DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the property of Fox Broadcasting and 1013 Productions. The situations into which I have placed them are of my own creation. CATEGORY: XRA RATING: R for situations; chapters rating NC-17 will be labeled. ARCHIVAL: Gossamer, please. Anyone else, URL please SPOILERS: Memento Mori; a general knowledge of the show through The Red and the Black is assumed. SUMMARY: Scully and Mulder return to Maryland to face the legal ramifications of what she has done. This is a continuation of Preponderance I. I would adore feedback - alanna@alanna.net or emmalanna@aol.com The first book of the story can be found at http://alanna.net/fanfic/preponderance.html Thanks so very much to Dasha, Kirsten, and Elizabeth for exceptional beta-support, and especially to everyone who sent me feedback on the story thus far! And a warning: I'm not a lawyer and know very little about the court system aside from what I see on television - please take that into consideration when/if you notice anything implausible in that regard . PREPONDERANCE II By Alanna Rabun Chapter One. "Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor." -- Edgar Allen Poe, "The Raven" +++++ Life is about union: the cohesion of self, and the cohesion of oneself with others. We seek union -- sometimes blindly, sometimes maliciously, sometimes breathlessly. And when we do find it, we become whole. But when it is gone, our lives become beads of water on a windowpane. +++++ The only notice that morning had arrived was the sound of keys rapping on metal, and a bored voice calling out, "Rise and shine." Scully turned over on the cot which served as her bed, and refused to begin her morning cleaning ritual until much later. Once upon a time she had been almost eager to greet each new day, slipping out of bed and into the shower with haste. Now, why bother? She had nobody to see, nowhere to go. Once inside the jail, she hadn't been considered in need of constant supervision while awaiting trial, so she was placed in a cell with metal walls instead of bars, and a drawer-and-screen combination through which she could be observed. The only bars were on the small shoebox-sized window. It was a carbon copy of so many jail cells she had seen before. Before, when she was outside. Her breakfast that morning was an underripe cantaloupe half and two slices of bland toast, over which she spread surprisingly rich margarine. The carton of milk had grown tepid during its transit, but she drank it anyway, mixing it with the handful of medicines and vitamins the warden had allowed her to keep - antibiotics which had warded off infection from the removed chip. And so began her twenty-seventh day in jail. Scully had always preferred cardiovascular exercise to keep fit, but her small cell did not provide room for the elliptical cross trainer she kept in her apartment, not that she would have even been allowed to have it. So she had re-taught herself to do push-ups and sit-ups, and her abs and biceps had never been stronger. Combined with the jumprope, she was more fit than she had ever been, not that she had anywhere to go. Some days she would spend hours exercising, until she felt she would collapse from exhaustion. Sometimes she did. After her arms stung from exercise, she pulled herself up to her feet and sat down on the cot, then glanced over the titles of the books lined up on the floor. Scully needed something new to read. She'd already made her way through most of the books in the jail's library, and all that was left was a selection of mass-market romance novels, the thought of which failed to interest her in the least. In her last letter to Mulder, she had requested a box of books and medical journals from her home. Mulder. She missed him. God, she missed him. She missed his body, his voice, his soul. More than anything else, she missed the surety that he'd be there beside her every day. They had not been allowed a visit since she'd entered the jail -- the police considered him a threat because they believed he had aided in her escape. They refused to believe that her actions had been all her own. He had saved her -- saved her from herself. And so all they had left now were the letters they faxed one another on the jail's machine. Long letters, distanced in their wording, but filled with hearfelt emotion between the lines. Nothing she did anymore was secret, so she was careful to keep her words bland for the eavesdropping eyes of her captors. Yet the emotions were there, as clearly as if she wrote them onto paper. She told him about each day she spent in jail, paragraphs full of what she ate, what she read, what she dreamed at night. But the censoring guards would never see all the love she poured into her words, or the despair etched