TITLE: Displacement
AUTHORS: The VS11 Producers
EMAIL: vs10producers@yahoo.com
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT: Case file; mytharc; VS11 Season Finale
SPOILERS: Allusions to mytharc episodes prior to
Season 8, specifically Piper Maru, and to
Virtual Season mytharc episodes "Legacy" and
"Camarilla."
SUMMARY: When Bill Scully receives a transfer
back to Washington DC, the Scully family is
reunited. But reunions don't always go as
planned.
THANKS: To everyone who supports the Virtual
Seasons, either by contributing their talent or
their feedback, and to everyone who loves The X-
files.
FEEDBACK: vs10producers@yahoo.com, thank you!
DISCLAIMER: The X-files, Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully don't belong to us, they belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox.
We're just borrowing them for a while.
DISTRIBUTION: This story belongs exclusively to
the Virtual Season 11 site for two weeks;
thereafter, please contact the Producers at the
above address for permission to archive.

Displacement
By The VS11 Producers

Teaser

The letter came in a standard white number 10
envelope. It was embossed with the return
address 'Joint Chiefs of Staff' in dark blue
raised ink on the upper left hand corner. The
addressee's name was typed directly on the
envelope, not typed to a label and stuck on. It
was a letter of some importance.

The young seaman who was responsible for the
base mail that day took little note of the
letter. He had several bags of mail to sort
through and that was just one with a better
address than most. He quickly tossed it in the
slot for the executive offices and moved on to
the next bundle.

A machinist mate who'd been in a bar brawl and
was serving out some time picked up the letter
with a handful of others and walked the four
blocks to the building holding the offices of
the senior staff. He saluted the Ensign at the
desk, who nodded and took the packet of mail
from the younger man. The envelope, in finer
grade paper, caught his attention. With crisp
military movements, the young Ensign got up from
his desk and walked the letter into the inner
office. He handed it to the officer seated in
front of a window overlooking the base parade
grounds.

"This just came for you, sir," the Ensign said,
saluted and returned to his desk in the outer
office.

The officer pulled a long silver letter opener
out of the top drawer of the desk and sliced
open the letter. Carefully removing the single
sheet of watermark paper inside, he unfolded the
tri-fold and read the return address.

Joint Chiefs of Staff
The Pentagon
Washington, DC

April 20, 2004

Subject: Letter Orders

TO: Lieut. William Scully, Jr., USN

You will proceed at the earliest possible time
by air transportation to Naval Headquarters,
Washington, DC in connection with your new
assignment with the Joint Chiefs. Priority AAA
is assigned.

The officer looked further down the page and a
smile grew on his face. It was everything he
could do to keep from shouting out his
excitement. Dropping the letter to the desktop,
he reached for the phone and punched in a few
digits. Waiting for the other party to pick up,
he impatiently drummed his fingers, continuing
to glance down at the letter on the desk.
Finally, someone answered.

"Baby, get all the boxes you can find down at
the supermarket. We're going home!"

Bill Scully laughed aloud at his wife's screams
of happiness. He picked up the letter again and
read it to her.

Scully Residence
Baltimore, MD
April 24, 2004

"More sweet potato pie, Fox?" Maggie asked, not
bothering to hear the reply as she scooped
another piece onto his empty plate.

"I really can't . . . oh, well, if you insist,"
Mulder said in a lame attempt to ward off the
calorie laden confection.

"Oh, right, like we aren't taking the rest of
the pie home with us, and I won't find the empty
pie pan in the sink tomorrow morning," Scully
scoffed, but her eyes were alight with affection
and humor.

"Fox runs every morning, he needs those
calories," Maggie admonished.

"Listen to your mother, Scully. I need these
calories," Mulder mumbled around a fork full of
pie.

"Talk to me when those calories catch up with
your slowing metabolism, Mulder," his partner
returned with a quick swipe across his hair,
messing it up in the process. She proceeded to
load up the empty plates and serving dishes from
their meal.

"That was wonderful, Mrs. -- ah, Maggie," Mulder
said, remembering just in time that Margaret
Scully was tired of him calling her by her
formal title.

"Well, I'm glad you two got a chance to join me.
It's been so quiet in this house lately," Maggie
said, taking the last of the dishes into the
kitchen. Just as she placed them on the counter
the phone rang. Scully started the dishwater
and Mulder followed them, retrieving a clean
drying towel from one of the kitchen drawers.
Secure in the knowledge that the clean up was in
good hands, Maggie grabbed the phone on the
third ring.

"Hello."

Not wanting to eavesdrop, the two partners
continued to wash and dry, Mulder pointing out
invisible smudges of food that Scully's washing
had missed. She, in turn, tossed a handful of
soap bubbles on his gray tee shirt. They both
stopped short at the squeal that erupted behind
them.

"When?" Maggie demanded, almost shaking with
excitement. "Oh, I can't believe this, this is
wonderful! Yes, I'll save the Sunday paper and
maybe you can look on line. I'll get you the
web sites for some realtors in the area. Are
you looking at Baltimore or somewhere closer to
DC? Oh, this is such good news, can I share it?
Well, Fox and Dana are here for supper. Oh,
good, I'll be sure to tell them. Yes,
sweetheart, I can't wait either. Give Bill,
Matty and baby Clara my love!"

When she turned, blue and hazel eyes exchanged a
glance before the partners went unobtrusively
back to their work. Maggie smiled and walked
over to stand behind them. She wrapped an arm
around her daughter and Mulder. "That was Tara.
She had the best news."

"What's that, Mom?" Scully asked, handing Mulder
a glass salad bowl.

"Bill finally got the transfer to the Pentagon!
They're moving back here in a couple of weeks!"

The sound of breaking glass startled all three
people. They looked down as one at the now
shattered salad bowl that had slipped from
Mulder's fingers as he heard the news.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry, Maggie. I'll buy you a
new one," Mulder sputtered, fishing pieces of
broken glass out of the empty side of the double
sink.

"Fox, it's an old dime store bowl. I have
plenty more just like it," Maggie shooed him
off. "Dana, get me an oven mitt so I can get
the bigger pieces. Fox, honey, move aside. I'm
an old pro at broken dishes."

Scully handed the oven mitt to her mother, and
quickly gathered up a discarded cereal box out
of the recycle bin. "Will this work, Mom?" she
asked.

Maggie smiled as she placed a handful of glass
inside the box. "Just like old times, isn't it?
How many dishes did Charlie break when you two
did clean up?" The older woman was so engrossed
in her efforts that she didn't notice the
grimace on her daughter's face. "You two run
along. I'll just be a minute. I want to see
that movie you brought. I just love Jack
Nicholson and Diane Keaton is so much fun to
watch."

No more was said about Bill's transfer for the
rest of the evening. The movie ended and the
two agents got their jackets. "Dinner was
wonderful, as usual, Maggie. Sorry about the
bowl," Mulder said, giving the woman a peck on
the cheek.

"Oh, it's perfectly all right, Fox. Now you
really are part of the family," Maggie teased,
pressing a foil covered pie pan with the remains
of the sweet potato pie into his hands. "Drive
safely, and call me the minute you get back to
the apartment. You know how I worry."

"I will, Mom," Scully promised.

"Oh, and Dana, don't forget to mention to Fox
about the plans for the summer," Maggie shouted
as they made their way down the sidewalk to the
car. "With Bill coming home, I think we can
really make it happen."

"Plans?" Mulder asked, fishing out his car keys.

"I will, Mom. I'll call you in a bit." Mulder
detected an exasperated tone to his partner's
voice.

"What's this all about, Scully?" he asked again,
starting the car and pulling out of the
driveway.

Scully sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind
her ear. "Mom mentioned it earlier, when you
were in watching the baseball highlights. She
wants to have a family vacation. Go somewhere,
rent a cottage on the beach, all of us
together."

"All of us . . . as in. . .?"

"Bill, Tara, Matty and little Clara, Charlie and
his family . . ."

