Title - Said the Spider to the Fly Author - Dark Nascent E-Mail address - nascent70@hotmail.com Rating - R Category - SAHR <-- That's right. Not a typo. R. Spoilers - Fight the Future Keywords - Character Death Summary - The truth about Samantha Mulder. Or: Nascent develops her split personality. Archive - Sure, just let me know where it's going. Unless, of course, you represent Gossamer, in which case you don't have to tell me anything. Feedback - Yes! --------------------------------------------------- "Said the Spider to the Fly," from the Barnyard Series Barnyard Series installments are entirely independent and completely unrelated. The Barnyard, manure and all, is generously hosted by the incomparably generous, kind and talented Jordan at http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/1063. by Dark Nascent (nascent70@hotmail.com) --------------------------------------------------- CONTENT WARNING: Mulder/Scully romance. USTy and RSTy. Character death. DISCLAIMER: This piece is in no way Nascent's fault. Send money. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Special thanks to the wonderful people at Nestea, for canning what never should have tasted aluminum. Aluminium. Whatever. --------------------------------------------------- Alexandria, Virginia 1:05 a.m. Sweaty heat hung like smog over the room, clinging to Fox Mulder's lanky limbs and muscled torso. The warmth fogged his brain; it had slowed even his usually restless dreams. Nightmares. Mulder had always suffered from nightmares, even before he had experienced things about which to have nightmares. Nightmares of his struggling, screaming sister, of hands reaching for her throat and tightening...tightening.... His nightmares were choreographed by an invisible director. The sets were impeccable, the lighting expertly revealing--it made faces bright and cast shadows exactly where they would inspire the most lurid fear. The camera shifted, tightening in on his sister's contorted, childish face, then pulling back to reveal the hands seizing against her larynx, then panning over to reveal the darkened features of the hands' owner. Sometimes--often, even--he owned the hands. But not tonight. Tonight, the steamy Washington heat which made mosquitoes rut had stripped his brain of the ability to dream. Clad only in his boxers, blanket long ago crumpled at the couch's foot, he turned and twisted in a restless, dreamless sleep. Which is why the banging on his door woke him easily. He started, catching his breath almost as if he had woken from a nightmare, and quickly recovered, squinting at the eerie digital glow of his VCR clock. Who would be pounding on his door at one in the morning? It couldn't be good. He hauled himself off the couch, automatically gripping the gun on his coffee table as he did so. Another sound from beyond the door made him place it back on the table. "Mulder, it's me." Scully's voice. Scully. At one in the morning. This must be worse than he'd feared. "Coming," he mumbled loudly, but she was already using her key. He reached the handle just as the door swung back. His partner jumped, surprised by his proximity. "Mulder," she said, as if to remind herself. He studied her with concern. Her hair was neat, though she wore no make-up to disguise the rivulets of frost-bite damage which still scarred her cheeks. She was wearing only grey leggings and a white T-shirt. He guessed she hadn't yet been to bed. Although she would have appeared impeccably composed to any casual observer, he detected the tiny signs of her unrest--bright eyes, tightened jaw, squared-off shoulders. "What's wrong, Scully?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Did I wake you?" She sounded almost nervous. "Scully--it's...what? One in the morning..." "I know," she answered immediately. "You need to come with me. Get dressed." "What's wrong?" he insisted. "Just get dressed." He permitted a half smile to creep over his face, leaned over her and sniffed. "Scully, have you been drinking?" An expression of irritation with which he was thankfully familiar subverted her worried features. "Of course not, Mulder," she answered. "I'm not you. This is serious. Come on." "Where?" She gave an exasperated sigh, then looked down. Raised a single finger to her lips, just for a second. It could have been no more than an absent gesture, but Mulder understood. Scully thought his apartment was bugged. Now he was as nervous as she. He nodded at her and guided her inside with a hand on her shoulder. "Just a second," he told her, disappearing down the hallway. He left the bedroom door open as he dressed, hearing her pacing quietly in his living room. Something must have happened to her. Had she discovered surveillance in her apartment or seen something? Been approached by someone? So soon? The X-Files had just been reopened; they hadn't even had a chance to decide where the new office would be. Was the attack to come so quickly? He pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt, then quickly joined her in the living room. She was waiting for him, arms crossed on her chest. "You know, Mulder," she told him. "You can afford air conditioning." "Can't take the heat, Scully?" he asked, trying to infuse his words with a grin. She didn't answer, gesturing for him to precede her out the door. The night was muggy; thunderheads trapped the light pollution in the narrow junction between earth and sky. As they exited the building, the sky rumbled ominously, and Mulder could smell the promise of rain. He saw immediately that her car wasn't there. She led him instead to a cornflower blue station wagon. "My mom's," she explained, at his questioning glance. He blinked. Did she think her car was bugged too? Had she driven all the way to Annapolis and to exchange the cars, then up to Alexandria to get him? Something important was going on. She backed out of the parking lot, her fists gripping the wheel precisely at two and ten o'clock, all attempt at casual conversation abandoned. He wanted, once again, to ask, but her posture discouraged him. Once on the road, she drove quickly, taking frequent turns. He couldn't guess from her directions where she was going, and was surprised when they suddenly reached a highway on-ramp. The interstate was virtually deserted, but she drove fast, changing lanes frequently and checking her rearview mirror. Finally, he could bear it no longer. "Scully, please," he said quietly. "What's going on?" Her fingers clenched more tightly around the wheel. "Dammit, Mulder, just once--just this one time, can you