into the paper with the scratch of her pen. Sometimes she allowed herself to speak her heart, but only carefully. Do you remember what I said to you in that Lubbock motel room, Mulder? I still mean it, with all my heart. When I close my eyes, I am back at your apartment, and the sunrise is streaming through the blinds. I love you. She never said those three words, though she knew he felt them all the same. And she ended every letter with the words, "I didn't have a nosebleed today." His replies were equally schooled in repression. The words were blurred on the fax machine's thermal paper, though she imagined the blurs were the tracks of tears on the paper. "I am still working," he said, but she knew he was working for her. And she loved him for it. And he ended every letter with the words, "I still hold hope for you." He had once told her that hope was all they had, and though she still wanted desperately to believe it, her twenty-seventh day in jail siphoned away yet another drop of her hope. She wanted nothing more than to hold him close again, to run far away from this hell. Yet, lying on her cot with her arms curled around her, mimicking his close embrace, she knew in her heart that by returning to face the consequences of what she had done, she had regained her honor.... And lost her soul. +++++ Darkness closed in around him. Another night in his apartment, so empty without her. He sat on his sofa in the black night, eyes staring out into nothingness, muscles softening from a lack of desire to move. By day he worked tirelessly to free her, by night he lost himself. Each night, instead of sleeping on the sofa to which he'd become accustomed over the years, he would retreat to his bed. The bed he had saved for her. Curling the sheets around him comforted him somewhat, but as the days passed they slowly began to lose her scent. He still conjured it up night after night, imagining what his sense of smell couldn't provide. Mulder sank into the softness of the bed, pulling the comforter up around him, then raised on one elbow and opened the drawer of the bedside table. He rummaged through it, looking for a bottle of ibuprofin for his headache, when his fingers brushed across a photograph of Samantha. Samantha. Since this had happened, he had kept himself from thinking about her. He didn't want to think about her, about the fact that Scully had caused her murder. He couldn't think about it. But there she was, staring from the photo with a six-year-old's carefree abandon. God, when had he stopped caring about her? A large part of him had never stopped caring, yet as his life with Scully wore on, that part slowly began to be replaced by Scully. She had filled all the holes in his life Samantha had wrought. But on that twenty-seventh night, he began to think about Samantha once again. What kind of life had she led? She had a family, he knew that much. A husband, three small children, a house in the suburbs. He had learned from newspaper reports that she had worked part-time as a receptionist in a doctor's office, and that her husband himself was a doctor. All told, a fairly typical life. Some part of him kept from delving deeper into the history of Samantha Moriarity, heeding her request in that diner so long ago to leave her alone. That same part of him wanted to keep from learning more, afraid to let the numinous spectre of his quest become a real person. A person who was now dead. A person whom Scully had killed. Staring at the photograph now, his imagination began to fill in the blanks. Had she gone to college? How had she met her husband? Were they truly in love? What did she tell her children when they asked about their mother's family? Did she ever mention her long-lost brother, Fox, to them? Or was she, as she had implied over coffee and tears, better off without him? Was he better off, having spent so many years not knowing her? Mulder remembered that, had he known her all these years, he would never have known Scully. Scully, the woman who had enriched his life through her fierce determination, intelligence, and love, so carefully given and passionately received. Samantha had to become a person to him before he could mourn her. But if she became a person, he would have to face what Scully had done. And he couldn't do that, not yet. Perhaps not ever. +++++ He was awake before dawn the next morning, but couldn't make himself get out of bed. One of the warning signs of severe depression, he told himself, but he didn't care. He wanted nothing more than to lie there forever, with his eyes closed, believing that when he opened them, she would be by his side once again. But with the cool sunrise, reality beckoned. Mulder took a long, scalding-hot shower, scrubbing his skin with a washcloth, slowly forcing himself