Kurt's message was for us to =meet= George. So why was Kurt here at all? Did he discover that George was working for Them, and tried to be here to warn us? Unless you're right about George being another one of the Kurt clones, just going by another name. And that puts us right back at square one." Sighing, Scully glanced at her watch. "It's after eleven, and this discussion isn't getting us anywhere right now, Mulder. This scraping is the only piece of hard evidence we have, and we need to find a lab to get it analyzed. It's too late to get anything overnighted to the Gunmen." "I think I know where we can go," said Mulder. "Remember those Celtics playoff tickets I told you about earlier?" "The ones you won in a raffle and gave to an agent in the Boston office." "One and the same." He pulled out his cell phone, Scully nodding her understanding of his idea. "I think it's time for me to call in that marker." A quick call to Information produced the phone number he needed. The call to the Boston man was answered on the second ring. "John -- John Winston? It's Fox Mulder." He paused while the other man spoke. "Yeah, it's been a while. I'm sorry I'm calling so late, but this is an emergency. Remember that favor you owe me?" ******************************************************************** Winston Residence Commonwealth Avenue, Boston Saturday, 11:45 p.m. "Good to see you again, Mulder." John Winston clapped one hand on Mulder's shoulder as he extended his other toward Scully. "And a pleasure meeting you, Dana. I hope we get to run into you again under more casual circumstances." The burly African-American man grinned over his shoulder at his wife, who apparently was used to her husband's late-night FBI visitors. She gave their guests a warm smile without a hint of forced politeness. "Nice to meet you both," she said. "Are you sure you don't want to stay here tonight? We've got plenty of extra room now that the kids have gone back to college." "Thank you, Julia, but we hate to impose. I'm sure the hotel you mentioned will be fine," Scully said, turning back to the woman's husband. "You're sure you can analyze this sample first thing in the morning, John?" "Not a problem," Winston replied. "I'll give you a call when I've got your answer." He winked. "And nobody will be the wiser." Scully gave him a small smile of gratitude as Mulder asked, "Is this gonna cost me another pair of tickets, John?" The other man chuckled. "No, I'm glad to do it, to tell you the truth. I sure didn't mind the promotion to supervisor last year, but I miss doing some of the dirty work, you know?" He followed them out to the landing of their condo's floor. Dark wood shone under the ancient building's quaint antique-looking light fixtures. "Stop by again if you have a chance before you head back to Washington. We're barbecuing tomorrow night, if you're still in town." He looked over his should affectionately at his wife, who now stood in the doorway. "Julia refuses to let go of summer until it actually snows." "We'll keep that in mind. Thank you," Scully said, giving their hosts a small wave. "Good night." She started down the creaky stairs, Mulder close behind. "Oh, and Mulder?" Winston called. Mulder turned, hand on the banister. "The Red Sox are gonna kick the Yankees' ass next year." Mulder grinned, giving his friend a thumbs-up goodbye. "That'll be when it snows in July, John." ******************************************************************** Hotel Excalibur Newbury Street, Boston Saturday, 11:56 p.m. "We can accommodate you tonight," the clerk said, pushing two registration cards toward them across the faux marble desktop, "but I'm afraid we're sold out tomorrow night for a librarian's convention." Mulder suppressed a roll of his eyes, reminded of the annoying librarian who had stood in line with them at the airport in Washington. God, he hoped they didn't run into him again. He signed his card "Michael Risheloo," the name on he'd chosen for the ID's that Frohike had made them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scully pen "Rosalind Franklin" in her impeccable script. He really had to remember to ask her about her choice of name, he mused. The clerk handed Mulder and Scully their room keys, pointing toward the deserted elevator bank at the end of the lobby. At Mulder's inquiry, she gestured in the opposite direction toward the Lariat car rental counter. "It will re-open at 6 a.m.," she assured them, her voice tired and her smile as phony as the countertop beneath her hands. When they entered the elevator, Scully dropped her bag to the elevator floor, as did Mulder, though she kept hold of the laptop. He watched his partner crane her neck to and fro, an exhausted sigh accompanying the pop of her joints. She was not normally given to fidgeting, but the rolling tap of her fingertips on the laptop echoed his own