"Scully, you can't be serious. Besides, you
don't think Charlie would show up for it, do
you? I mean, he's made a point of avoiding all
the other family gatherings of late."

"I know, Mulder, I know. I don't know what to
tell you. Sometimes, when Mom gets on these
'we're all one family' kicks I just want to grab
her by the shoulders and shake some sense in to
her."

"She doesn't understand, Scully. It's not her
fault."

"Maybe it's our fault, or more my fault. Maybe
I should just tell her."

"Tell her what?" he asked apprehensively.

"Tell her that her son, her baby, was the man
responsible for putting you near death last
fall. That he's connected to a vile network of
men who are little more than monsters, who kill
and maim and torture at will. That he's not the
golden boy she envisions him to be." Anger
flushed her cheeks when she finished.

Mulder was silent for a while, letting her calm
down. Finally, he took his eyes off the road
for just an instant to meet her gaze. "It would
kill her, Scully. You know that. And we're not
entirely sure . . ."

"You're not entirely sure? Mulder, how much
proof do you need?"

"You're taking Krycek's word for this, you know.
And he's not the most reliable person. I can
tell you that from personal experience. Me and
a bunch of Siberian cockroaches."

"Krycek didn't need to tell me that in an
airbase in New Jersey my brother shot you, held
me at gunpoint and threatened to kill me because
I saw that with my own eyes. Krycek, by the
way, saved both our lives on that night!"

Mulder just stared at her, the silence weighing
heavy between them. She could read his thought
easily.

Scully blew out a breath. "I know, I can't tell
her. I can't tell her any of this."

"Not to mention how much joy there'd be at any
summer cottage where Bill and I were forced to
co-exist," he added.

"Look, Mulder, now that Bill and Tara are going
to be living near us, you're going to have to
get used to the idea that you're going to spend
time with them. I know it won't be pleasant --
at first -- but I expect you to make an effort."

"We're all one big family?" Mulder asked,
requoting her mother.

Scully nodded emphatically. "Whether we like it
or not," she said sternly.

Mulder just smiled and shook his head. "Yes
ma'am!" he said, giving her an abbreviated
salute.

Act I Scene 1

Bill Scully Residence
Fairland, MD
May 16, 2004
12:53 PM

Scully heaved a deep, soul-cleansing sigh.

Bill and Tara's house was gorgeous. In the
limited time there'd been to house hunt; Bill
had done very well for himself. He'd managed to
snag a freshly renovated, three-level Colonial
in Fairland, Maryland. It had four bedrooms, one
and a half baths, new kitchen and fully finished
basement. From the deck out back, the view was
both breathtaking and serene, a sharp contrast
to the tension-filled aura radiating off her
older brother since she and Mulder had arrived.

For the past 3 hours Scully had watched the two
men size each other up like a couple of junk
yard dogs. The air was thick with testosterone
and Scully had sought a few minutes respite
before tackling the upstairs bathroom. God, she
was tired of her brother's same old song and
dance act. Bill had treated Mulder like last
week's garbage from the moment they had walked
in the door. Ignoring him whenever possible and
gracing him with Neanderthal-like grunts when
forced to acknowledge his presence or instruct
him on the destination of a packing crate or
item of furniture.

And Mulder, to give credit where it was due, had
taken it all on the chin. Scully felt her jaw
tighten. Bill could be such a bastard.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Scully turned at the sound of her mother's voice
and pasted a smile on her face. "I was just
thinking the same thing, mom."

Maggie moved closer to her daughter and wrapped
an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
"Really? You looked more like you were expecting
an audit from the IRS."

Scully huffed a quiet snort and slowly shook her
head.

"Is everything all right, Dana?"

"I was just thinking about Bill."

"That's the reason for the sour look on your
face?"

Scully smiled and dropped her chin to her chest.
"Where are Tara and the kids?"

Maggie laughed softly. "You're changing the
subject, Dana." She pulled her arm from around
her daughter's shoulders and turned her so they
were looking at each other.

"It's Fox, isn't it?"

Scully studied her shoes for a second then met
her mother's gaze, pausing only slightly before
letting the dam break.

"No, mom. It's not Mulder. It's Bill. His
attitude. How long do I have to wait before he
accepts the fact that Mulder and I are together?
I had to force Mulder to come here today because
he didn't want to cause any trouble. Mulder is a
part of who I am, mom. And if Bill can't come to
terms with that, then..." Scully thrust her chin
forward, defiance flashing in her eyes. "Then he
is going to have to exclude me from family
gatherings as well."

Maggie stared out across the back yard. A gentle
breeze tickled the treetops lining the rear
chain link fence. A bird flew overhead, circled
once then disappeared behind the next-door
neighbor's roof.

"Dana, when Bill was a little boy, your father
drummed into him the importance of
responsibility. He was the eldest and with your
dad away so much of the time, Bill was expected
to take care of us in his absence. He's always
taken that responsibility seriously. You know he
loves you. He only wants to make sure you're
happy."

"I *am* happy, mom. Mulder is the best thing
that's happened to me and I won't let Bill
jeopardize what we have."

Maggie smiled, reached out and pulled her
daughter into a hug. "I'll talk to him. I can't
promise anything, but I'll try. You know how
stubborn he gets."

Scully nodded into her mother's shoulder.

"Mom? Dana? Is something the matter?" Tara
joined the two women on the decking.

"Everything's fine, sweetheart. Dana and I were
just having a little mother, daughter chat."

"I've fed the kids and thought the rest of the
troops might be hungry. There's soup and
sandwiches in the kitchen."

Scully stepped back from her mother's embrace.

Maggie pushed up her sleeves, squeezed her
daughter's shoulder and headed towards the door,
"I'll just wash up then come and help serve
lunch."

Tara hesitated, eyeing Scully warily. "Are you
sure everything's okay, Dana?"

"Everything is fine. I'll go let the men know
lunch is ready."

Mulder hauled another box from the back of the
van and headed towards the house. Bill met him
in the doorway coming from the other direction.
The two of them did a quick shuffle, both
blocking the other, until Bill finally grabbed
hold of the box and shoved Mulder to the side.

"That one goes upstairs. Matty's room." Without
another word, he stepped past Mulder and headed
for the truck.

"Ja Herr, mein Kapitaen. Whatever you say."
Mulder muttered under his breath, fighting the
urge to rearrange the box over Bill's head.

He moved into the house and headed upstairs. The
house was nice. Big, airy and light but as far
as Mulder was concerned it had 2 flights of
stairs too many. His back was killing him and he
wondered briefly if it was fate that had
directed him to always pick up the box for the
top story or whether Bill had strategically
placed them so that Mulder would grab them
first. He smiled cynically to himself. Bill was
definitely bringing out the worst in him today.

"Ah, there you are."

Scully's head appeared over the top of the box.
"Where are you heading with that?"

"Matthew's bedroom."

Scully stepped back to let him pass, then
followed him down the hallway.

Mulder dumped the box alongside all the others
and slowly straightened up, hands pressing
against his lower back. He felt another pair of
hands join his then gently remove them and turn
him around.

"Bill's really been giving you a work out,
hasn't he?"

In more ways than one, Mulder thought to himself
but refrained from voicing his thoughts when a
closer inspection of Scully's face told him she
wasn't just referring to the amount of times
he'd hauled boxes up the stairs. He knew she
knew how Bill had been treating him. He also
knew how much it upset her. Mulder pulled
Scully to him, encircled her in his arms and
kissed the top of her head.

"Hey, it hasn't been that bad. I'm still
standing and he hasn't tried to take a swing at
me. In fact in Bill terms, he's been quite
amicable."

"You're a bad liar, Mulder. I've seen the way
he's been acting."

Mulder felt Scully shudder against him and he
pulled back, tipping her chin up with his index
finger so she was looking at him. There were
tears in her eyes but she tried to hide them
behind a weak smile. "Scully, I know Bill hates
me. And in a lot of ways he has every right to,
but. . ."