just take it on my word that I know what we're doing?" A little taken aback, Mulder reached automatically for her shoulder, which stiffened under his touch. "Okay, Scully," he told her, his tone serious and apologetic. She neither relaxed nor looked at him, and after a moment he returned his hand to his lap. A large raindrop flattened against the windshield. It wasn't the last. --------------------------------------------------- The rain was pounding on the car and it was past two in the morning when Scully finally chose a highway exit. A lightening flash briefly illuminated the name of her chosen destination: Verona, West Virginia. A single neon sign glowed balefully at them through the downpour: Briarpatch Inn. Scully pulled into the parking lot. Four pick-up trucks, an El Camino and two minivans were parked in front of the dark establishment. Their car pulled to a stop in front of the clerk's office, from which a dim light emanated. Mulder only looked at her. "If you're tired--" he began. "No. We're staying," she said shortly. She unclasped her seatbelt and slipped a hand into her left pocket, handed him a wad of cash. "Will you get us a room in another name?" Mulder understood her intent. "They'll be able to find us by the time we checked in," he warned. "It's okay," she told him. "We're not running. We just need a couple of hours." Mulder raised an eyebrow and leered. "That's all it--" She cut him off sharply. "That's not funny, Mulder. Not right now." "Okay," he answered cautiously, opening the car door. The roar of the rain grew immediately louder, so loud that she almost didn't hear his added "I'm sorry," as he left. Scully leaned her head forward on the steering wheel and bit her lip. --------------------------------------------------- Angelino MacDonald usually slept through his turns on the night-shift, but tonight he was awake. He hated to admit it, but the thunder gave him the creeps, and he was terrified of lightning. There was usually a lot of business on rainy nights like tonight, but it was almost always over by midnight. So he was surprised when the station wagon stopped outside. He squinted through the thick, slightly warped glass, watching warily as the car's occupants conversed. Were they planning a stick-up? He'd rehearsed the scenario in his mind a thousand times. The guy would come in in a ski mask, rifle in hand, and would point it straight at Angelino, who would then duck behind the counter in a quick tuck-and-roll, press the police alarm button and retrieve the revolver Mr. Gallus kept in the lowest drawer. He'd come up shooting, and the looter'd collapse in a pleading heap of blood and flesh, making Angelino MacDonald a hero. As the two indistinguishable figures talked, though, MacDonald felt all his blood draining to his toes. He decided to skip the tuck-and-roll, dropping down behind the desk. He opened the drawer and let his fingers close around the unfamiliar handgun. Mr. Gallus had showed him out to cock the safety, how to aim and fire, but he'd never had a target. The explosion of thunder overhead was reminiscent of a gunshot and he began to sweat, his breaths frighteningly loud in the small space behind the desk. He heard the tinkly gold bell ring as the door opened. "Hello?" a man's voice called. Angelino took a deep breath, then leapt up from behind the counter, pointing the gun squarely at the intruder. "Drop it, motherfucker!" he meant to scream, but all that came out was: "Duh--" because he quite suddenly found the gun knocked out of his hand, his wrist and upper arm in lightning-hot pain. The man had leapt across the room, knocked the gun out of Angelino's hand, and now had the kid's arm twisted up behind his back. A loud, repetitive whimpering pervaded the room. Angelino was horrified to realize it was coming from him. Suddenly the bell rang again, and a tiny red-haired woman, soaking wet, dashed in. She stopped when she saw the scene. "What the hell are you doing?" she cried. At first Angelino assumed she was talking to him and automatically started to stutter, but the man answered. "He pulled a gun on me!" he cried, in the same tone a child uses to exclaim, 'It's not my fault!' "Let go of him," she said shortly. "He probably thought you were going to hold him up or something." "That true?" the man asked Angelino gruffly. "Ye--yeah--" the kid managed. The pressure on his arm was released, and he was turned to face the man. "You okay?" he asked. Like the woman, he was soaking wet and looked tired. Angelino nodded dumbly, rubbing his arm. "Sorry about that, then," the man said shortly. "We're not trying to rob you--we just need a room." "A--a room?" Another clap of thunder. "Yeah. A room," the man repeated, then slower, as if he thought Angelino might not understand English: "My wife and I would like a room." "Uh...yeah," Angelino said. He produced the form from behind the desk, blushing brightly. "Sorry," he mumbled. The man filled out the paperwork and Angelino handed him a key. --------------------------------------------------- Mulder followed his partner wearily into the worn-down hotel and grimaced at the stained bedspread with distaste. He toed off his wet shoes and shivered, suddenly cold. Scully was dripping with water, her hair bundled into wet tangles and her T-shirt clinging awkwardly to her torso, yet she still managed to appear in control. A dignified drowned rat. She had brought a plastic bag from the car. Mulder peeled off his wet T-shirt, dropped it casually on the floor, and headed for the bathroom. He wrinkled his nose at the brownish-red rust stains in the sink, then took both towels from the rack. He handed one to Scully as he walked back into the room. "Okay," he said, ruffling his hair with the towel. "What's up?" She drew a manila envelope out of the plastic bag and extended it to him. Curious, Mulder dropped the towel on the bed and took the envelope. He opened it cautiously, glancing at Scully to watch her reactions. The telltale hints of nervousness had returned to her features. Mulder reached inside and pulled out a small stack of grainy black and white photos. Scully bit her lip as she watched him thumb through the pictures. She could tell which picture he was looking at by his expression--first shock, then consternation, then an unqualified tenderness mixed with concern. The photos showed the two of them, facing each other in the hallway outside his apartment. The angle was a little awkward, obviously that of an overhead camera aimed which showed Mulder's face but only the top of her head. The wavy lines