to face the day. He dressed in a suit, for once not taking the time to choose a suitable shirt and tie to match the gray pinstripes. Breakfast seemed trivial, though he forced himself to eat a reheated frozen bagel. He could do Scully no good by wasting away to nothing. He had no work to go to -- Skinner had placed him on indefinite administrative leave, with the promise of a desk job when Mulder felt better prepared to work, and when the "situation" died down. No enticement, that, he spent his days with her lawyers, investigating leads on his own, or negotiating with Cancer Man over the leads the man promised he could provide. Mulder didn't trust him, but the pragmatism Scully had created in him knew that he had to at least listen to what the man had to say. He wouldn't buy it, though. And letters. He wrote Scully countless letters, faxing them to the jail and breathlessly awaiting every reply faxed back to him. He wanted to see her. He had to see her. But they wouldn't let him. Mulder stared at the chip from Scully's neck, now contained in a small amber pill bottle. He shook it slightly, hearing the light rattle of the movement. A few days after Scully had entered jail, Mulder had urged her lawyer to petition for Scully to be placed in a medical detention facility because of the possibility her remission had ended. The jail's doctor ran a few tests then proclaimed no traces of cancerous cells remained in her body. Mulder read in the report that Scully had asked about the nosebleeds, which the doctor speculated were caused by dry air. As simple as that. And, as always, when Mulder contacted the Cigarette Man, his answer was that the chip had ultimately not cured Scully's cancer: science had done that. Mulder's frantic bargain at the hotel room had been for naught - the Consortium simply wanted it in her neck as a tracking device and a way to control her behavior, such as increasing her seratonin to homicidal levels, like when they'd wanted Samantha dead. Mulder felt the walls closing in on him. He almost didn't tell Scully, afraid to face this possibility by telling her about it and afraid to face her reaction of anger and frustration. But he knew she had to know, and eventually wrote it in a letter he sealed and hand-delivered to the jail. Her reply, in a fax later that night, was simply, "Thank you for telling me." The words sent a chill through his body. Her latest letter had asked for some reading material from her apartment, so that morning he drove over there to obtain some books. His key turned easily in her lock, and as he opened the door, he inhaled her scent again. The days had abated it somewhat, but if he closed his eyes he could still feel her there -- the smell of the lemon-scented cleaner she used on her kitchen counters, the smell of the perfumes and bath oils she used. After allowing himself a few long moments of communion, he walked over to her bookshelf, box in hand. Into it, he placed some medical journals which had been dropped through her mail slot and some books, their well-worn covers conveying their importance to her. He walked into her bathroom and took a few bottles of lotion, hoping they would make her happy, then went into the kitchen and got a package of the chocolate tea biscuits he knew a college friend of hers would send her from England. Then, as he searched for some tape to seal the box, an idea formed in his mind. A letter. He could put a letter in the box, tucked between the leaves of a book, where the censors wouldn't think to look. He pulled The Journal of the Society of Pathologists out of the box and opened to the back, sighing with relief when he discovered the last few pages were blank. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he sat down at her dining table and began to write. Onto the white pages of the journal he poured his thoughts, his dreams of her. Of his hopes for her freedom, his memories of the love they had shared. Every night I hold you in my arms, Scully, he wrote. I feel your soft skin beneath my hands, your lips against mine. I hear you moan softly as I touch you, your quiet sighs as I kiss every inch of your body. We will have that again, he promised her. We will. And then, barely noticing the ache of his hands as he gripped the pen tightly, he closed the journal and placed it inside the box. The next eyes that read it would be hers, he vowed. Then, taking one last long look around her home, he left. +++++ He made his one o'clock meeting with her attorneys with plenty of time to spare. Mulder had to fight to keep from pacing around the waiting area of the office, and his body strained from the attempt. He didn't completely trust these defense attorneys, but he knew that if anyone could clear her of the charges, it would be them. They were