Scully's forefinger over his mouth silenced him.
"No." She shook her head vehemently. "He doesn't
have the right. Ignorance does not excuse bad
manners. He's never bothered to take the time to
really understand what you do. What *we* do. I
won't make excuses for him, and I don't want to
hear you making them either. I'm sorry I
insisted you come with me today. I'd forgotten
what a total ass my brother can be."

Mulder clasped her face between his hands,
gently caressing her cheeks with his thumbs.
"Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

This time when she smiled it was genuine. "A
girl can never hear that too many times,
Mulder."

"Good." Then he leaned down and kissed her on
the lips, long and deep and hard.

"Oh for god's, sake!"

Bill's voice pulled them apart as effectively as
a bucket of cold water. Mulder turned self-
consciously towards the man standing in the
doorway, and placed his hands discreetly in
front of his suddenly too-tight denim jeans.

"It's bad enough that you brought him to my
house, Dana, and now you're carrying on in my
son's bed room like a couple of horny teenagers?
What the hell were you thinking?" With a
melodramatic flap of his hands, Bill turned on
his heel and stormed down the hallway.

Scully stood and stared, mouth gaping and cheeks
burning as she tried to process what had just
happened. A split second later, her brain
started functioning again, sending a heavy dose
of outrage coursing through her body.

She'd only managed one step towards the bedroom
door when Mulder's hand wrapped around her arm,
tugging her back. "Don't, Scully. It's not worth
causing a scene over."

Scully glared at the hand encasing her upper
arm, then aimed twin blue lasers at Mulder.
Yanking hard to pull herself free she said, "The
hell it's not!" And stalked after her brother.

She caught up with him in the living room before
he could make his escape downstairs. Through a
red-hot haze of anger, Scully vaguely registered
the presence of her mother and sister-in-law in
the kitchen as she passed by.

"What the hell was that all about?" Scully
hissed, grabbing her brother's wrist and turning
him around to face her.

"You don't want to go there, Dana." Bill
threatened.

"How dare you talk to me like I'm some kind of
recalcitrant child-- "

"Don't lecture me on how I should treat you. If
you have no respect for yourself, then at least
try and find some respect for my family. What if
Mathew had come in and seen that..." He waved his
hands in the air searching ineffectually for the
right description. "Seen *him* all over you
like a praying mantis." Bill swiped a hand
across his brow and dragged it over his face.
"Why did you have to bring *him* with you today?
You know how I feel..."

"Yes I do know how you feel! You've made it
pretty damn obvious to everyone what an ignorant
pig you are. Mulder and I are a couple, Bill.
How many different ways do I have to explain it?
Either you accept him as part of my life or you
exclude both of us."

"Jeezus, Dana." Bill shook his head in denial
then lowered his voice, spitting his words
through clenched teeth. "I thought you were a
smart woman. How can you let that lunatic pull
the wool over your eyes like he has? He's a
fruitcake! He believes in *aliens* for Christ's
sake!"

"Bill!" Maggie Scully appeared from the kitchen
wiping her hands on a towel and staring at her
eldest son in disbelief. "What's going on?"

Scully glared at her brother, her chest heaving
and pulse pounding in her ears. He glared just
as menacingly back at her.

"Dana? Are you going to tell me what the problem
is?" Maggie stood beside her daughter.

"You know what the problem is, mom. It's the
same problem there is whenever Mulder and Bill
are within shouting distance of each other."
Scully turned to face her mother but it was the
tall figure standing behind her mom that caught
her attention.

Mulder looked at Scully, silently pleading with
her to let it drop. When he eventually said
something, it was to Maggie. "I'm sorry, Mrs.....
um, Maggie, I've just remembered something I had
to have ready for AD Skinner tomorrow." He dug
the car keys out of his pocket and turned to
Scully. " Call me when you're done, Scully, and
I'll come pick you up."

Scully straightened her shoulders, thrust out
her chest, then looked at her mom and her
brother. "That won't be necessary, Mulder. I'm
done now." She slid past her mother and joined
Mulder. "Let's go."

"Scully..." Mulder tried to draw her back but she
kept walking, jogging down the stairs to the
front door. Mulder had no choice but to follow.

When they got to the car Scully stood by the
passenger side, hands on hips and chewing on her
bottom lip, staring along the road.

Mulder unlocked the doors and waited for Scully
to say something. But it was her mother's voice
that eventually broke the silence.

"Fox, Dana, wait up." Maggie Scully stopped
beside her daughter. "Don't go. We can fix
this."

Scully sighed. "No mom, it's too late. Bill's
had plenty of chances to come around. He just
won't try. Somewhere, I've got to make a stand."

Mulder leaned on the roof of the car, "Scully,
there's no reason for us both to go. I'm the one
he doesn't want here. You stay and I'll come
back for you later."

Scully's answer was to give her mom a hug.
"We're going. Both of us. I'll call you tonight,
mom. I love you."

Maggie pulled her daughter closer. "Love you
too, honey. I'll talk to Bill and try and make
him see reason." She let go of Dana, and then
turned to Mulder. "I'm sorry, Fox. You take
care. Drive safely."

Mulder offered a half-hearted smile and climbed
into the car.

They'd traveled nearly 8 miles and neither of
them had uttered a word. Scully had always had
more staying power than Mulder when it came to
maintaining the 'silent treatment' and this time
was no different. He'd reached the end of his
endurance about 5 miles back and now he just had
to say something.

"Scully. . . I . . ." But he really didn't know
what he should say. He should have felt guilty,
but he didn't. He'd had Bill Scully up to his
eyeballs and it was about time someone stood up
to him. In a way he was secretly pleased that
Scully had let him have it. But habit dictated
that he accept at least some of the blame. "I'm
sorry things turned out the way they did."

Scully didn't answer right away. She stared out
of the side window, her right elbow perched on
the edge of the door where glass met upholstery
and her hand cupping her forehead. When she
moved it was sudden. She twisted in her seat so
she was looking Mulder.

"You know, Mulder. I'm not in the least bit
sorry. Bill has to learn he can't keep pushing
me around. Or you for that matter. At least this
should get the point across."

Mulder chewed on his lip briefly, then said, "It
must have been a shock when he found out."

"Found out what?"

"About you and I living together."

"Mulder, we are not *living* together. You
needed a place to stay and I had space."

"Scully, we *are* living together."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"No! God, no! Far from it."

"I sense a 'but' coming."

Mulder drew in a deep breath. "It's just... maybe
till things cool down with Bill, it might be
best if I found my own place."

"Bill's an asshole, Mulder. His opinion doesn't
matter to me."

Mulder didn't believe that for a second. With
Melissa gone, and Charlie exposing himself as
one of the main players in the consortium they'd
been fighting against for the past eleven years,
it had to hurt to have her only sibling
questioning her wisdom in choosing him as her
'significant other'.

"Scully, all I'm saying is don't write your
family off on my account."

"You're part of my family, now, Mulder. And Bill
needs to accept that fact."

This argument was going around in circles.
Mulder had already made up his mind. At the
earliest opportunity he'd find himself another
place to live. He refused to be the cause of a
rift between Scully and her brother.

Act I Scene 2

May 17, 2004
The Pentagon, Washington, DC
8:30 a.m.

Bill loved seeing his family, his mother, and
even his baby sister -- even if she had dragged
along the twisto-strango she insisted on forcing
into his life. But the calm order of a military
base was really home to him. Floors were
polished like glass, a salute at every entryway;
yes, he belonged here. He deserved to be here,
and it was only a matter of time that he would
not be a new transfer any longer, but a
respected part of this facility. As it should
be.

As he walked down the hall with the ensign to
his new office, even the tap of their heels down
the corridor sounded neat and clean. Nice,
orderly, quiet.

"Here's your office, Commander Scully," the
ensign announced as he swung open the door for
his superior.

Beyond the open door, Bill could not believe his
own eyes. He'd imagined a nice office, a window,
big desk, plenty of room in order to go about
his daily duties. The kind of office a Commander
warranted. What lay before him was nothing of
the sort.