at the bottom confirmed that the image was a captured video frame with bad sync. Captured images she would never be able to forget. His intense declarations of love and need. Her embrace--simultaneously defeated and triumphant. And finally him leaning in toward her...she could remember the heat of his hand, pressing into her neck like fire, even more clearly than she could remember the needling pain that followed. Skinner hadn't given her pictures of the bee sting. "I'm only urging you to be careful," her supervisor had told her fiercely. As if on cue, Mulder spoke roughly, a catch in his throat. "Who gave you these?" She wet her lips. "Skinner." The older man's voice still rang in her mind: I'm on your side, Scully. I know how this looks, but you have to trust me. Mulder swallowed. In his hands, the photos were fluttering, twitching with his rage. "He's with them," he whispered, his voice dripping with disbelief and disgust. "We trusted him. And they were still--always--watching...." "Yes, they were watching," Scully confirmed. "I don't think we were followed here, though." Mulder looked askance, his jaw clenched, absorbing this terrible information. As the full implications of Scully's missive hit him, he swiveled quickly back to meet her gaze. "Why did he bring them to you?" Scully looked away, at the cheap floral pseudo-art above the bed. "He wanted to warn me," she said. "He played it like he was doing me a favor." Mulder blinked. It didn't make sense. "Warn you about what?" he asked cautiously, stroking the top photo with his thumb. Scully could see it featured the almost-kiss. She focused on his hands instead of his eyes, remembering the A.D.'s words: You need to be careful. You think you know him, but you don't know everything. She couldn't tell him. Mulder rose slowly and stiffly, as if unfolding. He towered over her, simultaneously stern and gentle. "Scully." A single, simple word, the sound of her name. It should not have been too much for her, but simple mechanics dictate that great barriers can be moved with very small levers, as she well knew. She met his eyes, embarrassed and even a little afraid. "Warn me not to let that"--she gestured vaguely at the pictures. "Not to take that...step." "He threatened you?" Mulder murmured tightly, dangerously. "That's what I thought, at first," she replied, absurdly grateful that he hadn't made her say the words. "But he insisted it wasn't like that. He said it was for my own safety." "Sounds a hell of a lot like a threat to me," Mulder said grimly, his eyes narrowing. "No, it wasn't like that." Scully repeated, crossing her arms over her chest. How could she explain without telling Mulder everything? How much could she say? "He told me a story, Mulder. A story that fits with a lot of what we've heard before." "A story you believe?" Leave it to Mulder to cut to the chase. "I don't know yet. Parts of it, maybe." Mulder settled back onto the edge of the bed, hands on either side of him as if poised to leap up at any moment. "Tell me the story," he said softly. Scully took a step backward to lean against the dresser, considering her words carefully. "I was getting ready for bed," she began, "and there was a knock at the door. I assumed it was you. But it wasn't." **************** Skinner entered her apartment with a furtive glance from side to side. She knew immediately that something was very wrong. "What is it, sir? Is Mulder--" "Mulder's fine," Skinner reassured her, stopping her with a raised hand. "But we need to talk. Can we sit down?" She nodded slowly, led him around to the couch. They perched awkwardly on opposite ends, regarding each other warily. Finally, Skinner spoke. "Scully, I've been presented with some information which suggests you are considering...deepening...your relationship with Agent Mulder." "Sir?" Skinner sighed. "Romantically, that is. I came here to caution you against that course." Scully weighed her options carefully. Why would he suspect this? She could demand to know why he thought this, could vehemently deny it, or... "I'm not sure that my relationship with Mulder, romantic or not, is your concern, sir," she said slowly. Skinner nodded. "Insofar as it doesn't affect your solvency rate, it shouldn't be. I don't really want it to be. But...there are...other considerations. You will be in grave danger if you pursue this course." Scully said nothing, watching with satisfaction as the older man became increasingly uncomfortable, wishing she'd read between the lines he'd drawn. "Ah...Agent Mulder is.... That is, you don't know him as well as you think you do." She blinked, still regarding him coolly. She wasn't going to offer any help. At last, Skinner surrendered and started over. "Scully, you were assigned to the X-Files for a reason, and it wasn't to spy on Mulder. Men have been watching Mulder for decades, since he was a child. There are more psychological profiles on Mulder than have ever been performed on anyone. He has been more extensively surveilled than any one man in U.S. history. Powerful men have extensively manipulated his fate, and you have been part of that manipulation." "You mean my abduction, my cancer," Scully said carefully. This sounded like an exaggeration but was not unbelievable. "Not only that," Skinner replied. "But every aspect of your work with the X-Files. Why do you think the FBI recruited you out of med school? They've been watching you for almost ten years, Scully. Shaping you to meet their needs, because they know exactly what Fox Mulder needs. They created him, and now they've created you. They knew you'd become close, but they expected your professionalism and his reticence would protect you against the development of a romantic relationship. You surprised them. The timing of that bee sting was no accident, Agent Scully. Don't look so surprised--do you really think there aren't surveillance cameras in Mulder's hallway? Now, finally, they've decided there's nothing more they can do." A small seed of rage had taken root in Scully's belly and was growing rapidly. "How do you--" "Wait," he said, holding up his hand again. "Let me finish. If something happens between you two, they're going to let it happen, even if it puts you in danger. They think he's lost his faith, and this might be a way for him to find it again. At the least, it'll give them a new tool with which to manipulate him." "What will be a tool?" she asked coldly. Skinner continued quickly as if he hadn't heard. "But I don't want to see that. I'm on your side, Scully. I know how this looks, but you have to