Disclaimers etc in chapter one.

PREPONDERANCE II
By Alanna Rabun
emmalanna@aol.com, alanna@alanna.net

Chapter Four.

+++++

The loneliness was the hardest part.

She was alone all the time.  Mulder had not been allowed a visit since their
first one nearly three weeks ago, and Scully never spoke with her fellow
inmates.  Her only real human contact was with her attorney, who visited every
few days.  

She felt as if she was drifting away, becoming a shell of who she once was.  

The solitude gave her hours upon hours when she could just think about her
life, and what was happening to it.  She had been optimistic once, but that had
slowly degenerated into hopelessness.  She had nothing to believe anymore.  

Except Mulder.  She believed in Mulder.  She believed he would help save her.  
God only knew how, but he would do anything to help save her.  

She wrote him every day, now pouring her heart onto lined papers, censors be
damned.  He always responded at length, though they were careful to keep from
discussing her defense itself, lest the letters fall into the wrong hands. 
Those wrong hands were waiting.  She went to trial in two days.  

Scully had been surprised at the speed at which the trial approached, but
Grandberry had told her that both prosecution and defense were already prepared
and ready to begin.  She was scared -- terrified -- of the trial, but also
wanted it all to just be over.  Then she could face her fate.... and hopefully
learn to accept it.

Deep inside, Scully knew what the verdict would be:  guilty.  So much evidence
weighed against her -- witnesses, a security camera videotape.  These two
things were enough to convict her, no matter what she could present in her
defense.  She tried to be confident in Grandberry's ability to present
reasonable doubt, but the logical thinker in her knew that it would be nearly
impossible.

Impossible.

On the evening of her fifty-first day in jail, Scully lay on her cot and
waited, filled with dread.

+++++

On the morning of the fifty-third day, Mulder awoke in a cold sweat. 

Jury selection began at 10 AM that day, and no matter how much he had mentally
prepared himself, his emotions were still scattered to the winds.  Nothing
about this case was certain, except that unless they were extremely lucky,
Scully would go to jail.  

He showered and dressed quickly, then began what felt like a death-march to the
courthouse.  As the defendant, Scully was not at the jury selection
proceedings, and Mulder was tempted to leave early and go see her at the jail. 
Nearly four weeks had passed since their last visit and he was slowly going mad
from the distance, but the Rockville Police had thus far denied all his
subsequent requests to visit.  Living without Scully was nearly death itself,
and though he reread every letter she sent dozens of times, he needed the
surety of seeing her.

Parking at the federal courthouse was difficult to obtain;  Mulder spotted
television remote broadcasting vans in the lot, and cringed, but he also knew
that publicity was already rampant, and liable to only get worse.  He strode
into the building with a brisk step, but not before turning his back on a
reporter who called out "Agent Mulder, how do you feel about the start of the
trial?"

Bastards.  Why couldn't they let him unravel in peace?  Why couldn't they leave
Scully alone?

Jury selection was really nothing more than a cattle call, all told.  As he
walked into the courtroom where the procedures would take place, he passed
people filing into a holding room, bored expressions on their faces.  He
searched them for any note of sympathy -- would these people understand what
had happened?  Would they accept the preponderance of evidence at face-value? 
For not the first time, Mulder wished he could read minds.  

Grandberry seemed too busy to speak to Mulder, but his legal secretary Rebecca
Carson noticed him as Mulder walked into the courtroom, and walked over to
greet him.  "It's going to be a long day.  The selection proceedings are
off-limits to the general public, but I'll be in and out of the courtroom, so
I'll let you know how it's going."

Mulder nodded -- he knew as much.

"But, to be honest, you'd probably be just as well off staying home.  It'll be
a long wait, and you'll have to contend with the press."

He looked at her, taken aback.  Did the woman think that Mulder could just walk
away, when Scully's life hung in the balance?  "No, I'd prefer to stay."

She nodded, then, in an efficient voice, said, "Good luck," then turned back to
where the attorneys were preparing.  

Mulder remained in the courtroom until the last possible moment, then left
through the double doors.  Immediately he was assaulted by a woman bearing a
microphone labelled CNN.  He turned heel and stalked away, ignoring the woman's
pleas for a statement.  He went into the men's room and was sorely tempted to
barricade himself inside, but was too desperate to be a part of what was
happening, even if he weren't in the courtroom itself.  So he emerged from the
restroom and ran the gauntlet of press and curious bystanders, saying only, "No
comment", accompanied by a look of, "Stay the hell away from me."