It was like Ali-Baba's cavern, piled high with
objects, only not treasures, but stacks upon
stacks of files, memorabilia and boxes of random
outdated office supplies. It was a complete and
utter mess.

"Welcome to the Pentagon, Commander," his
companion leered at him. The young man could
barely hold the tittering back past his lips.
"Looks like Commander Keenan left a little bit
of himself behind for you. I'm sure you'll
figure out where to pick up . . . eventually.
Scanning room's down on the first floor when you
need it, Sir."

Bill gaped at him in shocked amazement, then
back at the storage unit of a space that was his
office. Clearing his throat and tucking his cap
beneath his arm, he stood up straighter than the
Washington monument.

"Dismissed," he boomed a little more loudly than
was necessary.

A quick salute and the ensign was marching away
dutifully down the hall. Bill didn't watch him
go, but instead waited until the sound of
tapping heels disappeared, and he was left
alone.

He stepped into the office, carefully tip-toeing
around the clutter, to make his way to the small
window. He pulled violently at the chord for the
wide-slatted metal blinds, slicing the closeness
of the office open with the bright morning
sunlight.

Grumbling inwardly, he threw his cap onto one of
the lower stacks of folders and planted himself
into the old leather desk chair. Upon landing, a
spew of dust motes shot out from the cracks in
the leather and danced in the air before him. He
sighed heavily in exasperation and immediately
sneezed in reaction to the dusty air.
Apparently, he hadn't left all the moving and
organizing at home for the weekend.

He rubbed at his eyes impatiently and then began
sifting through the first stack of papers.

"What a pack-rat," he complained, finding that
three quarters of the items were expendable fax
interactions, newspaper clippings or scribbled
illegible notes. Was he meant to decipher all of
this?

It was going to be a long day.

Act I scene 3
Georgetown
May 18, 2004
6:30 am

Mulder drew in a deep breath, stretching his
hamstrings and bending over. It was a beautiful
morning in Washington. The azaleas were in full
bloom, tulips fought with waxwing begonias in
the front yards of most of the apartment
buildings nearby. He finished his warm up and
started out at an easy trot, heading for the
track just a few of blocks down the street.

His mind kept circling back to the conversation
he'd had with Scully a couple of nights before.
Of course, conversation was the polite way of
saying it. In reality, it had more bite to it
than a normal conversation. He knew the minute
Scully's mom had announced the impending arrival
of William Scully, Jr. on the east coast that
his relationship with Scully would end up the
worse for wear. Although theirs was a bond
stronger than any force in the universe, his own
failed family unit had taught him that blood
wasn't always thicker than water. He couldn't
stand by and watch Scully pull away from her
family. He couldn't live with the guilt he'd
bear if that were to happen.

The track was empty, as always. It was easy to
pick up speed on the cinder roadbed and just let
the rhythm of his feet hitting the ground, his
muscles stretching and contracting take all
haunting thoughts from his mind. He lost
himself in the simple endurance test of drawing
air into his lungs, keeping his feet moving
forward. Sweat stung his eyes, but he wiped at
it absently and pushed himself a little harder.
A tiny voice that could have been Scully's
chided him for punishing himself for just being
in her life, but he brushed that aside, too. He
was running, running from Bill Scully, running
from Scully's anguish over her brother's
inability to accept Mulder in her life, running
from all the pain inflicted by caustic comments
and dismissive looks.

When his legs would carry him no further, he
stopped and bent over, sweat pouring off his
hair. His lungs burned, his leg muscles burned,
but he welcomed it. Standing erect, he shook
out his arms and jogged around the track to cool
his overheated limbs.

Mulder didn't need to look at his watch to tell
it was time to head back. The chimes at
Georgetown University told him it was 7 am and
he needed to hit the showers. He wiped his face
off on the tail of his Hoyas tee shirt and
started down the sidewalk to Scully's apartment.

The sign took him by surprise. "For Rent" it
read in front of a quaint duplex, set off from
the sidewalk with a wrought iron fence. The
trees along the boulevard made the house seem
like an shady, welcoming oasis. He stood for a
moment, just looking up at the windows.

"It's a beauty, ain't it?" a just past middle
aged man said suddenly behind him.

Mulder turned his head to address the gentleman.
"Yes, it sure is. Are you the landlord?"

"Landlord, owner, interior decorator. At least
the parts my wife lets me decide," the man said
with a chuckle. "Jake Timmons, JT Real Estate,"
he added, shaking Mulder's hand.

"Fox Mulder."

"Are you looking for a place, Mr. Mulder? Hey,
you aren't the new associate professor of
history over at GU are you?"

It was Mulder's turn to chuckle. "Not guilty.
I'm an FBI agent."

"Oh, well, the Hoover is just four Metro stops
up the way. Not even a bad walk on nice days.
Want to come in and take a look?"

Mulder looked up at the house. He really should
be getting back, taking his shower, getting
ready for work. Something about the townhouse
was calling his name. He stared off down the
sidewalk toward Scully's apartment and then over
at Mr. Timmons, who was standing there
patiently, an expectant grandfather look on his
face.

"Sure, no harm in looking," Mulder said with a
rush.

Mr. Timmons beamed. "That's the spirit! C'mon,
won't take a minute. I know you're probably in
a hurry to get to work."

It was cooler inside and Mr. Timmons flicked on
lights as they went. The foyer was small but
functional, with a built-in coat rack and mirror
off to the side. A living room with a full bow
window overlooking the street was through an
archway to the right. Straight ahead was the
stairway going to the second floor. Next to the
stair was a narrow hall that led to the dining
room and kitchen at the back of the house.

"It's got two bedrooms, one and a half baths.
The laundry room is off the kitchen. Basement
is a crawlspace, but there's plenty of storage
room in the attic," Mr. Timmons rambled on as
they walked through the downstairs. The dining
room had a wooden chair rail of dark wood and
varnished woodwork around the window and
doorways. The kitchen had a fairly new stove, a
matching dishwasher and a side-by-side
refrigerator with ice and water in the door.
Two doors were at the back of the room, one
leading out to the postage sized back yard and
the other to the laundry room, which doubled as
a pantry with a floor to ceiling shelving unit
along one wall.

Mr. Timmons pointed out the half bath off the
dining room and then took Mulder on a tour of
the upstairs. Inside the first door at the top
of the stair, a large claw-foot tub with shower
dominated the bathroom. Two bedrooms, one with
a window seat that matched the bow window from
the living room, finished off the upper story.
A pull down ladder gave access to the attic,
which was large enough for Mulder to stand.

When they had made their way back to the first
floor, Mr. Timmons smiled at Mulder. "Well,
what do you think?"

"I think it's very nice, but definitely out of
my price range," Mulder admitted.

"What are you paying now?" Mr. Timmons asked.

Without hesitation, Mulder told the man what
he'd been paying for his apartment in Arlington.
The older man beamed.

"Would you be willing to go an extra 100 a
month?" he asked.

Mulder was caught completely by surprise.
"You're kidding!"

"No, not at all. This place was my wife's
mother's. It's paid for, all we pay are taxes.
We're looking for quiet, mature renters."

Mulder thought back to his last apartment.
Somehow he doubted that any of his neighbors or
even Mr. Szflarski would accuse him of being
quiet. Mature, that was a matter of opinion,
too. But the more he looked around the duplex,
the more he liked it. It was nothing like his
old apartment. If he were honest with himself,
it was more the kind of place Scully would pick.
But then, that was the real test, if he could
get Scully's approval. It was the only way
she'd accept his moving out.

"Mr. Timmons, I'd really like a friend of mine
to have a look at it, if you don't mind."

"Don't mind a'tall. I just put the 'for rent'
sign in the window, last renters bought a place
out in Prince Georges' County. They had twins
last month and this place was just a little too
small. Say, how about you bring your friend by
after work? Give me a call and I'll meet you
here," he said, pulling a business card out of
his wallet. "My office is just up the street on
M."