allied with the Consortium. Mulder remembered his promise to the Cancer Man on the phone in Lubbock -- that he would walk away from his investigations of them if they would free Scully. That part of him which had learned to hope believed that Sullivan, Grandberry, and Roberts, LLP, would free her. Donald Grandberry himself was Scully's attorney of record. His legal secretary, Rebecca Carson, appeared at the doorway and called his name. "Agent Mulder, Mr. Grandberry is ready to see you." Mulder nodded, and followed her inside. The soothing blue and mahogany of the attorney's office welcomed him, and he sat down on a leather chair, with Carson taking the other, legal pad in hand. Grandberry welcomed him with the words, "I'm afraid I don't have much to tell you since we met on Tuesday, Mr. Mulder, but I do have some good news for you." Mulder's heart lifted slightly at the words, but he damped the optimism. The lawyer continued, "I've spoken with the officers at the police department, and you're going to be allowed to meet with Ms. Scully tomorrow morning." +++++ END (1/7) Disclaimers etc in chapter one. PREPONDERANCE II By Alanna Rabun emmalanna@aol.com, alanna@alanna.net Chapter Two. +++++ Footsteps echoed down a long hallway. Each step brought him closer to her. He reached the first guard station and completed the visitor registration in record time, then waited impatiently as the guard scanned his list of approved visitors for Mulder's name. Once it was found, his disinterested voice instructed, "At the end of the hall, turn right, then follow the signs marked 'Visitor'. The guards there will be the ones inspecting your parcel." Mulder didn't bother to nod his thanks, instead making his way down the corridor as the guard had instructed. His pulserate quickened, his breathing became shallow. He could feel the physiological changes of anticipation. He would soon see Scully. At the visiting room's entrance, another guard sat at a desk, checking in another set of visitors -- a family. Mulder awaited his turn, trying to still his nerves. Finally, the guard waved the family inside then looked up at Mulder. "Name of the inmate you're here to see." "Dana Scully." "Here." She pushed at him a clipboard with a registration form and release. Mulder glanced over it then began to fill out the paperwork. As he entered his birthdate on a blank, the woman asked to inspect the package he held. Mulder passed it over to her, and she sliced through the cello tape with ease. He was relieved to see she paid the contents little notice as she rummaged through the books and bottles for any unauthorized items, then after he placed the signed forms back on her desk she handed over the parcel. "Go through that door when I open it. Tell the guard the name of the person you're here to see, and he will call for her. Once she has arrived, do not make any attempt to cross the table or touch any part of her body other than her hands. If you do so, you will immediately be removed from the building." She reached under the desk and a loud buzzer sounded. Mulder pushed the door open and entered the room. A long, 4' wide table bisected the space, keeping inmates and visitors separate. Several people were already deep in conversation as two guards kept active watch. Mulder was surprised and relieved to see that the only barrier separating inmate and visitor was the table. He approached a guard, told him Scully's name, then sat down to wait. +++++ Scully was halfway through her morning set of sit-ups when a guard rapped on her door and called out, "Visitor." Her lawyer, she immediately assumed, and rose from the floor, quickly dressing in her bright orange jumpsuit and halfheartedly ran her fingers through her hair. She followed the guard out of the room. They passed cell after cell of prisoners. Though she was given afternoons and dinner in the common areas, she had little desire to speak with the others. Plus, she had been a law enforcement officer, and Scully could feel the sneers and whispers of "one of them" on her back. After what felt like miles of walking, Scully and her escort reached the familiar visitor area. The guard outside asked for Scully's name and she gave it, then waited for the guard to buzz her inside. The entry alarm sounded, and the door swung open at the guard's pressure. She stepped inside, scanning the room, then stopped short. Oh God. Mulder. Her entire body became still, so still. Her heart wanted to run to him and throw herself in his arms. She felt a shiver reverberate through her body as he stood, looking impossibly small across the large room. The guard closed the door behind her and she flinched, then slowly began to walk toward him. As she approached, he began to fill her pane of vision. Dark hair, dark body, dark face. He