trust me. I like you. I admire your dedication, your integrity and your capability. I don't want to see you dead. So I've come here without their knowledge and at the risk of losing your trust, to urge you not to let your relationship with Mulder change." The rage had grown quickly, climbing up her torso and racing quickly down her limbs, filling every space in her body. Her voice was icy, deadly. "My relationship with Mulder is none of your goddamn business. Sir. But that's a pretty minor issue compared to what you're telling me now. First, how do you know this? Second, if you're telling me the truth, why the hell aren't you worried about surveillance in my apartment? Third, what the hell do you mean, 'I don't want to see you dead?' Are you saying that they'd kill me if we slept together, just to bring him down?" Skinner took a deep breath. "No, Scully, that's not what I'm saying at all. They wouldn't kill you. They don't want to bring him down." He sighed, looked away. "They have plans for him--that's why they've put so much effort into creating him. They don't really want you to die, but the bee sting trick will only work once. This time, they won't intervene if something does happen." He sighed. "I'm here because I know your apartment isn't currently under surveillance. I can see you don't believe me, but I wouldn't be here otherwise. They're not that interested in what you do at home. As to how I know this....well, let's just say it's those unofficial channels." Scully's eyes narrowed, and she found that her fingers were clenching around a nonexistent gun. "I think you better tell me everything you know, official or not." **************** "So what did he say?" Mulder asked. He had put the pictures down on the bed beside him. "A lot things," Scully replied. She hesitated, then forged ahead. "Mainly that there's a lot I don't know about you." "Scully, you know me better than anyone," Mulder said quickly, automatically. Outside, the summer storm raged on. "That's what I thought too. I didn't believe him at first. But then he showed me a picture from your wedding." She had still doubted it up until that moment, but as Mulder's face fell, she knew it had been true. He was looking at the floor. "I'm sorry, Scully," he murmured. She shrugged. "It's not really my business," she said, trying to at least sound like she believed herself. "Yes it is," he answered, and suddenly she could barely hear his voice above the pounding rain. "I should have told you ages ago. It's just--it hadn't been for long. She left me on our wedding night. It's not really that important to me anymore." "Left you? You mean--?" "I mean I woke up and she was gone. Nothing, not even a note. We'd had a fight the day before, about...about Diana. I'd been seeing Sara for two years, but she was sort of old-fashioned--we hadn't slept together. She never trusted me, was convinced I must be getting it somewhere else, and since Diana and I were working together--this was all long before the X-Files. But Sara must've seen what was coming before I did. She decided she wasn't going to live with a husband who couldn't give her his full attention." Scully frowned slightly. "Skinner only told me she'd disappeared. I thought--" "That I was too broken up over it to talk about it?" Mulder chuckled. "Hardly. At the time, of course, it was devastating--I still wore the ring for years. A lot of my relationship with Diana came out of that, though Sara was wrong about me wanting to sleep with her. But it was a good thing, in the end, that the marriage didn't work out. I stumbled into my first X-File not much later, and you know the rest." Scully nodded slowly, satisfied. Skinner had made an issue out of this; it became obvious to her now that he'd been grasping at straws to convince her she didn't know her partner as well as she thought. She was vaguely ashamed of the relief that washed over her. But she hadn't told Mulder everything. Perhaps she should have. A rolling boom of thunder sounded, and the lights flickered. **************** "You don't know him as well as you think you do," Skinner told her, leaning forward intently. "You have to believe me about this. I know you're going to talk to him about this--I know you'll trust him over me any day, and I don't blame you. But you must be careful." "What are you saying, sir?" Scully let a hint of irritation color her voice. "I'm saying Mulder's insane." "Sir, I realize Mulder has a complex psychology--we all do. But I hardly think--" "That's exactly the problem, Agent Scully. I know what neuroses you're talking about, and they aren't at all what I'm talking about. When I say 'insane,' I mean it. They need him to be crazy. He has a purpose which few--perhaps no--other men can fulfill. That's why They let him get away with so much. Whose influence do you think kept him out of jail after the paper hearts fiasco? Or the death of Scott Ostelhoff?" Scully's eyes narrowed. "I assumed you had a lot to do with that." "You assumed too much. I don't have that kind of power. But even if Roche had killed that little girl, They would have seen to it that Mulder got off. Ostelhoff was just doing his job--an important job, the kind of job that's protected you more than once--and They let him die with his memory tarnished because Mulder is that important. Which is why you have to be careful. You're valuable to Them, you're a high price to pay, but They'll let you die if it comes to that." Scully stood up, towering over the assistant director sternly. "Stop wasting my time with these vague threats and allusions, Skinner. You've made your politics abundantly clear. Now either make your story equally clear or stop wasting my time." Skinner opened and closed his mouth, then nodded, as if this was what he'd expected. "You'd never believe me if I did," he sighed. He stood up, starting toward the door. "Think about what I've said, though." She gave a soft, disgusted snort. With his hand on the knob, he turned back to her. "I have one more thing to tell you, Scully." She raised her eyebrows expectantly, arms folded across her chest. One hand clutched the envelope he'd given her. Skinner looked her up and down sadly, knowing he'd failed. "Samantha was not abducted," he said at last. "Samantha Mulder is dead." **************** But she couldn't tell him that. Not yet. Not until she'd investigated for herself. Mulder was still looking up at her, apologetic and concerned. She knew she'd doubted her partner enough for one night. "I still don't know why it was so important to Skinner. Even if he is with