Mulder took the card and then realized too late
he didn't have a place to put it. Self-
consciously he leaned over and tucked the card
in the instep of his running shoe. "I'll give
you a call."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll see you this
afternoon then Mr. Mulder." Once on the
sidewalk, the two men shook hands once more and
Mulder trotted off down the street, glancing
once more over his shoulder at the duplex.

Later that afternoon

Scully wandered from the living room to the
dining room and completed the circuit through
the kitchen. She opened the cabinets, knelt
down to inspect the pipes under the sink and
peered into the broiler unit of the stove.
Mulder felt like hiding his face behind his
hand, but Mr. Timmons seemed to take it all in
stride. She tested the banister going to the
second floor, turned the water on full blast in
the bathtub and flushed both the upstairs and
downstairs toilets -- twice each. The more she
did, the more Mulder cringed, but trailed behind
her like a toddler after his mother at a
sidewalk sale. Finally, when he was just about
to scream, she nodded and headed down the
stairs.

"Off street. There's a one car garage in the
back, but there's space for two cars to park off
the alley."

"Are any utilities included?" she asked.

"Nope, that's the responsibility of the renter,"
Mr. Timmons said with a smile. "It's got a new
heat pump in the basement, great fuel
efficiency."

"Monthly heating and cooling costs?" Scully
fired off. Mr. Timmons handed her a printout
from the District light company. Scully nodded
as she reviewed the figures. "Garbage pick up?"

"Once a week, from the alley on Thursdays. One
can trash, one box recyclables. Standard for
the city," Mr. Timmons added.

"Security system?" At that Mulder blanched, but
wisely kept his mouth shut.

"The last renters didn't see the need, but if
you want one, we could have one installed. I'd
split the cost," the older man offered.

"Mulder has friends in the business, they could
probably get you a good deal," Scully countered.
Mulder choked at that, but Scully pointedly
ignored him, as did Mr. Timmons.

"Couldn't ask for more," Mr. Timmons said
affably.

Scully led the way out into the growing
twilight. "It's very nice," she said with a
forced smile.

Mulder couldn't read her expression and chewed
on his lip. "I think I'd like to sleep on it,
Mr. Timmons. Would it be all right to call you
in the morning and give you my answer?"

Mr. Timmons smiled at Mulder fondly. "Sure, Mr.
Mulder. You two go talk it over. This friend
of yours seems to know a thing or two about real
estate," he said with a wink. "Just give me a
call in the morning."

"Thanks," Mulder said, shaking the older man's
hand.

As they walked down the street, Scully twined
her fingers in Mulder's. "Want to get some
dinner?" she asked.

"Not really that hungry," he said quietly.

"How about grilled cheese?"

He nodded. She squeezed his hand and he
squeezed back, finally giving her a weak smile.
They were silent the rest of the way to the
apartment. Scully got out the frying pan while
Mulder pulled the cheese, bread and butter out
of the refrigerator. In a few moments, they sat
down to eat.

"So, what do you think of the duplex?" Mulder
asked with notable trepidation.

Scully chewed her sandwich and swallowed a sip
of iced tea before answering. "It's nice. More
room than you had on Hegal."

"Well, I think the square footage is comparable,
but the foyer on Hegal really couldn't be used
for much. The kitchen was bigger."

She shrugged and continued eating. Mulder
pushed his half eaten sandwich aside and sipped
his tea.

"It's closer to the track," Mulder blurted out
suddenly.

She raised her eyes to look at him. "Yes, but
the track is only five blocks from here," she
said.

"Scully, this is what we'd agreed on after the
fire. My living here . . . with you . . . it
was just temporary."

She bit her lip but nodded in agreement. "The
price is definitely a point in its favor," she
said, sidestepping the elephant that had taken a
place at the table -- Mulder moving out.

"Look at it this way: now Bill won't rag on you
as much," Mulder offered.

"Bill can screw himself," Scully said with a
pinched expression.

"As long as you and I can screw each other,"
Mulder said with a barely restrained smirk.

She allowed a grin to skip across her lips.
"Always," she said, taking his hand.

"This changes nothing between us, Scully.
Nothing can change how I feel about you, how
much I need to be with you. Part of the problem
of the old apartment was the commute between our
places. That won't be a problem now. I can
stay over here, you can stay over there, and
we'll still have plenty of time to get ready at
our own place in the morning. It'll be like
we're living together, just not . . ."

". . .living together," she finished his
thought.

"Yeah," he agreed.

They cleaned up the kitchen together, Mulder
putting the dishes away. She wandered off to
work on some files she's brought home and take a
long bath, he tuned in the Yankees game on the
television. When the game ended, Scully was
standing next to the sofa in her robe, her hair
freshly shampooed and dried. "Coming to bed?"
she asked hopefully.

"Yeah," he told her, clicking off the TV and
turning out the lights. He locked the front
door and followed her into the bedroom.

"Are you OK with this, Scully?" he asked, coming
up behind her as she shook out her hair and
brushed it in front of her vanity.

"Sure. I mean it's what you want, right?" she
asked his reflection.

"Well, yeah. I can't mooch off you forever," he
said in a lame attempt at a joke.

"You aren't mooching," she said softly. "You've
been paying half the rent."

"Well, this will give me a chance to build up my
vast CD collection," he said with a shrug.

"And your video collection?" she asked with a
raised eyebrow.

"I don't need one any more," he said, reaching
around to pull the tie from her robe and sliding
the terrycloth off her shoulders. He placed
gentle kisses at the base of her neck. "Come to
bed, Scully."

Without a sound, she allowed him to pull her on
to the mattress. Their lovemaking was gentle,
reverent. As the shadows deepened, they fell
asleep, holding each other as tightly as they
could, as if nothing or anyone could separate
them.

In the morning Mulder called Mr. Timmons and
made arrangements to sign the lease and move
into the little duplex down the street.

Act II Scene 1
The Pentagon
May 20, 2004

Bill was finally making some headway with the
flammable flea market that had been Commander
Keegan's legacy. One more file cabinet left. Why
couldn't the old fart build himself a library
like Nixon or Clinton or every other flatulent
egomaniac in this town, get a crew of flunkies
in jumpsuits to crate this crap instead of one
of the nation's soon-to-be military titans?

"Get your own freaking curator," Bill grunted,
flipping a photo of Nixon and Keegan, signed
"Kick some Commie ass, Donny!" into a wheeled
plastic barrel with a file drawerful of Vietnam
War memos the Washington Post would have killed
for. He peered down into the empty metal drawer
and booted it shut. Bill heard a dull thump, and
the drawer bounced back to catch him in the
shin.

He issued a string of obscenities, and kicked
the drawer again. This time, it ricocheted off
its track.

The office door clattered open, and an ensign's
buzzed head popped in. "Sir? Everything all
right in here?"

"Yeah," Bill snapped, rubbing his chin. "Stand
down, OK? I'm fine, fine."

The ensign fled, and Bill kneeled before the
now-gaping mouth of the file cabinet. He spotted
a crumpled corner of manila pasteboard ripped
back to reveal yellowed pages of textured Corona
type. More crap -- the forestry policies of the
last four presidents had done less to decimate
the nation's woodlands than had the Pentagon.
The regulation cabinet was deep, and Bill
groaned as he ripped his sleeve on the track's
razor edge. His thumb and forefinger finally
closed about the corner of the thick folder, and
he banged his forehead on a drawer handle as he
tugged it free.

After the injury and wardrobe damage Bill had
sustained in his effort to liberate the file, he
felt obliged to at least leaf through its
contents. Had he not been distracted by the pain
in his shin and the blood soaking into his
uniform blouse, he might have wondered at the
lack of dust bunnies or aged track grease on the
folder. His eyes nonetheless were drawn to the
stamp haphazardly positioned in the corner of
each page in oxidized scarlet.

Classified to the max. William Scully's heart
began to race as he examined the text on the
cover page, and almost stopped when two words
emerged from the crisp hand-typed memorandum.

Zeus Faber.

To the civilian population at large -- with the
possible exception of a few egghead historians -
- the name would have meant nothing. But to
anyone above the rank of lieutenant, it was
military legend -- a dark footnote in the annals
of the Navy and an untold epilogue in the blood-
soaked saga of World War II.