seemed to have aged a lifetime in the past month, his face creating lines she had never seen before. Each step brought him closer. Closer to her. Neither of them spoke. Neither needed words to show how precious this reunion was. She stood before him, wanting so much to hold him close, but knew that the guards were watching their every move. And then Mulder held out his hands to her. She took them in her own. The touch seared through her body. She felt nerve endings she had long thought dead rejuvenate with the flash of energy his presence brought. He clasped her hands so tightly she felt they might break from the pressure, but she didn't care. They stood together, soaking up one another's presence, until the guard cleared his throat and called out, "Thirty minutes." Scully sank to the chair opposite him, still tightly clutching his hands. Finally she spoke. "It's so good to see you." Her words seemed trite, given the amazement she felt at their reunion. He didn't respond, but she knew he felt the same. The look of wonderment on his face made everything seem almost hopeful for once. Almost. "God, Scully, I missed you so much," he murmured, in a voice of rusted metal. "I--" his voice failed him then, and he merely stared at her, his thumbs brushing against the backs of her hands. "So much." "Me too," she whispered, now unable to fight the tears which stung her eyes. Words could not begin to do justice to the bittersweetness of reunion. Thoughts became murmurs became words spoken of love and desperation. What they said was trivial; what they felt was everything. They spoke of what had been happening in their lives during the past twenty-eight days, careful to keep the words from revealing too much to the guard's prying ears. Scully was sure she could never write him another letter -- putting her words onto paper paled in comparison to the sensation of being here with him, touching his hands, seeing his beautiful face. Scully refused to look at the clock, not wanting to see time slipping away from them. Once, she dropped her voice to a whisper and asked him how he *really* was, but the guard took a step toward them and she pulled back, casting a hateful glance at the man. Mulder finally withdrew his hands from hers and reached down beside him, setting a parcel on the table. He opened the flaps with a childlike look on his face, as if he were desperate to please her. Scully allowed herself a faint smile and pulled the box toward her, peering inside. As she glanced inside, the smile grew wider. God, she loved this man. "All my favorite books, my journals, and even some lotion and biscuits. Thank you, Mulder." His answering smile warmed her soul. Though he said nothing in response, his fingers played along the binding of one of the medical journals, and he gave her a significant look. She nodded imperceptably and vowed to open the journal later, when she was alone. The guard called out, "Five minutes." Her joy evaporated. Mulder pushed the box aside and leaned closer to her. "Listen to me, Scully. We're going to get you out of here, okay?" "Okay," she nodded, though she lacked the faith to truly believe the words. But she believed him. "I know you will, Mulder." He nodded. Though she knew five minutes had not passed, the guard took a step toward her and she clasped his hands more tightly, preparing to once again say goodbye, not wanting to press her luck with the guards. Mulder stood and leaned over the table, then raised her hands to his lips. As the guard protested, "Sir--", her lover kissed one palm then the other. His touch enthralled her, lightning-quick warmth spreading through her body. Mulder's lips lingered on her right hand, his tongue tracing circles on her palm. Scully thought she might melt from the delirium. And then the guard was beside her, his hand on her shoulder drawing her away from him. Resignation and despair seizing her soul, she moved away from Mulder, waiting until the last possible moment to pull her hands away. His parcel was heavy in her hands, but it was all she had left of him. And she watched him as she walked away, each step spearing her heart. +++++ Fox Mulder began a death march. He waited until Scully disappeared through the doors before releasing the breath he'd held inside. The visitors' guard barked, "Sir, you have to leave now." Mulder didn't respond. Again, the guard said, "Sir--" "I'm coming!" Mulder yelled, clenching his fists to keep from attacking the man. His legs refused to move but he forced them to take each step which would lead him away from her. He had never wanted so much to give up, to let the floor swallow him whole, as he did at that moment. But then he remembered that walking away from the jail would be the only way he could save her, and so he walked. He walked