And Mulder sat down in a hard plastic chair to wait.

+++++

The morning passed both chaotically and monotonously.  The courtroom was eerily
silent, Carson having broken her promise of frequent updates, but though the
reporters generally left him alone, they buzzed around the courthouse foyer,
meeting deadlines and doing live updates.  Mulder tried not to listen, but his
anger rose with their overheard words -- "The prosecution is expected to mount
an easy case against Agent Scully..." "first-degree murder..."  "overwhelming
amount of evidence...."

Mulder finally allowed himself to be led away by Carson for a late lunch.  He
hadn't wanted to leave, but she told him that she would only talk to him if
they left the courthouse.  The legal assistant somehow managed to find a deli
unburded by media swarms, and they sat down to sandwiches neither bothered to
eat.

"Well, it's going fairly well so far, Agent Mulder," Carson told him after
sipping her Coke.  "We've made up a list of about twenty potential jurors who
seem to favor our side, in that they're against the death penalty and profess
not to watch much television.  We're hoping that means that they won't be
swayed by the security camera footage of the shooting."

Mulder didn't reply, but gave a slight nod, indicating he understood what she
said.

"I can't really tell you much more than that.  It's still too early to tell. 
The real test is going to come when we begin arguing with the prosecution over
the final list of jurors and alternates."  She listlessly took a bite of her
sandwich, but put it back down. 

They spent the rest of the lunch discussing the trial prospects, both of them
knowing they weren't optimistic.  But Mulder refused to give up hope.  He
couldn't.

Carson and Mulder walked back to the courthouse in silence.  Noontime deadlines
having been met, the foyer was less active than it had been earlier.  The
selection proceedings had already resumed, so Carson slipped into the courtroom
while Mulder searched for a vacant seat nearby.  His back was sore from the
plastic seats, but he barely noticed.  Time passed slowly, and his mind became
numb.  He wanted to write Scully another letter, but dared not pull out paper
and pen in such a public place, especially considering all the prying eyes.  

Then, as the hour neared five o'clock, when the court would adjourn for the
day, he heard a bustle near the entrance of the courthouse, and looked up.  A
man was running the gauntlet of reporters, accompanied by someone Mulder
assumed was an attorney from the woman's hardened walk and glare.  She chanted,
"No comment," while the man stared ahead with a singular focus:  the door to
the courtroom where jury selection for The State of Maryland vs. Dana Katherine
Scully was proceeding.

Mulder watched the man with interest.  He appeared to be in his early forties,
with blond hair and a kind face marked by lines of worry.  Though he'd never
seen a photograph of the man, he immediately knew who the man was:  Kenneth
Moriarity.  Samantha's husband.

Kenneth Moriarity caught Mulder's eye when he reached the doorway.  The two men
exchanged a long glance, neither of them showing any emotion on the outside,
but reservoirs of pain lurking beneath.  Finally, Moriarity gave a small huff
of disgust and entered the courtroom.

Mulder slumped slightly in his chair, deflated.

An audience of reporters watched.

For the millionth time since he'd visited her gravesite, the reality of
Samantha's death washed over him.  She had a family.  She was loved.  And now
she was dead.  Her life had marched on without him, then a gunshot had taken it
away. A gun fired by his beloved partner.

He chuffed a bitter laugh.  Could his life get any worse?  

Mulder was saved from further wallowing in desolation by the sound of the
courtroom door opening.  Grandberry and Carson emerged, accompanied by several
other people Mulder recognized as being from Grandberry's firm.  The lawyer
approached Mulder and said, "We're adjourned for the day.  Hopefully tomorrow
will be the last day of jury selection."  He gave Mulder a nod and left the
courthouse.

Carson remained standing next to Mulder, and in a rare show of sympathy, placed
her hand on his shoulder.  "It will all work out in the end, I promise."  And
then she left.

Why couldn't he share her optimism?

Mulder slowly stood and gathered his briefcase, then walked out of the
courthouse on shaky legs, preparing for another sleepless night, another twelve
hours of fear and loathing.

Then, just as he reached his car, out of nowhere, the Cigarette Man appeared. 
Mulder tensed, ire rising in his body as it did so often when he saw the man. 
"What do you want?"  It was more demand than question.

