"Duplicity" By Dawson E. Rambo Edited by Scott Carr ********** NOTE: This story was edited on 24 October, 1998. Cosmetic changes were made. Nothing, plot-wise, has changed. ********** Author's Note : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his property and the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. All rights are reserved and these characters are used without permission. Any characters created by the author remain his property. Original Posting : September 8, 1997 EDITED POSTING : October 24, 1998 Archive Entry : "Duplicity" Classification : SRA Rating : PG-13 Spoilers : The Series Feedback : drambo@azstarnet.com The night was still and cool, as silent as the touch of Death itself. I stood in the chilly air, hands thrust deep into the pockets of my London Fog. I could feel my keyring in the left pocket and a few dollars in spare change in my right. Pulling the keys out of my pocket, I studied them for a moment as though I'd never seen them before. Apartment key, house key, office key, desk key, the key to my gunsafe, the ignition and door keys to my car. Not much else. Not much to show for my life. No safety-deposit box key. No key to my heart. Someone else had that. I glanced out at the still water of the reflecting pool, wondering if the meeting was even going to take place. Another cryptic phone call, a series of clicks indicating where and when. My contact didn't want to reveal anything on an open line, and the psuedo-Morse code we used seemed to work well enough for us. As far as I could tell, we hadn't been followed. Yet. Movement to my left. I fought the urge to turn, draw my gun and brace whomever was there. The people I dealt with didn't enjoy having guns pointed at them, even though they had done more than their share of pointing over the years. And, I reminded myself, they had about as much compunction about pulling the trigger as a bear did using his claws. Not much, and sometimes just for the hell of it. "Good evening," the voice said; raw, familer, husky. I said nothing, waiting to see what happened next. "I'm glad you could meet with me," the voice continued. I shrugged, saying nothing, giving nothing. "Aren't you the least bit curious why I wanted to see you?" Again, I shrugged. "It's time," the voice said softly. My blood froze; I was cold, everywhere at once. "Exactly what do you mean?" "It's time to reveal the truth," the voice continued. "He's earned the right." "What? Now? When I'm weeks away from my own death?" The body that belonged to the voice shrugged. I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye. "It will kill him," I added, although it was a pointless attempt. They didn't care about him. None of them did. "He'll probably kill himself," the voice answered. "But that really doesn't matter, does it?" "I..." I couldn't finish. Emotions, conflicting, raw, painful emotions whirled through me, fighting for dominance, for control of my soul. "You love him, don't you?" I nodded. "Are you in love with him?" I shrugged, then shook my head...paused, and then nodded, admitting it. Finally admitted the truth, to myself, to my handler. To my heart. "Tell him that...first. It might soften the blow." I spun on him, his dark face hidden in the play of shadow and light. My fingers itched to draw the weapon holstered at the small of my back and jam it into his face, waiting only a half second for the recognition of my betrayal to register in his eyes before pulling the trigger. It was a clean gun; I'd swapped my duty weapon for it before leaving for this meeting. Clean and untracable. They'd taught me that. And so much more. "Fuck you!" I hissed, pinning him with my eyes. He saw the anger there, saw it for what it was; a lifetime lost, promises made and abandoned. Once, I'd almost strayed from the path they'd laid out for me. They'd killed my sister. As a lesson, I suppose. "Maybe that would be a better idea," was the snide reply. "Maybe you should finally take him into your bed, and then tell him the truth." The thought disgusted me; not of taking Mulder into my bed. Never that. I'd been dreaming of it for close to three years. From the moment I'd met him, I'd found it hard to think of anything else. That emotion, the hungry ache I had for him, the desire, was separate and apart from my duties, my job. My assignment. What disgusted me was that this man would think that I could do that, that I could cast aside my feelings for Mulder in such a way that it would be just another part of the assignment, just another tactic to earn his trust... only to betray it. "What happens if I don't tell him?" I wondered aloud, wanting to hear it, needing to hear it. "You die," was the response. "I'm dying anyway." "I'll kill you and frame him for it. He'll be executed. The state of Virginia has very conservative prosecutors. Do you want him to spend the rest of his life in prison, waiting for his own death, still wondering if his sister is alive and being unable to do anything about it? A nice, clean white boy like him will be very popular in prison. Very popular." I shuddered, the mental image inescapable. "So tell him," the voice said, trying for reasonable and not quite making it. "Or not. But I need a