down long corridors, through guarded checkpoints, and into the mocking light of day. His emotions were barely kept in check as he pulled out his keys, started his car, and drove home on autopilot. Only when he walked through the door of his apartment did he finally allow himself to crumble. Curled up on the bed they had shared only once, he dissolved into a fury of tears and loss. Mulder had never realized how much he needed Scully to survive. This life without her was not a life at all. But he had to survive, to hold on to life until she was free to once again share it with him. +++++ Scully sank down upon the hard cot. Her body, once resilient and able, now gave itself over to despair. She missed him already. She needed him here with her. She could spend a lifetime in jail, if only he were there with her. And then a wave of nausea swept through her, bludgeoning her with its force. She stumbled over to the toilet, her knees knocking against the cement floor, and furiously emptied her stomach into the metal bowl. Shaking from frayed nerves, she took off the soiled jumpsuit and curled up on the cold floor, wearing only her t-shirt and underwear. Once she heard the guard's retreating footsteps, she drew herself up to a sitting position and reached for the box Mulder had given her. Scully took out the journal he had indicated, and immediately felt the engraving of his handwriting along the back cover. Opening it, she began to read. "Scully, "I am sitting here, alone, in your apartment. It feels so empty without you -- my life feels empty without you. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist anymore, except to spend my days frantically searching for any evidence, any theory which might exonerate you, and my nights curled up in the bed we shared, desperately seeking your presence there once again. "Sometimes I feel so alone. But then I close my eyes and I remember you. In those moments, I can still sense you near me, touching me with your warmth and intelligence. Not just my body, but my soul." Tears smarting in her eyes, she ran her fingertips over the paper, imagining she could feel him writing the words. "When I close my eyes, I remember those few times we made love. Though I've had sex, I've never made love before, except with you. I keep thinking how ridiculous it was that we only discovered this together just before you were taken away, but then I'm also so glad that we were able to share that, even just a few times. Some nights, the only thing that keeps me from throwing it all to the wind is the memory of your skin, the way your hair fell over your face, the sounds you made as I touched you. "But even more than that, I just remember you. The way you stand by your beliefs with such perseverence. The way you challenge yourself, not just me. How true you are, how your trust is not easily earned, but when it is, it is such a remarkable gift." Tears flowed freely from Scully's eyes, and she pulled her knees closer to her. She continued to read Mulder's letter, as if by reading it he would be right there beside her again. "Soon -- I don't know when, but soon -- we will get you out of there. When that happens, you and I will go away together, somewhere far away from all this. And when we're there, I'll hold you close and make love with you, and nothing like this will ever hurt us again. "Mulder." Scully brought the journal up to her lips and kissed his words, then closed her eyes, letting the tears fall down her cheeks. And she imagined a day where they could be together again. ++++++ END (2/7) Disclaimers etc in chapter one. PREPONDERANCE II By Alanna Rabun emmalanna@aol.com, alanna@alanna.net Chapter Three. +++++ Mulder spent the night asleep, lost in dreams of Scully. In them, they walked down a forest path, leaves falling around them, sticking to their clothes and hair. Mulder could see the light of a clearing ahead, but no matter how long they walked, the light stayed the same distance away. He wondered if they would ever reach the light. Then Scully stopped, her feet crunching on dead leaves underneath and stray drops of sunlight falling on her hair. She looked up at him, a breathless expression on her face, and whispered, "Make love to me, Mulder." He caught his breath and took a step closer to her, then stopped short when he saw her hands clasped in front of her. A strong golden rope bound her wrists. She seemed not to care. "Make love to me," she repeated in a plaintive whisper and dropped to her knees, swaying slightly without her hands to use for balance. Mulder mimicked her motion, and they were soon kneeling together. He curled his hands around her back and shoulders and lowered her to the ground, then caught his breath at the beauty of the sight. Her clothes had disappeared, and her