uneasiness, that feeling he'd had all day that something just wasn't right. That something was putting her in danger. And the crease of her brow hadn't smoothed at all, meaning her headache bothered her still. As the elevator began its slow ascent, Mulder broke the silence. "Headache still bad?" It worried him; she should have had some relief by now, considering all the analgesics she'd taken that day. "Mmm," she nodded, evidently too fatigued to answer. He moved behind her, seizing the chance to touch her, to give her some surcease on the long ride up. She stiffened a moment when he placed his hands on her shoulder, then relaxed into his grip, her chin dropping at his gentle massage. "Shit, Scully. You're tighter than a drum. No wonder you have a headache." He worked her neck and shoulders lightly, trying to uncoil the bunched muscles without causing her more pain. It seemed to work, as she gradually relaxed under his ministrations. He took the opportunity to ask the question that had been on his mind. "I gotta ask, Scully: Rosalind Franklin? How did you come up with that name?" Scully inhaled a long breath before answering, her chin still tucked. "She was a research scientist in England -- the first person to take a useful X-ray of DNA. Her work helped lead to the discovery of the 'double helix' structure of DNA." "I thought Watson and Crick discovered the double helix." "Well, they were the ones who won the Nobel Prize. But great scientific breakthroughs are rarely made in a vacuum, Mulder." She blew out a long breath as Mulder continued his efforts. "Researchers often work in teams. They also thrive on competition. The structure of DNA was one of the scientific pots of gold through the '40's and '50's." She grunted and tensed as he pressed his thumbs harder between her shoulder blades. He let up a bit and was rewarded with her relaxing again. "But the big prize went to the men?" Scully cleared her throat before answering, "It's, umm, been suggested that Rosalind Franklin didn't get the acknowledgment she was due because she was a woman." Mulder nodded, slightly increasing the pressure on his partner's knotted muscles. "In any case," Scully continued, "she died before the Nobel Prize was awarded to Watson and Crick." She paused, looking down at her feet. "Of cancer." His hands stilled for a moment, then slowly tried to resume their massage as he processed the fact. It wasn't easy; he felt like he was fumbling now. Scully paused again, then glanced over her shoulder at her partner. "She was thirty-seven." Dropping his hands to his sides, Mulder felt a plummeting sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with their elevator ride. Before he could think of a coherent response, a loud *ding* announced their arrival at their floor. ******************************************************************** - end Chapter 15 - ******************************************************************** Thanks for reading. Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com or bjm1352@aol.com. Author's Notes for Chapter 15: Rosalind Franklin was a physical chemist whose X-ray crystallography helped James Watson and Francis Crick determine the "double helix" structure of DNA. She died in 1958 of ovarian cancer at the age of 37. Watson and Crick, along with Maurice Wilkins, were awarded the Nobel Prize for Physiology and Medicine in 1962 for the discovery of DNA's structure. Franklin, rather than Wilkins, might have shared in the Nobel Prize had she lived. For more information on the discovery of the structure of DNA, read "The Double Helix," by James Watson. The information on Rosalind Franklin was summarized from the following websites: http://curie.che.virginia.edu/scientist/franklin.html, http://www.thetech.org/exhibits_events/online/genome/DNA5b.html, and http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/womens_health/29778 Boston's subway/trolley system is known to locals as the T, which is short for MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority: http://www.mbta.com). The T has four color-coded lines: Red, Green, Blue, and Orange. The Red and Green lines cross at Park Street Station, at Boston Common. If you saw the S8 episode "Medusa," that took place in a fictional subway station on the Red Line. Newbury Street is the Boston version of Beverly Hills' Rodeo Drive. If you've got a lot of money to burn that's the place to shop. The Hotel Excalibur, however, is a figment of my imagination (the better to go along with the fictitious Lariat car rental agency *g*). Big heaping beta thanks to Jintian Li, Diana Battis, mountainphile, and especially Mish, who once again went *far* above and beyond the call of duty on this chapter. And thanks again to all you persistent stalkers -- you know who you are. I may be the world's slowest fic writer, but I'd be even slower if it weren't for you guys!