The man merely stared at Mulder, an odd look on his face.  He stood still for a
long moment, then, sick of playing this man's game, Mulder pulled out his key
and began unlocking the driver's side door.  Just as he moved to pull the door
open, the Cigarette Man's words stopped him cold.

"Samantha Mulder was not the woman you think she was."

+++++

Though nobody would know it to look at her, Scully had been a nervous wreck all
day.

On the outside, she maintained her composure, sitting on her cot reading a
novel, or pushing herself to do even more sit-ups than she had the day before. 
But a close observer would notice the way she attacked the exercise, or the way
her eyes skimmed the words in the book, barely reading any of it.

Somewhere, not too many miles away, the people who would be deciding her fate
were congregating.

Scully declined her daily "open hours", when she'd be allowed to go to the
common areas of the jail, but the guards refused to bring her dinner to her
cell so she forced herself to leave and go to the cafeteria.  Every step felt
like a death-march;  then again, so much of what she did these days felt that
way.  As she'd once told herself, hope was a luxury, and she was mired in
poverty.  

The dinner that evening was hamburgers, and never had burgers looked as
unappetizing as they did then.  She wanted to retreat into a corner, eat
quickly, then return to her despair, but the small dining area left little room
for privacy.  The least-populated area of the cafeteria was near the
television, so she took a seat and ignored the evening news being broadcast. 
After so many weeks in near-solitude, Scully had become adept at tuning out
nearly everything in her environment and retreating into herself.  Of course,
she'd had years of practice.

Just as she finished the last of her french fries, a fellow inmate called out,
"Hey, FBI Woman, they're talking about you."  

Scully flinched, then shot the announcer a glare.  The woman turned away, a
smug smile on her face, and continued to watch the television.  Scully couldn't
fight the urge to peek, so she turned to the TV set.  

A reporter stood on the steps of the federal courthouse, speaking into his
microphone as if his words were the most important on earth.  Scully couldn't
hear what he said, but gasped as the camera cut away to a shot of Mulder
walking up the front steps.  Though his head was bowed such that she couldn't
see his face, she could almost feel the despair lacing through his body.  

She wanted to turn away or throw something in rage, but the urge to keep
watching was too strong.  

The television continued to show people entering the courthouse, and then the
face Scully never expected to see again appeared on the screen.

She couldn't repress the horror which flooded her body at that moment.  

Her dinner forgotten, she rushed over to a guard and, her voice harsh and
hoarse, pled, "I need a telephone!  I need to call someone!" 

She had to speak to Mulder.  Now.

+++++

END (4/7)

Disclaimers etc in chapter one.

PREPONDERANCE II
By Alanna Rabun
emmalanna@aol.com, alanna@alanna.net

Chapter Five.

+++++

Mulder could feel the blood stilling in his veins as dread washed over him.  He
stared at the Smoking Man, who watched him with an inscrutable look on his
face.  

"What do you mean?"  Mulder asked, his voice harsh. 

"Samantha Mulder was not the person you think she was."

Mulder felt the ire rising in his body.  "You said that already!  I want the
answers now."

The man glanced around the parking lot.  "Not here.  Get in your car and drive.
 I'll tell you where to go."  

Staring him down, the younger man weighed his options.  He didn't trust this
man any further than he could push him away, but he couldn't resist the need to
know just what the hell the man was talking about.  

He had to know, no matter how unreliable or harsh the "information" might be.

Mulder took a deep breath, then began walking, signaling with body language for
the man to follow him. 

He wanted to be the one in control of the environment, so when the Smoking Man
suggested a park in Gaithersburg, Mulder rebuffed him, informing him that they
would go to the Mall in the District -- as public and familiar a place as he
could choose.  

After the car was parked by a valet at an office building -- Mulder didn't even
want to take the chance of a parking garage -- he led the way to the benches of
the mall.  The other man seemed to sink into the environment as he kept pace
with Mulder;  then again, his combatant seemed to prefer hiding in the shadows.


They found a bench and the two men sat at opposite ends, each with their guard
up.  

Mulder spoke, his voice impatient and driven.  "Tell me about Samantha."

The Smoking Man met his gaze without flinching, and then he began to spin his
tale.

"You already know that Samantha Moriarity worked in a doctor's office, and that
her husband is a doctor."

Mulder nodded.

"What she told you last year when you two met was the truth -- I came to her
when she was a teenager and told her I was her father.  That was not the truth,
but she believed me."  