them, Mulder, why would he risk everything just to tell me not to kiss you?" There, she'd said it. Sort of. Mulder dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "It doesn't make sense unless it was a set-up. Maybe they're afraid it would make us closer, stronger. Maybe they forced Skinner into talking to you and he couldn't let on, but made it unbelievable in order not to be working against us." "Skinner wouldn't do that," Scully replied. "He wouldn't compromise his principles for us." Mulder blinked, remembering the deal about which Scully could not know. "And even if he did," Scully continued, "it just doesn't make sense. What advantage could there possibly be? How could the stakes be so high over something as insignificant as the definition of our relationship?" "Insignificant?" Mulder repeated, a teasing smile on his lips. Scully blushed. "In the larger scheme of things, yes," she answered defensively. His smile fading, he lay back on the bed, passed a tired hand over his face thoughtfully. "Scully, do you want things to change between us?" She sighed and bit her lower lip, thinking, though she already knew her answer. The long silence was punctuated by the heavy, fast rhythm of the rain. "No," she said finally. "It's not for us, Mulder. It's not a place we need to go." "But why? Why haven't we already gone there? Five years, Scully. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it--" She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Of course I've thought about it. And then I think: 'That would be really stupid.'" "I see." Mulder drew the back of his arm over his eyes. A pang of guilt and affection surged through her and she crossed the room to drop onto the bed beside him. She reached out to move his arm away so he had no choice but to meet her eyes. "No, Mulder, I don't think you do," she said. "You think I'm rejecting you, but that's not it at all." "I don't think that," he answered calmly, pushing himself into a half-sitting position. "Then what do you think?" He smiled at her, then looked away almost shyly. The index finger of his right hand absently rubbed the ring finger of his left. "I think you're very wisely deciding that I'm not what's best for you. That I'm too caught up in this nameless, endless quest to ever give you what you need, what you deserve. That I'm a drowning man and in my dependence on you I'd pull you down with me." As he said these words, his tone was matter-of-fact, but she recognized the carefulness of it. "That's not--" "True, Scully? It is true." He looked back at her, a calculated fierceness in his tone. "Don't worry: I'm not wallowing in self-pity or trying to showcase my self-esteem problems; I'm just being honest. I have the psych degree, remember?" "It may be true, then, Mulder, if that's what you want me to say, but it's not why I don't think it would be good for us, and I'd appreciate it if you let me decide what's best for me." "I--" "No, let me finish." She drew her knees up underneath her so that she could face him more fully. "Everything you said could be true and it wouldn't matter. I know who you are, Mulder, and I've accepted that, loved you because of it, not despite it." Skinner's words reverberated in her head: You don't know him as well as you think. But she continued ruthlessly, aware that her voice had acquired a certain rawness. "I love you more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone. And that's why we can't...do...this." She gestured awkwardly at the photos, which lay discarded beside them on the bed. Mulder chuckled gently with wonder, shaking his head. "You lost me somewhere, Scully." She sighed, looked down at her hands. "I don't know how to say this. It's difficult." He waited silently, letting her collect her thoughts. Finally, she continued. "I know that I love you because I've chosen it. I can trust that choice because I've thought about it--about who you are, about who I am--and from these things I have made the decision to love you. This way I know I'm not fooling myself. I'm not being blinded by the things you do for me or by some falsely gilded and heroic image erected in my brain. "I love my family too, of course. But it's a very different circumstance. My love for them is deeply rooted in my psychology; I had no choice in it. And though my feelings for them are no less strong than my feelings for you, I know that what I feel for you is more real, more genuine, because I choose it." "Scully..." he began, his voice wavering a little. She couldn't look at his eyes, fearing the tears she would see. They might stop her. "I'm not done yet," she said hurriedly, huskily. She wet her lips and continued. "There are times when I've desired something...other...from you. Not something more, just something other. But Mulder, no matter how much I've wanted it at times, I can't trust those desires. They're born of chemicals born of instincts, things over which I have no conscious control or choice. I don't want to clutter my feelings for you with...chemistry." There was a long silence as she remastered her emotions. Finally, she turned to look at him, at last meeting his eyes. They were, indeed, brimming with tears. "Okay," she told him with a hint of a self-mocking smile. "I'm done now." He returned her smile gently. "Well, Scully," he said softly. "This puts me in a very difficult position." She shifted awkwardly, suddenly afraid she'd said too much. Had she misunderstood him? Was the scene in the hallway, the pictures beside her merely another act of subconscious manipulation by her partner? He saw her doubts immediately and placed his hand reassuringly on her knee. "No, let me say this first. You have to know that I love you, Scully, more powerfully and completely than I've ever loved anyone in my life, and that's a conscious choice too, grounded in my respect for everything you are. And what you've said just now has made me respect you even more, if that were ever possible." Her lips twitched in a faint smile, and a tear slipped down her right cheek. Mulder released her knee to wipe it away with his thumb, grazing her skin a little more firmly than necessary. "But I'm in a difficult position," he continued as he drew back, "because I want very much to argue with you, yet if I do, it'll seem like I'm trying to convince you , and I don't want to make you feel that way." "You always argue with me, Mulder," she said softly. "Go ahead. I trust your motives." He smiled fondly at her. "Okay then. Just remember--I'm arguing the ideology. It doesn't have to be about us." She nodded. "Sexuality