beautiful skin and hair glowed against the rich jeweled tones of autumn. But the rope still bound her wrists. He gave her his hands, touching her everywhere, rubbing his body against hers until she mewled with pleasure. Teasing her hardened nipples withi his hands and tongue, tracing a path down to the warm folds between her legs. Then he entered her, pushing inside her slowly, deliberately, deliciously. As far inside as her body would allow him, joining them together unitl he became merely an extension of her. A far-away bell began to toll, and suddenly she was sinking into the earth beneath him, disappearing from his life. And all that remained was the golden rope which had bound her wrists. He awoke with a start. The shrill ring of a telephone assaulted him, and he furiously reached for it, barking "Mulder" into the mouthpiece. "Agent Mulder, this is Rebecca Carson, from Donald Grandberry's office. Mr. Grandberry would like to meet with you at 9 this morning, if that is convenient." Bleary-eyed, Mulder glanced at the clock beside the bed -- 7:42. "That's fine." "Thank you," Carson efficiently replied, and the line disconnected. He rolled over in bed, then noticed he was still hard. Mulder closed his eyes and took himself in his right hand, Scully's face filling his plane of vision. As he began to move his hand up and down, he saw the way her hair fell over her face, the way her lips pursed as he touched her, the way the tension melted from her face as she came. The images brought him over the edge, and he collapsed back on the sheets, his come covering his hand and stomach. Mulder inhaled deeply, but smelled only himself. Even her scent was gone. Mulder pulled himself up out of bed and to the shower, and though he'd seen her only the day before, desperate solitude permeated his life. The time after was worse - their visit a reminder of all he was now missing. A half-hour later he was dressed and in his car, pulling out of his parking space. Breakfast seemed trivial, but the growling of his stomach forced him off the road and into a McDonald's drive-thru. After getting the food, he drove to the attorney's office on auto-pilot, swallowing the dry Egg McMuffin and sipping scalding hot coffee. As he walked into the attorney's office, he immediately sensed something wasn't right -- that same intuition of dread coursed through his body. The receptionist marked his entry without words and picked up a phone to call back to Carson. Mulder uncomfortably settled himself into a chair and waited. After a few minutes, Carson appeared in the foyer. "Mr. Mulder, we're ready to see you." He nodded and followed her into the depths of the office. He smelled the smoke even before the legal secretary opened the door to Grandberry's office. When she opened the door, Mulder saw him. The Cigarette-Smoking Man. Grandberry rose from behind his desk and extended a hand to Mulder. The other man did not take it, instead casting a hate-filled glance at the devil standing in a corner of the room, blithely taking a drag of his cigarette. "What's he doing here?" Mulder gruffly asked, not expecting an answer. His nemesis spoke up. "We have a possible solution for your partner's predicament, Agent Mulder." He gestured across the office, and Mulder noticed a television and VCR. "Have a seat, and we'll show you." "I'd rather stand." Grandberry nodded and motioned to Carson, who walked over to the media setup and pressed a few buttons. Then, the two of them left the office, leaving Mulder alone with the Cigarette Man. Soon, a blue screen appeared, date-stamped nearly three months earlier. As Mulder watched, Scully's image filled the screen. "What the hell is going on?" Mulder demanded. He didn't speak, prompting Mulder to continue watching. He walked over to the television, peering intently at it. The Scully on his screen was not HIS Scully, though the two women appeared identical in every way possible -- same face, same voice, same gestures. But this woman didn't have Scully's soul. Her heart. The Cigarette Man seemed to sense Mulder's thoughts, and said, "I believe you've already met the people who can change their appearance at will, Agent Mulder." Mulder nodded slowly, his intent becoming crystal-clear. They were creating evidence in Scully's favor. He rooted his feet to the floor and watched the television. A disembodied voice on the screen was putting the woman who was not Scully under hypnosis. Mulder recognized the place to which the doctor was regressing "Scully" -- back to that bridge in West Virginia where he had found Scully alive, and a hundred others in charred ruins. "You're on the bridge, Dana. What do you see?" Not-Scully murmured, "A woman. She looks familiar.... It's Samantha Mulder." "Okay," the doctor drew out the word. "How do