decision tonight." I shrugged. What more damage could it to? Prison or a mental institution. Or a grave, I added, by his own hand. "I'll tell him," I finally said. "In my own time." "You have a week." And with that, the voice and the man attached to it vanished into the night, abandoning me to myself. I stood there, looking out across the water for a while. I fought the urge for a cigarette; I didn't want to be one of Them anymore. I wanted to be me. Only I didn't know who I was anymore. *** Monday morning, bright and early, in the office, bent over the computer, filling out yet another FBI report. Good thing my mother made me take typing in High School. I'd wanted another science elective, but she'd insisted, telling me that learning to type was just as important as dissecting frogs. She was right; typing had helped. And I'd learned how to cut things later, after medical school. After the Academy. He came in at nine on the dot, smiling that lazy, loopy smile that spoke to my heart, and I felt it lurch in my chest when I realized that I'd have to look at him when I told him. That I'd have to see the hurt and the pain in his eyes when he learned the truth. Where, I wondered, was I supposed to find the strength, the words, to tell him what he'd been searching his entire life for? "Morning," he said, chipper. "Morning," I agreed, wondering why morning had to start so damn early. "Coffee?" he asked, offering a cup. I took it, smiling when I noticed that he'd already added the petroleum-based non-dairy creamer. It tasted like shit, as it always did, but at least the taste let me know I was still alive. Today, anyway. "Mulder," I said slowly, "I was wondering if you were doing anything tonight." He considered. "Redskins. Monday Night Football." "O'Mally's?" I asked, referring to his favorite bar for such pasttimes. "No," he said after a moment's pause. "I don't go there anymore. I was just going to hang out at home, pop some popcorn, you know...lazy, casual." I nodded. "Mind if I stop by?" He cocked his head, seating himself behind his messy desk. "What's up?" "Need to talk to you about something," was all I could find to say. "Need to get you to sign something," I lied. He got it instantly, as I'd hoped he would and prayed he wouldn't. Something legal, he guessed, a will, something. Something to do with my cancer. "Sure," he said quietly. We went to work. *** Outside his door, hand poised to knock, clean gun at the small of my back, a second backup piece in my pocket, smaller, loaded with mankilling rounds. It was going to kill me, in a way, to tell him this, but he wasn't going to take my life. I had a long, torturous death planned, pennance for what I was about to do, and he wasn't going to take that from me in anger. I'd kill him first. My knuckles descended against the wood; the door opened before the echo had died. "Scully," he said softly, smiling. He glanced at my empty hands and frowned; I railed against myself. Forgot the props, I thought. "Come in," he said, stepping back, holding the door open. I stepped inside, moving away from him as he tried to take my coat. "Not staying?" he asked. I shook my head. Get it over with, my mind screamed. "I have to tell you something," I said softly, staring at the floor. He closed the door, locking it. I frowned; if I had to shoot him, that'd take precious seconds to unlock. Time for witnesses to gather, to remember the short red-head leaving the scene of the crime. "Are you ok?" he asked, his concern massaging me from where he stood. "I'm fine, Mulder," I said, playing the game, giving him what he expected to hear. He smiled and moved back to the couch, muting the tv with the remote, turning to me, his face open and hopeful. "I lied to you, Mulder," I said slowly, carefully, watching his face. Concern crossed his features, but he waited, wondering. He probably thought that I'd lied to him about the sickness inside of me, eating me alive a day at a time, a bite here and a nibble there. "About everything," I added, pulling my hand out of my coat. Until my fingers cleared the pocket, I wasn't sure whether the gun was going to come with it. "What?" he asked slowly, sitting. "Remember when you told me I was the only one you trusted?" He nodded. "Another mistake, Mulder." He shook his head, repeating himself. "What?" "All of it," I added. "Everything. From day one. You should have trusted your first instinct, Mulder. I was sent to spy on you." I paused. "And I have been." He blinked. "I refuse to accept that," he said, echoing words he'd said before. This man was in denial with a capital "D". "Refuse? You don't to refuse, Mulder." "What are you talking about?" he asked. I could see the anger cording the muscles in his arms, his neck. The explosion was coming. I felt it in the air, the distance between us charged and electric, like the sky before a summer storm. I reached into my jacket and he started, moving towards his pistol. It and the holster were sitting on the coffee table. I grinned; just like Mulder to shoot me before I gave him what he'd wanted to know forever. Returning with my notebook, I flipped open to a blank page and quickly wrote a name and an address. Anchorage, Alaska, nine thousand