His audience of one held back his sigh of relief at that revelation.  Samantha
was his father's daughter.  Maybe.  But the news wasn't enough, and Mulder's
edgy chuff of breath pushed the other man forward in his speech.

"She pressed me for information about what had happened to her, and how she was
involved in all this.  I told her everything.  She had always been very
inquisitive -- much like her brother, really."  Mulder's stomach churned at the
man's obvious pride.  "She wanted to become part of the project.  What we were
doing fascinated her, and she demanded that we involve her in our research." 
His pride increased.  "Even though she never went to university, she became one
of our best scientists.  She discovered things that our top researchers had
never dreamed.  Did you know that the vaccine we created to use against the
extraterrestrial forces was her brainchild?"  

Mulder clenched his jaw, unwilling to believe what the man was saying; 
however, in some sick way, it all made sense.  

"That's how she met her husband--"

The man's words were cut off by the shrill ringing of Mulder's cellular phone. 


Few people called Mulder on that line, and when they did, he knew it was
important.  He rose to his feet, dizzy from what the man had been telling him,
and reached for his phone.  Taking a few steps away, but keeping his eyes on
the smoking man, he pushed the send button.

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me."  

Oh, God.  

Scully.

He nearly lost his footing from the shock.  

"I have to tell you something," her voice called across the line, breathless
and urgent.  

Mulder swayed on his feet, desperate and enthralled at hearing her voice, then
caught himself, rasping, "What is it, Scully?"

Despite the distance between them, he could still feel their connection.  "I
just saw a news report on the trial.  Mulder--" she hesitated, and he held his
breath.  "That man, Kenneth Moriarity?"  Her voice seemed desperate, afraid.

"Yes?" he urged.

"He's Scanlon."  

Blackness nearly flooded Mulder's vision.  The doctor whose "cure" for Scully's
cancer had nearly killed her.  He closed his eyes and tried to catch his
breath.  "Are you sure?" 

"Mulder, I'm certain.  I recognized him."  Her voice, sure and scared, pled to
him across the lines.  Then he heard a loud noise in the background, followed
by Scully's near-frantic voice.  "I have to go now.  They're making me hang
up."  He heard muffled voices telling her to disconnect, and before he could
say anything else to Scully, the line went dead.

Mulder closed his eyes, feeling his world begin to implode.

When he opened them again, the smoking man was staring at him, a smug look on
his face.  Mulder wanted to shoot the bastard right there.  He kept the phone
in his hand, refusing to let go even as the faint beeping of the receiver
signaled the end of the connection.

He stalked back over to the smoking man.  His voice harsh, he demanded, "Tell
me who the hell Kenneth Moriarity really is!"

The man's face became even more smug.  "Patience, Agent Mulder."

Mulder reached under his jacket, his hand resting on his weapon.  "Tell me, you
bastard."

The two men stared one another down.  Then the smoking man continued. 
"Samantha and Kenneth were quite a golden couple -- a royal marriage of sorts. 
He was our star doctor, she was our star researcher.  They thought they could
do anything, but their ambition got the better of them."

Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.  "So you decided to get rid of
her."

Something close to regret passed over the man's face.  "It wasn't my decision. 
We discovered that she had made some contacts overseas, and was offering her
research to the highest bidder, so to speak."

"And so you chose to punish her, and ruin Agent Scully's life in the process."

No response.

"My partner is sitting in jail, awaiting a trial which could ruin her life,"
Mulder caught his breath, "because of your fucking internal politics?"

"Nothing is ever that simple, Agent Mulder.  Surely you've learned that by
now."

"Do NOT patronize me!"  The rage threatened to overwhelm him.  "Whoever did
plan this, you tell him that if Scully is found guilty, I will ruin his life as
much as he has ours!"

Mulder, his body flooded with fire, stared at the man then turned and walked
away.

+++++

The car swerved slightly on the road and Mulder righted it, grasping the
steering wheel with white-knuckled hands.  After he had left the Smoking Man
the previous evening, Mulder had frantically called the jail, only to be told
that there was no way in hell they'd allow him to visit her that night.  A
deceptively calm request of the warden had granted Mulder permission to see her
the next morning for a brief visit.

He hadn't slept that night, all somnolence chased from his body as his mind
reeled with thought after thought.  

Scully in jail, her trial looming before them.
His life and soul slowly unravelling.
Samantha was one of Them.