you feel when you see her?" "Surprised." She paused. "I'm surprised. I don't expect to see her here." "Do you feel angry?" Against every psychological convention, the doctor was leading her regression. "Do you feel violent?" "No. I just feel confused." Mulder rocked back on his heels, fascinated and repulsed. "She makes you furious, doesn't she? She has controlled your partner's life, and you want her dead, don't you?" Not-Scully merely moaned incoherently. The doctor continued. "When you see her next, you're going to want to kill her. You'll feel enraged, and pull out your weapon and shoot her. End her control of Agent Mulder's life." The woman nodded her head, but her face was upset. "You can do it, Agent Scully." The voice was very sure of itself and of its manipulation. The doctor said, "Take her out of the trance," and a hand appeared on the screen, injecting something into the woman's hand. The Cigarette Man reached over and pressed STOP on the VCR. Mulder couldn't speak. The other man walked over to the door and tapped on it, and Grandberry and Carson entered. The Smoking Man spoke up. "We have created documentation of this visit, and Grandberry has assured me that this videotape will stand up in a court of law. Any jury would believe that Agent Scully was hypnotized into reacting violently when she saw Samantha Moriarity, nee Mulder, and she was not in control of her actions when she shot the woman." A lighting bolt of fury coursed through Mulder's body. "This is illegal!" And I will do anything, no matter how illegal, to save her, Mulder thought. The Cigarette-Man walked toward Mulder until he was close enough that Mulder could smell his acrid breath. "Would you rather she be tried on the evidence? She'll be sent to prison for the rest of her life. Perhaps even given the death penalty." Mulder couldn't breathe. He couldn't risk that. Not now, not ever. Not even if it meant using this despicable videotape. He didn't know how to respond, so he didn't. The smoking man continued to speak. "Even if Mr. Grandberry claimed the chip was controlling her reactions, what jury would possibly believe that?" Grandberry took the opportunity to speak. "I've already told you and Agent Scully that the Federal Attorneys refused any offer of a plea bargain, and are going ahead with their plans to try Agent Scully for first-degree murder." Mulder stumbled over to the chair, and sank upon it, not caring that his actions were a show of weakness. Use the tape -- Scully might go free. Refuse it -- she *would* spend the rest of her life in jail... or die of a lethal injection. And he would die without her. His voice deadly quiet, he said, "Use it." And then he rose from his chair, turned on his heel and stalked out of the office. +++++ The city passed around him as Mulder drove. He could scarcely keep his car in a straight line, but somehow managed it. He wanted to drown himself in alcohol, but that could wait. First, he had somewhere he had to go. Before he realized it, he was in Gaithersburg, turning into the gates of Parklawn Cemetery. The noise of the city evaporated, and calm permeated the environment. Though he'd never been here before, he instinctively knew where to go. Around a corner, down a driveway, and there it was. Mulder stopped his car and got out, then walked up the sloping hill. There, nestled under a heap of floral arrangement, was Samantha Moriarity's grave. He sank to his knees before it, petals crunching under his weight. A gravestone had not yet been erected, but a handmade poster marked the plot. Written in a child's unformed letters were the words, "Samantha Moriarity 1963-1998 Beloved Wife and Mother" And then the words, "We miss you Mommy." A drawing of a smiling family completed the poster: two grownups surrounded by three small children, all of them holding hands. A teddy bear propped up a photograph. Samantha looked just as he'd seen her so many months ago at that diner. Long, curly dark hair framing a smiling face, sensibility and love shining through her eyes. She held a young girl in her lap. The child's eyes matched her mother, though her curls were blonde. The portrait of a happy family. Mulder felt tears sting his eyes. She had built a life for herself, full of love and happiness. Three small children, a husband, a gathering of friends who mourned her death. And her life was taken by a bullet. A bullet fired by Scully. Tears overwhelmed him. His Quest was over, and in the worst possible way. Everything he had sought for so many years lay six feet below him. Everything he truly wanted was in a jail cell, awaiting trial for murder. Mulder sank down onto the ground, burying himself in mourning flowers, wishing the ground could swallow him whole, and take him away from all this pain. +++++ END (3/7)