miles and twenty years away. "Her name, now, is Michelle. Michelle Fox. Odd, don't you think? She married a man named Roger, and has childen. Paige, Peter and Jason. She teaches high school English. She's happy. She has no memory of her life before the age of twelve." I tore the sheet off and offered it to him. His gun forgotten, Mulder approached me slowly, taking the paper from me as if he expected to be burned. Turning it over so he could read it, he studied the address and the phone number I'd written. "Who?" he asked, but the fearful tone in his voice told me that he knew. "Samantha," I said, twisting the knife, hard, deep. "Your sister, Mulder. Your long-lost sister." With that, I turned, ready to go. His fingers caught my arm and held me. I tensed, ready to turn and fire if I had to, my hand already reaching under my jacket. To my back, he asked, "Why? Why now?" "They're shutting you down. The Project is complete. There's nothing you or anyone can do to stop them. They decided that...it'd be better if you went quietly." He nodded; I didn't see it. I felt it. And then, something unexpected. "Thank you," he said softly. I felt the sincerity in his voice. I took a step towards the door. "What happens now?" Mulder asked, voice trembling. I stopped. "I'm leaving," I said. "We'll never see each other again." Pain, flooding off of him in waves. "Where will you go?" he asked. "Away," I said, whispering. "My next assignment." I moved another step towards the door. "Scully...wait," he said, tugging at my sleeve. "I want to..." "What?" I hissed at the door. "Tell me you love me?" He said nothing. I sighed, a harsh, ugly sound in the small apartment. Reaching over, I unlocked the door and opened it. I stopped in the doorway, not trusting myself to look back. "I loved you," I said softly. "I never meant to...but I did." I left him there. *** I heard through channels (not FBI channels) that Mulder had boarded a plane for Anchorage sixty three minutes after I left his apartment. The team responsible for watching "Samantha Mulder" reported back, again through channels, that Mulder had put the house under surveillance, but had not attempted an approach. He left after four days, returning to Washington. By the time he'd returned, the X-Files had been closed down. Skinner was waiting for Mulder at the airport, alerted by low friends in high places, and had a quiet counseling word with his favorite agent. Mulder had been informed of his new assignment with the White Collar Crimes division in Los Angeles. Mulder went without a complaint, even going so far as to thank Skinner for letting him keep his job. A man we had watching and recording the conversation reported that Mulder looked like a beaten, broken man. I shed a tear for him that night. Several, actually. Mulder moved to Los Angles without incident. My new assignment was a no-brainer, still working as Special Agent Dana Scully, only this time in San Antionio, Texas, keeping an eye on another person who was threatening to look into things they had no business exploring. It was the same assignment as the last time: Debunk the work, keep close tabs on the man, get close to him. He's nothing like Mulder, the man who I'm watching. Mulder had stolen my heart without being able to see it. For a man who prides himself on being so sensitive, Mulder never had a clue. For six months, I heard about Mulder here and there. He was making a name for himself in Los Angeles. He'd spent a month or two feeling sorry for himself, spending all his extra money to travel to Anchorage at least twice a month. Then, somehow, he managed to snap out of it. The rumor was that he had at least two LA judges ready to be bagged and was running a stock-fraud investigation. Rumors of promotion to ASAC for the Los Angeles Field Office were rampant. Six months to the day I left Mulder in his apartment, he returned. *** The knock caught me in the middle of dinner. I was spooning soup into my mouth, and the sudden pounding against the door caused me to spill a mouthful of potato soup all over my Annapolis sweatshirt. Swearing softly, I dabbed at my shirt with a napkin and went to answer the door. Not caring who it was, and not fearing anything these days, I swung the door open. Mulder stood there, hands jammed into the pockets of his London Fog. He hadn't shaved in about half a week, judging by the fine sheen of stubble on his chin. His eyes were red and distant, and I could tell he'd been crying. "Scully," he whispered. I had nothing to say. Somehow, a part of me had known this day was coming. I was pissed at the people who were supposed to be watching him; I should have been alerted if he was in the area. "May I come in?" he asked. It was a bad idea; it was so many different kinds of bad that I didn't know where to start. Bad, because if they found out we'd had contact and I didn't report it, my ass would be in a sling, and his ass might be in the hospital or in the ground. Or worse. What was worse than being dead? Plenty of things. I stepped back, ignoring my better instincts. He entered my new apartment and glanced around, looking for something familar, I supposed, looking for something to connect to. He spotted the couch, the