The U.S. sub Zeus Faber had been carrying an A-
bomb -- cousin to those dropped on Hiroshima and
Nagasaki -- reportedly for airborne delivery to
an unidentified destination in Japan.
Tragically, the death-dealing technology was
still in its relative infancy, and some breach
of protocol or a terrible accident had resulted
in the mass radiation poisoning of the Faber's
crew. Capt. Kyle Sanford gave his life with 143
of his men; only seven men survived the ordeal.

Few knew the rest of the story, and few ever
would. Bill had been told in a bar in Miami one
night, by a retired admiral half in the bag.
Wanting to hedge his bets, Harry Truman had
ordered nuclear detonation not only over the two
villages now known to every junior high history
student who cared. The straight-talking
Missourian had decided to make a stronger
statement, and millions might have died in and
around Tokyo had fate not intervened in the
lives of the Zeus Faber's crew. While the mass
destruction of two Japanese villages was a wound
that had been slow to heal, the obliteration of
such a teeming metropolis likely would have
fueled a cultural blood feud that would have led
to the eventual deaths of tens of millions more
Americans and Japanese and scorched earth on
both sides of the Pacific.

But that seemingly wasn't the story Bill Scully
now read. He collapsed into Commander Keegan's
well-worn desk chair, scarcely breathing as he
scanned the contents of the lost file. Something
about "foo fighters" -- the phrase came back to
him from some long-ago Thanksgiving dinner, when
Mom had invited Dana's asshole partner to
supper. Some story of Mulder's about UFO
sightings during WWII, of alien spacecraft being
shot down over the Pacific by U.S. fliers.

William Scully placed the folder carefully on
his blotter, got up, and locked the door. He
then settled back into his chair. A name
triggered his memory: The memo had been written
by a Lt. Christopher Johansen. Johansen had
lived down the street from his family when he
was a kid on a base in San Diego, and had been
good friends with his dad. Unlike a lot of
brass, Johansen had never seemed eager to relive
his Pacific Theater days, and Capt. Scully had
occasionally commented on Johansen's reticence
regarding certain topics. Bill started with
renewed interest into Johansen's narrative, but
was interrupted when his desk phone trilled.

"Commander Scully," he barked. It would take a
little time to get used to his new title.

"Hey, Hon -- getting used to your new
surroundings?" Tara asked lightly.

"The old hairbag -- the commander -- left it a
pigsty, but I'm sloughing through. What's up?"

"You have a clock in that new office of yours?"

Bill looked up. "Yeah, sorry -- guess I got
absorbed in Commander Keegan's memorabilia.
Fascinating stuff."

"Well," Tara teased, "drag yourself away, if you
can. I've begun emergency measures on this pork
roast, and Matthew wants to know when supper
is."

Her husband glanced reluctantly at the folder,
and suppressed a sigh. "Yeah, sure, Babe.
Packing it up right now. Go ahead and feed
Matthew -- I'll be home soon."

"I told him we'd wait for his daddy. Love," Tara
sang.

"Yeah." Bill cradled the phone and eyed the open
folder. Sighing loudly this time, he collected
the documents and swept them into his briefcase.

Act II Scene 2

Dana Scully's apartment
May 20, 2004
6:30 pm

The wooden spoon dragged through the thick red
gravy, heavy boiling bubbles breaking the
surface like lava as she stirred. Scully wanted
to make their last night in her apartment
together special. She was particularly good at
making chicken Parmesan, and knew it was one of
Mulder's special requests when she cooked.

It didn't hurt that it took longer to prepare
than other meals, and required an extensive
amount of clean-up afterward, which meant Mulder
would be hanging around the kitchen, keeping her
company.

He was in the living room presently, making his
last phone calls to the Ryder pick-up station,
the furniture delivery guys and the Gunmen. All
his bases were covered. Garment bags lay draped
over the few boxes of items Mulder had
accumulated during his stay. She'd insisted he
take the extra care for his suits in transit,
knowing full well that he would have been happy
to stuff them into black lawn bags with his
grubby socks and sweats. She'd forgotten how
men's clothing seemed to wear so much faster
than women's -- a fact she'd learned growing up
with two brothers and her father.

She felt a small pang disturb the inner reaches
of her heart. All the men in her life seemed to
give her some kind of heartache: Ahab gone from
this world, Charlie seduced by the evil of the
consortium, Bill wreaking havoc on her emotions
and family status, and now Mulder, although with
good intentions, leaving her alone in this
apartment.

But that wasn't true, and she knew it. Nothing
was going to change between them. He still loved
her completely and utterly. Only a few miles
were going to be the separation between them.
But she was going to miss his presence.

She placed the lid off-center over the saucepan
so that its contents didn't boil over, and
called Mulder in for help.

"Mulder, I need you to slice the mozzarella, and
grate the parmesan."

She heard his heavy footsteps as he entered he
kitchen. "Man, you just side-stepped the oldest
joke in the book. I can still keep the joke
alive, though. Wanna pull my finger?"

Said finger was caressing the back of her neck
and making its way up to her ear as she pulled
out a bunch of spaghetti from the narrow blue
box.

"Not while I'm cooking, Mulder. . ." she
grumbled between tight lips. This was not the
first time he'd managed to distract her while
tending hot food. Despite her protests, she
loved it when he did this, even when they were
at her mother's house two winters ago,
dangerously close to being caught, she reveled
in it. She pushed herself back into him and his
arms enveloped her. She tried to reach the pot
of boiling water to drop the dry pasta into it
to cook, but she was firmly pinned within his
embrace.

"Besides, I'm enjoying the smell of garlic and
basil filling the kitchen."

"Garlic? Guess I won't be kissing you later," he
said nuzzling his cheek against her hair.

"If we're both eating it, it doesn't count.
Trust me, you won't notice a thing." She turned
in his arms, holding the bunch of spaghetti
tightly like a bouquet of flowers.

He bent down to kiss her, mumbling his lips
against hers saying, "Is that a promise?"

She moved her lips in response to deepen the
kiss, pressing herself a little harder against
his body so that there was a real danger of them
playing pick-up sticks with fallen pasta.

They separated reluctantly, Scully longing to
keep Mulder as close as possible for as long as
possible. Yet, practicality winning, she
wheedled herself out of his clutches and threw
the spaghetti into the water.

"You'd better get to work, mister. I'm not
letting you slack off on the chores just because
you won't be here anymore."

The warm pinkish glow illuminating Mulder's
cheeks suddenly disappeared, leaving his skin
pallid. He valiantly tried to keep his smile in
place, but it just ended up feeling rigid.

It was quiet as they worked -- very quiet. The
only sounds were the bubbling liquids, knife
tapping against the cutting board with each
slice and the rhythm of hard cheese grating
against metal. When they sat down to eat it was
the same way. Metal fork tines clinked against
Corian as they spun pasta and cut into the
delectable meat and cheese.

Scully was trying to keep the mood light,
offering to pour more wine, passing the bread.
She'd even lit candles, which usually served to
loosen her mood, especially if she was shooting
for certain activities in lieu of dessert. But
with each bite, the cheese seem more oily, the
sauce more acidic in her stomach.

'This is not a break-up,' she kept reminding
herself. But while she chewed, warm rivulets
trickled down her hot cheeks, and the meat
became rubbery in her mouth. She couldn't pry
her eyes away from the plate before her for
anything in the world. Maybe if she just didn't
look at Mulder, he wouldn't notice the distress
pushing so hard against her insides that it was
ready to explode from her in sobs, had she not
been biting her bottom lip to stave it back.

She no longer heard the sounds of clinking
cutlery. Mulder did notice.

The next thing she felt was his large, warm hand
enveloping her tight fist beside the plate. She
vaguely registered it invading her peripheral
vision as she insisted on studying a
particularly melty piece of cheese.

"Hey, love, what is it?" he asked in such a
gentle and concerned tone of voice that when
Scully closed her eyes to cherish it, a new
stream of tears retraced the paths that had
already branded her cheeks.