The thought that his life had been a lie came to his mind, but then he realized
that even if Samantha had been a lie, his knowing the truth would have meant
that Scully would never have come into his life.  As he navigated the roads, he
imagined how different his life would have been had he never known Scully, had
he never embarked on this quest.  He would have gone through university
depressed, but determined.  Spent his adulthood as a writer or professor,
purging his demons onto paper.  Never had anything to search for.  Died young,
without anything to move him forward.  

And Scully?  She might have been happy.  

He knew she had a great capacity for happiness, buried beneath layers of
gabardine and cotton and tough, soft skin.  Why had he waited so long to
discover the softness of her skin?  Why couldn't they have come together when
they could have appreciated it, spending hours together exploring one another's
bodies and souls without Damocles' sword over their heads?

The Montgomery County Jail loomed before him, both Valhalla and Hell.  He
parked the car and headed inside.  Following the labyrinthine corridors to the
visitors' center, he was met by a man in a suit rather than a guard.  

"Agent Mulder, follow me," the man instructed and Mulder, confused, did so.

They walked down a hallway lined with Kafkaesque doors, each a portal to the
unknown, the horrible.  Mulder didn't say a word, waiting to be found out, to
be told he had no right to be there.  Instead, the man stopped in front of one
door and turned to face Mulder.  

"Hand over your service weapon."  

More confused than ever, Mulder followed the instructions.  The man took the
weapon then pulled a large set of keys out of his pocket.  Selecting one, he
inserted it into a series of locks on the door, then spoke.  "Thirty minutes."

He opened the door then stepped backward, signaling Mulder to enter.

The man did.

Scully was there.

He closed the door behind him and stood there, watching her.  Her past two
months in jail had taken their toll -- her hair was limp and without luster,
her eyes seemed larger in her thinning face, and her body was smaller now, if
that was possible.  But she was still the intelligent, fiery Scully he knew and
loved desperately.

Taking a quick glance around the room, he spotted no security cameras,
microphones or one-way mirrors, just a chair, a table, and Scully.  Freedom. 
They had the freedom to talk, to be together, their words and actions solely
their own.  

He crossed the small space quickly, and pulled her into his arms, crushing her
against him.  Tears threatened behind his eyes, but he pushed them away,
instead breathing her in.

"Oh, Mulder," she whispered, and the sound coursed through his veins.  

They had a million questions to ask and answers to give, but that little
mattered when they were here, together, alone.

Her body was temptation -- the apple on the tree, the brass ring.  He wanted to
lay her on the floor and make love to her until the guards separated them.  But
as much as he wanted to surround himself with her, it couldn't be here.  He
couldn't touch her again until they were completely free.  And that day would
come.

She buried her face in his neck, her nose and lip brushing against his
sensitive collarbone, and he kissed her hair, breathing in the scent of stale
air and cigarettes and institutionalization borne of too long being closed off
from the world.  But though the scent itself was ghastly, that it belonged to
*her* made it rival any perfume in the world.

The feel of her against him was amazing after so long.  He grasped her
shoulders in his hands and pushed her away from him, then, as bewilderment
spread over her face, his open mouth descended on hers.  Tongues pushed
together, fighting then communing.  He tasted her greedily, the nomad in the
desert searching for water.  Scully's body was pliant and hard under his hands,
his fingers tracing muscles he'd never noticed before.  

Then she moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating through his teeth, and he
was gone.

The lovers sank to the floor together, bodies entertwining, arms holding each
other as close as their bodies would allow.  They slipped into their roles as
lovers so completely and instinctively it surprised him;  then again, anything
less would be absurd.

After a lifetime of soaking up her presence, of bathing her face and shoulders
with kisses and murmuring words bereft of lucidity but weighted with emotion,
he spoke.  He told her everything he had learned from the Cigarette Man.  She
listened quietly, barely moving in his arms.  

When he finished by telling her that the whole thing had been a setup so that
the Consortium could get rid of Samantha, she turned slightly and looked up at
him.  

Her voice a whisper, she soothed, "Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry." 

The words made him snap.  He sat up straight and turned to face her.  "Why are
you sorry?  You're the victim.  You've done absolutely nothing wrong, Scully." 


She stared at him, her eyes growing wide with surprise.  These bastards fucked
*you* over left and right.  What they did to me -- the Samantha aspect -- pales
in comparison.  I should be the one apologizing."  