is, fundamentally, just chemicals, true. But so is every thought process. Chemicals and electrical impulses. Why do you trust one so much more than the other?" She fell easily and gratefully into their familiar pattern. "Because there's an instinctual motivator when it comes to sex: the instinct to reproduce. That has nothing to do with love." "So because sexuality can be used casually and callously, to use it as part of a loving relationship has the connotation of cheapening the relationship?" Scully thought for a moment. "That's not exactly it. That would imply that there are multiple kinds of sex--the old cliche of 'making love' versus 'fucking.' It's still the same act, the same motivation, and it's enjoyable for the same reasons. The natural reaction to it can clutter what you feel about the partner regardless of whether you started out feeling indifference or genuine love. It confuses things." "I don't think so. I think that the emotional associations of sex,what you'd correctly call the chemical aspects of it, can be an wonderful, spiritual compliment to considered, conscious love. Certainly, it can also inspire infatuation, which isn't genuine at all, but that reaction is determined by the initial relationship, not by the sexual act itself." "So the reaction to sex is dictated by the existing relationship?" Scully said, rephrasing his words to be sure she understood. He nodded. "Then why haven't you ever acted on this, if you don't mind my asking?" He nodded again as if he'd expected that. "For the reason I first explained: I know I can't be what you deserve. Or maybe even what you want." "Don't make those decisions for me," she said, a faint irritation creeping into her voice. "Regardless, I still disagree. Your assertion that sex is spiritually fulfilling only augments my argument that it's a chemically powerful instinct that can confuse rational thoughts about another person. And those rational thoughts are much more honest and truthful than anything instinct can provide. Instinct will blind you to certain aspects of a person's character while overemphasizing others. I'm proud of the fact that I'm not blind to your flaws or overly worshipful of your good qualities, yet am still certain I love you." He grinned. "I'm flattered, I think, but again, those so-called rational thoughts are no more than electrical impulses. Chemistry, physics, what's the difference?" "And, again, the thoughts are not driven by biological instinct," she replied. "There's no evolutionary advantage to deciding to love someone. I have no reason to suspect that my feelings for you are anything but the most honest truth." She paused, then added: "I don't want to ever have a reason to suspect that." "Do you believe the ocean is beautiful, Scully? Do you feel a sense of peace or awe when looking at a mountain range?" She sighed. "I see where you're going, Mulder. Yes, I can feel a spiritual wonder at the beauty of the world." "Where do you think such feelings come from?" She cocked her head to one side. "Well, there's a theory that non-linear differential equations--chaotic equations--are biologically inscribed in us somehow. The fact that the patterning of nerve growth and blood vessel growth can be described by the same kinds of equations that determine a coastline or ocean currents or the branching patterns of a tree suggests that there's some underlying similarity in all these things. Since every human culture recognizes the concept of natural beauty, it's probably somehow ingrained in us. Maybe chaotic equations and fractal math are part of the way we're hardwired, and so when we see those patterns recapitulated in the natural world a feeling of spiritual kinship is triggered." Mulder shook his head with a laugh. "Good explanation, Scully. But let me ask you this. Is the experience of natural beauty at all denigrated for you by the knowledge that such feelings are completely irrational, driven by biological processes or chemicals?" She saw the trap. "So, because I don't question the feelings I have at witnessing natural beauty, I shouldn't question the feelings tied to sex?" "All I'm saying is, you have to be honest with yourself. True to yourself. And chemistry is a part of yourself. Not believing in that spiritualism is just as dishonest as letting it manipulate you." "If that's true, Mulder, then should a psychotic serial killer who delights in killing because something in his chemistry is screwed up, should he question what he does or why it makes him happy?" "That's quite a leap, Scully." "Is it really? Is it all that different?" She turned to face him, challenge and a hint of amusement in her eyes. "You're telling me to trust in the irrational things I feel just because they feel good or right. Coincidentally, the things you want me to trust in happen to be things which the majority of people believe in, but the same chemicals can be used for things far more nefarious. If I should act on the impulses just because there's something spiritually right about them, who's to say that a killer shouldn't act on the same impulses?" There was a long pause as Mulder considered this. Finally, he conceded: "Actually, you're right. It's not all that different. But we as a society know there are things that are right and wrong." "Do we? Take Hitler. He not only received spiritual satisfaction from his actions, but he believed he was doing something completely right. He was being true to himself. Does that mean he should have done what he did?" Mulder pursed his lips, thinking. "In the largest possible scheme of things, yes, I believe it does. Or rather, I believe it would absolve him if there were some final judgment. He believed he was doing the right thing. Of course, as a society, we can't exist if we allow that, so to be true to ourselves, we had to stop him." "I find this a surprising position for you, a profiler, to take. You've expressed so much disgust for getting inside these people's heads, yet here, you're almost respecting them." "Scully, it's why I'm a profiler. It's why I'm good at it. I can see what motivates them, what they believe to be good. That doesn't mean I like it. That wouldn't be true to myself." "I see," she said finally, and she genuinely did. She'd expected that response. She knew now that Skinner had been wrong. She knew her friend very well. They both fell silent, considering. Outside, the thunder had passed and the rain was merely a steady patter on the pavement. The room reverberated when Mulder finally sighed. "Well. We have to decide what to do about this." He pointed