Scully quickly dropped her utensils and pulled
her hand away from his grasp to wipe at her
eyes. She blew her nose, and snuffled away the
rest of the tears.

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

"Don't do that, please."

She cleared her throat, covering her emotions
even further. "Do what?"

"Scully, you're not fine. You're crying." He
reached over to her shoulder, squeezed it, then
moved down her arm, to once again grasp her
hand. "Talk to me. Please."

She got up from the table, taking her plate with
her and emptying what was left of her meal into
the garbage. Mulder followed her, but left his
plate to cool where it sat. She placed the
dinnerware into the sink, and ran the water at
top force, both hot and cold spigots thrown open
to the limit. Mulder came behind her, reached
around and turned them off. The silence
afterward was louder than Niagara Falls in
springtime.

"This is about me finding a new place, isn't
it?"

She didn't answer.

"Scully, it's been fun playing house for a
while, and believe me, there's no place else I'd
love to be than with you. But I have to move out
of here, you know that. Us being together is
everything. But when we can't have peace of
mind, it's just. . . we need to move a little
slower so that everyone can get used to the
idea. And. . ."

He caressed her shoulders, felt the tension
within them through her sweater. He rubbed at
the knots right near her shoulder blades where
he knew she held all her stress.

". . .things being what they are right now,
family situations, work situations. I want to
know that you're safe, and if there's a target
on my head for whatever reason, I want you to be
out of harm's way. I can't risk some wacko
burning you up with the rest of it."

"But. . ." she trailed off.

"But what. . .?"

"I'm going to miss you."

"I'll be five minutes away, Scully."

"No," she turned to enforce her statement, "I
mean, I'm going to miss you being here. I feel
like *you're* safe here with me."

"I'm a big boy, Scully," he said, kissing her
forehead. "I can take care of myself. Besides,
I'll be over here three days a week at least for
food. You know what my cooking skills entail."
He got a chuckle for that.

"Man does not live on Rice Krispies alone,
Mulder. You'd better be over here." She snuggled
into his chest.

"Come on, let's settle down for the night. I'll
take care of this mess in the morning."

Scully glanced at the messy kitchen and
fleetingly thought about the crusty sauce that
would be caked onto the plates come morning,
then obediently left it all behind. An extra
push at the small of her back encouraged the
decision further.

She went to change into her favorite pajamas
while Mulder sought for a good movie on TV. They
watched later than usual, Scully lounging out
and resting her head on his lap, Mulder stroking
the hair behind her ear, making funny comments
between lines they knew too well during movies
they'd seen a hundred times.

At around eleven, Mulder noticed that his
partner had dozed off. He moved to lift her up,
and carried her into the bedroom. She opened her
eyes and yawned when he set her down upon the
mattress.

"Mmmm. . .. My prince charming."

He laughed in the darkness, and felt for her
lips to kiss her. Then he stripped down to his
boxers like he always did for bed, and scooted
under the covers with her. She automatically
moved herself back against him, and he held her.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

There was an awkward silence before she
continued. "Do you love me?"

He tensed up a little, his initial reaction to
the question one of offense taken. But he
relaxed easily, because the answer was not
difficult to admit. "Of course I do."

He felt her turn over. Then, her breath skim
across his face when she faced him. It was true,
he smelled the garlic, but it was delicious, it
was wonderful. It was Scully. Then she used her
fingertips to feel his cheeks, his mouth, his
chin. "Really?" she whispered.

Then he realized what she was seeking. She was
laying it all on the table. She had to know for
sure what he felt.

"I love you, Scully," he whispered like a secret
he'd held for a long time. "I love you."

He used his own fingers to feel for her face,
then pulled her close and pressed his lips
against hers -- wordlessly asking for more,
giving her more. She pulled him to her in
response, as close and as hard as she could get
him.

"I love you, too," she answered softly into his
ear, her mouth muffled against his cheek as she
wrapped her arms tightly about him. "Just hold
me, please. I want you to hold me. Don't let me
go."

"I have you, Scully. I'll always have you."

Act III Scene 1
The Pentagon
May 21, 2004
10:15 am

A week of rummaging through old documents was
wearing on Bill's nerves. He had four paper
cuts the day before and was having a difficult
time turning pages with both index fingers
wrapped in bandages. At least he'd managed to
find the flexible fabric bandages in one of the
unpacked boxes in the hallway of their new home.
He was no going to come to work with a Blues
Clues band-aid on his finger, come hell or high
water.

Most of the files were worthless and it didn't
take a second thought to toss them into the box
for shredding. As he threw whole file folders
into the box, the dust cloud they emitted
started to cover his briefcase, sitting next to
the desk. Bill hadn't forgotten about his find
the day before, he just knew he had to get the
rest of the mess cleaned up before he could give
it his full attention. But now he was down to
the last drawer in the last filing cabinet, and
his curiosity was getting to him. He knew he
couldn't put it off any longer.

When the last folder was disposed of, he dusted
his hands and reached for his brief case.
Hefting the thick leather case on to his desk,
he opened it hesitantly, as if something might
jump out at him. He chuckled to himself. It
was a file, nothing more. There wasn't anything
in it that could harm him. He reached in and
tugged at the brittle manila folder. As he did
so, his ring finger slid along the edge, the
stiff cardboard slicing neatly into his flesh.

Goddamn it! Another paper cut! He immediately
stuck the injured digit into his mouth and
winced at the taste of blood. Drawing the
finger out for further inspection he saw a deep
gash, deeper than the other injuries he'd
endured in the newly acquired dangerous job of
'desk jockey'.

"Shit," he swore and with his relatively
unharmed hand, dug through his top desk drawer
for the cardboard box of band-aids Tara had
given him just that morning. It was awkward,
bandaging his right hand with his left, but he
managed to staunch the flow of blood. Shaking
his head, he reached more carefully into the
briefcase and slowly drew out the file folder.
He sighed when he saw the smear of blood across
the edge of the folder. His day just kept
getting better and better.

Still using exaggerated care, he laid the folder
out on his desk and put the briefcase on the
floor. With one hand, he opened the file folder
and started to read. The first few pages, he
already had scanned. They contained a number of
references to a submarine, the Zeus Faber. He
found the name of Lt. Johansson again, and
remembered the man fondly. But he needed to
know more about the Zeus Faber, so he started to
look further into the file.

It didn't take him long to find a transcript of
a debriefing of the mission. The hand stamped
'Top Secret' in red letters across the top of
the page didn't serve as a deterrent at all.
After all, in his current capacity with the
Joint Chiefs, there wasn't anything marked 'top
secret' that Bill Scully couldn't access. This
gave him the confidence to keep reading.

'Report regarding Mission 45-08-15B, 1945
August' was printed in bold type on the top of
the page. Bill read about the submarine's
original mission, to patrol the coast of
California, looking for Japanese vessels that
might be planning on an attack on the United
States. The mission was changed when the
Captain received orders to go to a specific
location and search for some downed aircraft.

According to the report, the squadron of
aircraft each carried a weapon, an atomic bomb
that was headed for Japan. The aircraft were P-
51 Mustang and the pilots had not been located
by surface ships in the area. The planes had
experienced engine trouble and all four of them
had dropped out of the sky like rocks, according
to eyewitnesses from a Naval destroyer some 3
miles from the crash. The destroyer had
continued on with its mission and the Zeus Faber
was tapped to do rescue.

The pilots' fates were unknown and they were all
considered dead, not having time to eject from
the planes before it went into the sea. But
that wasn't the real concern of the Department
of War at that time. Their primary concern was
the atomic bombs aboard the aircraft, and the
fear that those bombs might fall into the
enemy's hands before other similar bombs were
dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in just days.

The sub made good time getting to the
coordinates of the crash. They were able to
find the Mustangs with little difficulty. They
were in the process of determining the best
course of 'rescue' for the payload when a
Japanese destroyer entered the area and they
were forced into silent running.