same old couch, and went to it, collapsing into it with a deep sigh. I shut the door and locked it, wondering if I could manage to turn on the recording devices that they'd installed two days before I moved in without him noticing. I decided, just this once, to ignore them. I moved to the couch and took the other side. "You look like shit," I managed. He nodded. "Feel like it," he agreed. "Cancer's gone..." I said, the unspoken 'if you care,' left hanging in the air between us. He smiled at the ceiling. "I'm glad, Scully." I looked away. "How?" he asked. "Payment," I responded. "For doing my job." He nodded at this. "Did a good job. Hope they gave you something else, too." "Half a million, cash." He snapped around and saw the smile on my face. It was a weak, tired smile, the smile of a woman who had seen too much, done too much, been places no one had a right to be. "Good one, Scully. Had me going there for a minute." He paused."Of course, you had me going for six years, didn't you?" So now it starts, I thought. "Yeah, I did." He reached into his jacket pocket and came back with an envelope. He tossed it to me. I glanced at it; 8 1/2x11, manilla, postmarked...four years ago. "Open it," he suggested. I did as he asked. Two things inside; a stack of photos held together by a rubber band and a VHS videotape. "Pictures first," he said softly. I turned the pile around, slipped the rubber band and began thumbing through them. Me, in all of them. Each one, date and time stamped by the camera in the lower left-corner. Meetings I'd attended with my contact, all of them it seemed, almost from day one. Pictures of me handing over evidence Mulder and I had discovered. Pictures of me betraying him, betraying us. "Where'd you get these?" I asked sharply, wondering how deeply I'd been compromised, wondering who'd been on to me. "I took them," he answered slowly, carefully. "You knew," I said, not accusing. It was a statement of fact. He nodded. "From the first week." I tossed the pictures on the table, sighing. "I'll give you this, Mulder. You're good. I never suspected." He nodded again. "I know. It had to be that way." "Why?" "Only way I could trust you not to triple-cross me." "Even when you knew, you trusted me?" His head bobbed. "Yeah." "Why?" "Videotape." I put it in the VCR and hit PLAY. White static, then an image jumping around. Took me a minute to realize what it was. My old apartment in Annapolis, Mulder's voice quiet on the audio track. The date stamp was eighteen months after we'd been assigned together. I did the math. It'd been shot while I was "missing." After a moment, it became clear what he was doing. Going through my apartment, piece by piece, annotating everything he found. Including my notes. All of my notes. He found the ledger book, exactly where I'd hidden it. It took him less than ten minutes. He shot the pages and read my words, my words of love for a man who I could never have, my words of hate towards myself, a woman whose life was lived as a lie. My words of pain at not being able to tell him the truth, the truth about me, about his sister, about the love I felt for a man who would do the things he had done in a misbegotten quest to find a sister who had never really left. "I knew," he said quietly, "that you loved me. I also knew that you found it hard to do the things that you did, that you didn't take joy or happiness from them. That's why I let you continue to work with me, Scully. Because you were only doing your job. Just as I was." I stopped the tape. "Now what?" He turned to me, eyes full of pain. "I love you, too, Scully." "So?" I hated how my voice sounded. "Come with me." "What?!" "I've got it all set up. New faces, new names, two new lives. You and me. I slipped my tail at the airport. They think I'm going back to Anchorage this weekend. I've set all my affairs in order. We can leave tonight...now." "Where?" I asked, stalling for time, trying to think. "New York City. We'll vanish into the melting pot. Eleven million faces; they won't notice two more. And then Canada. Long winters spent by the fire." "Mulder, you're nuts!" I said, hating the familiar sound of the words. "Yes. Nuts about you." I shook my head. It wasn't that easy. It never could be. "How could you trust me?" "I love you," was his only answer. *** He left an hour ago. Told me to meet him at the airport. Said that if I didn't come, he would understand, but that he was going either way. He was tired of the life of an FBI agent. He'd inhereted a ton of money from his father, so he was set for life. A life he wants to share with me, the woman who had lied to him, who betrayed him. I glance at my watch. The flight leaves in an hour. The airport is fifty, fifty-five minutes away. I could dump the car at the airport; who cares if the damn thing is towed? I've been pacing the apartment like a caged animal. If I go, we'll be on the run forever. They'll never give us a minute's peace. Either one of us, the both of us, could die in a hail of gunfire. From a poisioned meal. Airplane crash. The list of ways that they could make us die goes on forever. But it's better than dying without him. I grab my keys and head for the door. Mulder...I'm coming. THE END