Scully scooted away from him a bit, then rose to her feet.  He suddenly felt
intimidated by her as she stared down at him.  Her voice grew hard as she said,
"First of all, Mulder, don't EVER call me a victim.  I have borne the brunt of
this debacle, but I will never be victimized by it.  I thought that's what
coming back here to face trial was about?  Facing up to the consequences of
what I did instead of running away from them.  Wasn't that it, Mulder?"

Mulder simply stared at her, speechless.

She continued.  "I'm going to get through this on my own strengths, not because
of some white knight charging up on a horse.  Don't try and be that knight,
Mulder.  Just be here for me, okay?"

He knew then that her attorney had not told her about the fake hypnosis
videotape.  For a quick moment, he debated whether to tell her -- then cursed
himself for even second-guessing it.  Mulder stood and walked over to the chair
and sat down on it, then motioned her over.  He expected her to lean against
the table and watch him, but instead she lowered herself onto his lap, curling
her arms around him.  

Mulder closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began. 

"When I was at Grandberry's office last month, he showed me something."  

Scully stiffened, he assumed from the tone of his voice.  Her words were
measured, weighted.  "What did he show you?"  

"A videotape.  It was one of those shapeshifters -- it had become you -- in a
psychiatrist's office, being hypnotized into killing Samantha."

Mulder could feel Scully holding her breath as seconds turned into minutes. 
She finally stood and began pacing the room.  He watched her, truly afraid for
the first time in days.  

"And Grandberry is planning on using this at my trial?"  

"Yes." 

She stopped pacing and stood in front of the table.  Then, without warning she
pounded her fist down on it.  Hard.

Mulder winced. 

Her hand still curled into a fist, she put her other palm flat on the table. 
Her head hung down, hair creating a curtain around her face.  Mulder barely
recognized her voice as she said, "Tell him not to use it."

"Scully--" he protested.

Her voice was hard.  "Tell him."

"Listen to me:  this might be the only choice you have.  You can't go into a
courtroom and tell a jury that a chip in your neck made you do this.  They'd
laugh and find you guilty in a minute."

She turned on him.  "So we should participate in a lie?  Not only that, but an
illegal one?  Mulder, I am not that kind of person, and neither are you."

Her words pierced through his skin as strongly as could any bullet she fired.  

Taking a deep breath, he acquiesced, "Scully, you're right.  This was wrong." 
He stood and placed his hand on her shoulder, but she looked up at him with an
expression on her face that warned him not to think he was getting off that
easily.

"But you went along with it."

He felt the sting of her censure.

She sighed deeply and found the voice to speak.  "Yes, I did.  Scully, I would
go along with anything -- no matter how illegal or immoral -- if it meant you
could get out of here."

Scully's back shuddered slightly and he wondered if she was near tears.  But
before he could make a move or say a word, a loud knock sounded at the door and
a voice called out, "Five minutes."

Mulder moved his hand from her shoulder down her back, feeling her strength
under the coarse polyester of her jail clothes.  She turned and looked up at
him, sadness and something darker on her face.  

"I'll call Grandberry this afternoon and tell him not to use the videotape,"
Mulder murmured. 

"No," the woman whispered.  "I'll -- let me just think about it."

Mulder felt relief wash through his body, but it was an uncomfortable release. 
"Okay," he replied.

If he was unsure where he stood with Scully at that moment, she assuaged his
doubts as she pulled him into her embrace.  Her body softened next to his as
she held him close, and he felt tears threatening behind his closed eyelids. 
Then she pulled away from him slightly and leaned down to kiss him.  Their
warmth spread, more fierce in unison than separate.  

And when the door opened, the guard found them standing together, fingers
entertwined, and eyes brimming with tears.

+++++

Scully dressed with care in one of the suits Mulder had sent over.  Having
spent over two months in prison clothing, the softness of satin lingerie and a
silk shell under her suit was nearly an erotic experience.  She could imagine
Mulder at her apartment, choosing her clothing wisely.  A shiver ran through
her body as she slipped on the jacket, feeling Mulder's touch in the fabric.  

She could do little with her hair and makeup, given the cramped confines of the
cell and only a sink and small mirror, but she brushed her wet hair until it
naturally curled under, and applied a bit of foundation to cover the circles
under her eyes and the blotches the stress of the prison had created on her
face.  

All too soon, the guard knocked on her cell door and called her forth.  

She gathered the spiral she would use to take notes at the trial, and left the
cell.  And, a long walk down familiar corridors later, she emerged into the
sunlight.

Ready for her trial.

+++++

END (5/7)