at the pictures beside them. She echoed his sigh. "I think we have to confront Skinner. In private somehow, away from any possible surveillance. But we can't do anything until the morning." Mulder nodded. Scully again recalled Skinner's words as he left her apartment, struck suddenly with doubt over her decision not to tell Mulder now. Samantha was not abducted. If she was dead, the syndicate must have killed her, to 'create' Mulder. Had Skinner told the truth? And if he had, was it better to let her partner continue his endless pursuit in ignorance? Before she had even considered her action, her hand stretched out to reach his, needing to feel his reassuring presence through her skin. He surprised her when his arms suddenly wrapped around her in a tight embrace. She felt his head come to rest on her shoulder, and, tentatively, she leaned forward to rest hers on his, relaxing with a sigh. "I do love you," he whispered near her ear, apparently uncertain their conversation was finished. "And it has nothing to do with instincts of reproduction." "I know," she answered softly, smiling faintly against his neck. "Is it rational, then," he continued, "that I should derive such comfort from holding you like this?" "No," she answered softly, pulling back. He raised his head and turned to look at her, a hint of hurt beginning to blossom in his eyes. She smiled up at him, her arms sliding around his torso. "It's a purely spiritual thing," she told him, and leaned up to press her lips against his. Outside, the rain continued unabated. For a fraction of a second, it could have been an affectionate kiss, a tentative brushing of lips against lips. But only for a fraction of a second. Almost immediately, their mouths began to move together, faster and firmer. So this is what it's like, Scully thought, as she felt a heavy wave of pleasure rise up at her lips and surge quickly to her belly. Rational objections no longer seemed the point. --------------------------------------------------- The sun rose on the morning after as it did on any other day, ignorant of the significance of this particular one. Mulder did not notice that the day was new. He had not slept. Scully woke with a start to the unfamiliar feeling of a hand closing around her naked breast. Remembering her current circumstances, she relaxed almost immediately into Mulder's soft caress. She felt his weight as he rolled over above her, his body pressed warm and heavy along the whole length of hers. "Morning," she sighed. So it was that she was unprepared for the pillow which descended on her exhaled breath, for the weight with which it was smashed against her face. She gasped in shock and desperation, automatically kicking upward against her partner, but he easily pinned her legs down by scissoring his own around them. His arms bruisingly trapped her upper arms, so all she could do was flail ineffectually against his back, the blows connecting with little force. Mulder's eyes were open wide and his expression was unfathomable. "I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you," he whispered, pressing harder on the pillow. Scully could not hear him--she was too busy bucking against his body, so much larger than her own. And of course, she was trying to breathe. There was no time for her to consider this betrayal, no time for her to remember Skinner's words--Samantha was not abducted. There was only the unbearable screaming of her lungs. "Never," Mulder whispered fiercely, seemingly oblivious to her struggles. "Never." Scully's body went still, but Mulder still did not move. He lay above her, eyes still wide, muttering softly. "I love you. I'm gonna protect you. I'll never let them get to you. You'll always be safe with me." --------------------------------------------------- Angelino MacDonald woke with a start when he heard the car door slam outside. The young hotel clerk glanced sleepily at his watch, which had made a red impression on his cheek as he slumbered. 5 a.m. Was someone trying to sneak out with hotel linens, or, worse, a television set? Shit. He pulled Mr. Gallus' gun out of its drawer and ran to the door to see. Which is how he came to be the only witness to the actions of that crazy man from the night before. The guy was carrying his wife out of the hotel room, heading for the car, and she was naked! That was the first thing he noticed; the second was that she was undeniably dead. The terrified boy ducked behind the desk, reaching up over the counter to retrieve the phone as an afterthought. He did not know that the local police dispatch had been strictly instructed a few hours earlier to report any strange activity involving a tall, dark-haired man and a red-haired woman directly to men who were most definitely not police. The Consortium had moved fast--Mulder was never out of sight for long. --------------------------------------------------- The late morning sun illuminated the Massachusetts clearing with a hazy golden light. Birds chirped halfheartedly from the trees which surrounded the space. Were it not for the poor crazy man with the shovel in the clearing's center, it would have been the epitome of New England peacefulness. He dug through the earth lovingly, tenderly dipping his shovel into the ground and lingering as he put the dirt aside. When he finally found what he was looking for--the edge of a human skull--he stopped and dropped to his knees, digging with both hands now. He brushed aside the dirt tenderly, thinking fondly of Sara. She'd been so supportive, so kind-hearted, the perfect good girl. Well, They'd never be able to use her against him now. He'd made sure she was safe forever. As he brushed back the tangled, dirty remnants of her hair, he couldn't help but smile. And here was Phoebe Green. He'd been so worried about her for so many years. Certain They would dredge up his past one day, stumble upon his Oxford history and find the woman who'd stolen his virginity, then snuck out in the night, only to return into his life ten years later. Finally, he'd been able to make sure she'd be safe. At last, beneath another layer of New England soil, there was Samantha. Her tiny skeleton laughed up at him cheerfully, and he remembered fondly all the games they'd used to play in the warm summer nights....stratego, baseball, tag. Doctor. Those were memorable, peaceful days. Preserved forever here, where she was held safe against the forces of evil which inhabited the world of Fox Mulder. As he hid away his final, most treasured love with the rest, gently laying her beautiful naked body in the ground, he was at last able to breathe a sigh of relief. Now she would always be safe too. --------------------------------------------------- Hiding beneath his trenchcoat and sunglasses in the early morning air, Mulder felt horribly out of place in picket-fence suburbia. But then, he didn't feel in place anywhere these days. He was walking straighter now. The first few days, he'd been racing with adrenalin, running down every possible source, calling in every favor, racing around the West Virginia countryside in pursuit of clues. But when there was still nothing after a week, then two, the grief and guilt had begun to wear him down. Where before he had eagerly grasped the ringing phone, he now greeted its shrill interruptions with a fearful swallow. Would this call be the one asking him to identify the body? But he always answered, in the end. How they had taken her from his side as they slept he would never know. There'd been no trace of drugs in his system. The terrible irony of it all--that they had taken her the very night they had at last made love...now instead of having that memory to treasure, he would regret it for the rest of his life. He was sure they had taken her to get to him. Skinner had warned her. Skinner was dead. They'd found his body the next morning. Mulder knew it had been no heart attack, but there'd been nothing to indicate otherwise. The men of silence exacted a high price for betrayal. If only Skinner had told Scully more! Why had he stopped at the warning? If Mulder had had one more clue.... Mulder sighed. He'd been through this a thousand times over in his tortured brain. There were no new insights to be had. He approached the little white-trimmed house (such a beautiful, peaceful, perfect place for someone's mother) and knocked softly. Then louder. Maggie Scully opened the door and offered him a broken smile that made his heart sink into his toes. She knew everything, even where her daughter had been when she vanished. And why. Yet she could still smile at him like that. Mulder hadn't kept it secret. How could he? There were good people out there, people who would try to look for leads, and if they didn't have all the information.... So what if they whispered about him in the halls, staring after him with a mixture of pity and contempt. "Yeah, that's Fox Mulder. He slept with his partner and he wasn't able to stop someone from kidnapping her even though he was sleeping right beside her." So what if their eyes followed him like he was a carnival oddity? It was true. But Maggie Scully's eyes didn't laugh or accuse. They only questioned: Is there any news? How are you? The injustice of her kindness made him want to weep. Instead he only removed his sunglasses and shook his head slowly at her. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully. There's been no word." "Fox," she said softly, guiding him inside with a firm hand on his arm. "It's been almost a month. I know that it was longer before, but I think it's time to face the reality. All the facts suggest that Dana isn't coming back." Mulder swallowed, tears rising behind his eyes. "No," he said huskily, shaking his head. "I'll find her. I'll never stop looking." Mrs. Scully reached for him then, circling him in as close an embrace as her tiny frame permitted. He bit back a helpless sob at this gesture. "Fox, I know you feel that way, but you have to move on," she cajoled softly, as a mother should. "You have to lead your own life." "Don't you see?" he whispered fiercely into her hair. How could she not understand? "I have to find her," he explained. "Nothing else matters." --------------------------------------------------- End. Okay, okay, for the squeamish anti-Insane!Mulder mooshie shipperfolk, I did have an alternate ending which I came this close to writing. I mean it! This close. Basically, Mulder was still insane and still responsible for the death of his sister, wife and Phoebe. Everything Skinner told Scully was still true, and our hopelessly over-analytical and neurotic heroes still had the long conversation about monkey love. Hell, Mulder still killed Scully, cause he had to, you know, to be true to himself (chemical imbalance included) and all that. Sucks, doesn't it? BUT he remembers it all the next day and just before he puts a gun to his head, unable to live with himself, Scully bursts in (in where? his apartment? No, probably the office) and knocks the gun out of his hand. "Scully, you're alive!" he cries, and then he starts really crying, because he's sure he killed her. She assures him that she is, indeed, alive, gives him a handkerchief (finally her turn!) and then he says, "But I thought I killed you!" "No, that was my body double," she explains. "Did you really think I was going to have sex with you?" or something like that. Then she gets offended that he hadn't been able to tell ("How could you think that was me? Her hair's all wrong!") or something. Mulder is sufficiently chastised and feels really bad but somehow we get him over it, maybe by cutting to another scene really fast like Carter does ("What? Scully's in remission?") I think in the next scene they're just hanging around the psych ward at Georgetown (enter piano: "you wanna be where everybody knows...Your Name...DahDah. DahdeedahdeeDahDah"--is it songfic now?) and Scully is promising Mulder that it's okay, she's not going to tell anyone about the body double-she never liked that chick anyway. And she'll have sex with him when they cure him. Ends on a very hopeful note, with Skinner holding Mulder's hand and assuring him that he won't let the big bad conspiracy men push Fox around anymore. Hah! And you thought you were going to get SMUT, didn't you??? You should have looked at the rating. That's right, my pretty, it'll take a lot more than an open barn door to coax even DARK NASCENT down that path (though she likes reading quite a--oops! Never mind). Parenthetically, it's worth noting that the barn door is still open. --------------------------------------------------- DARK NASCENT knows no one wants this stuff attributed to them, so she didn't include real acknowledgements. But if she did, she would have to thank Jordan for providing encouragement and a home for the Barnyard, Dahlak for helpful discussion regarding Mulder's mental illness and Ostelhoff, the OBSSE and atxc for inside jokes, and of course all the crazy people who actually WANTED another one of these pieces (it was going to happen anyway, though). Any feedback will be gladly accepted at nascent70@hotmail.com. Started: 06/24/98 Ended: 07/28/98