That is when the trouble began. Before the
payload was even brought aboard the sub, the men
started becoming ill. First is was flu like
symptoms, but then burns, serious burns, started
forming on their bodies. Not all the men were
affected, but it was discovered that those
nearest the aircraft, even through several
inches of hull of the sub, were the ones to fall
ill. Not long after the men started getting
sick, the Captain started acting strangely.

Lt. Johansson was a precise man and up until
that point, the report was very thorough and
very military in its presentation. Suddenly,
the report took on the air of a horror movie.

As more and more of the ship's crew became
affected, Johansson begged the Captain to return
to port. At first, the Captain insisted that
the mission had not been completed. They still
had to retrieve the payloads. But when a couple
of divers went to the Mustangs, they discovered
not bombs in the bays, but something strange and
rock-like. They were trying to remove one of
the rocks when both divers fell ill, almost as
soon as they touched the object, even though
they were in full diving gear. Before the men
could be brought back on the sub, they were
dead. It had only been a matter of minutes, no
more than an hour between onset of symptoms and
death.

Johansson once again pleaded with the Captain to
return the boat to the closest port, which would
have been Pearl Harbor. This time, the Captain
claimed that they couldn't move because of the
Japanese above them, on the surface. He stayed
down there, near those planes for three days.
More and more of the men were becoming ill, some
were already dead.

On the third day of the stand off, one of the
infected men got a gun and held it on the
Captain. In the process of disarming the man,
the gun went off. Their silence was broken. It
would only be a matter of time before the
Japanese started dropping depth charges at them.
Johansson again tried to convince the Captain
that they needed to leave the area immediately.

Bill was so amazed by the next few lines that he
had to read them twice. Johansson claimed, in a
military report, that the Captain's eyes had
been 'infected' with a black oil that shimmered
across his pupils. Johansson knew that the
Captain was not going to listen to reason, and
would not leave the area. The young Lieutenant
considered his superior to completely insane or
possibly possessed. Mutiny was the only answer.

Johansson locked the Captain in with the most
desperately ill of the crew in a hold near the
torpedo tubes. The man who'd fired the gun
picked it up again and while the Captain was
trying to get Johansson to open the door, he
shot the Captain. From a small window in the
door, Johansson watched as the same black oil
he'd seen in the Captain's eyes started to flow
out of the man's body and 'crawled' across the
floor to escape down a drain. It hadn't acted
like any substance he'd ever seen. The oil had
seemed alive. Johansson went to the bridge of
the ship and set a course for the closest port.
The Zeus Faber just barely made it back to
friendly waters.

Bill was barely breathing when he finished
reading the report. He would have closed the
file folder if not for a name on the next page.
He blinked when he saw the name, it was so
unexpected, and at the same time, it clicked
into place.

The next report was an interview with surviving
crew members. The interview was conducted by
two men from the State Department: CGB Spender
and William Mulder.

Bill wanted to cry. He wanted to throw the file
against the wall and forget he'd ever seen it.
Somehow, it was fitting that the son of a bitch
who was ruining his sister's life was the son of
a man involved in such a disaster. After
talking with Spender and William Mulder, all
fifteen survivors died within the next 24 hours.
Bill was certain, although there was no
evidence, that Spender and Mulder were
responsible for those deaths.

Bile rose in his throat. He could picture the
men he'd served with at sea, see them in the
place of those dying crew men. What would he
have done if faced with the same decision as
young Lt. Johansson? Bill wondered if he would
have waited the three days to mutiny.

He thought back to all the conversations he'd
had with Fox Mulder. Fortunately, there were
damned few to remember. He could picture so
clearly the discussions they'd had when Dana had
been dying of cancer. He could see them in the
hallway outside Dana's room, after she'd just
agreed to some crazy-ass idea that put a piece
of metal in her neck in the hopes of a cure.
Bill was certain the treatments the doctor had
begun that day were the only reason his sister
was alive. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt
that Fox Mulder had nothing to do with Dana's
remission.

But beyond all that, he tried to remember what
they'd said to each other those six long years
before. He'd asked Mulder if it had all been
worth it, had he found what he was looking for,
his little green men. Mulder had told him no.
It had been a small bright spot in an otherwise
black day, the idea that Fox Mulder was
suffering even a tiny bit as much as Bill.

Mulder's little green men.

What if . . . what if they were black? What if
they were black and looked like oil? What if
they were found not in a space ship, but in a
squadron of wrecked P-51 Mustangs at the bottom
of the Pacific?

Who would believe him if he tried to tell anyone
this tale? Not his Commanding Officer. Not
anyone at the Pentagon.

Not his sister, he was certain of that.

Only one man would listen to him. Bill choked
back the bile that kept rising in his throat.
How in God's name could he ever think to go to
Fox Mulder for help? But that was exactly what
he had to do. He dug through his briefcase for
his planner, flipped a few pages and picked up
the phone on his desk.

Act III Scene 2
The District Club
Washington, DC
May 21, 2004
12:00 pm

The club downstairs had been one of Washington's
more malodorous, if elaborately appointed,
sausage factories -- an abattoir of dark woods,
rich leather, and fine Oriental rugs where
reputations and fortunes were slaughtered, truth
processed into lies, and a nation's deepest
secrets repackaged for the consumption of the
mass unwashed.

Amid its alcoves and dining parlors,
powerbrokers, politicians, and men whose
provenance remained unclear had plotted the
deaths of two presidents and the disappearance
of a popular aviatrix who'd unearthed too many
federal skeletons, engineered an attack on a
U.S. naval port that would engulf much of the
world in war, choreographed the ultimately
botched assassination of America's most beloved
first lady on a street in Dallas, and tagged the
chief patsies for a break-in at a now-infamous
Washington residential hotel.

Over the past few decades, the club had opened
its doors to a more diverse and less
Machiavellian constituency -- a move deemed
crucial to divert an increasingly omniscient and
omnipotent media and the prying eyes of the few
honorable men still left in the Beltway. But the
club remained the sanctum sanctorum of America's
royalty -- the men and, now, women, who made
things happen efficiently and invisibly.

To the men who congregated on the top floor of
the club, those who supped on chateaubriand and
prime rib downstairs were bugs -- lower organisms
that manufactured and fed on the petty carrion
of human greed, misery, and weakness. These men
upstairs played on a far larger field, for
unimaginable stakes. At their command, any of
the titans gathered three floors below could be
made to vanish with their families and, if
necessary, any trace of their earthly existence.

"Gentlemen, the shit's hit the fan," Alex Krycek
announced as he crossed the threshold into the
lushly appointed roomful of somber and powerful
men. In any other venue, any of the handful of
men here might have answered such disrespect
with a bullet to the skull, delivered swiftly
and unexpectedly as Krycek slept. But the
handsome, smirking young man who sauntered
nonchalantly into their august midst at his whim
was one of the few humans they feared: Krycek
owned too many secrets, and thus owned their
grudging respect.

He, along with the sour, furtive man seated by
the front window -- a chain-smoking shadow of a
human being with a sporadic death's head grin --
were among the last living survivors of a
holocaust that had claimed their foolish
predecessors, a similar collection of powerful
men who had thought to deal blithely with the
devil. Spender and Krycek obviously shared some
barely subcutaneous antipathy, but everyone in
this room understood such animosities paled
beside the vision shared by the new Consortium.

While most in the room frowned at Krycek's
irreverent greeting, the Scarred Man smiled
fondly at the young man's brashness. The Scarred
Man, ensconced in an espresso-colored Barcelona
chair, sipping a sherry that would have
intimidated the richest of the rabble
downstairs, had been a double agent with the
Resistance during Hitler's war, and he
appreciated Krycek's ruthless disregard for
class or power.

"And what 'shit,' if I may ask, do you speak
of?" he asked, calmly, unconsciously swirling
his liqueur.

"Commander Scully?" the Scarred Man inquired.
"The brother of the FBI agent, no?"

"Apparently," Krycek said, looking down at the
old man's disfigured face, "he's come across
some not-so-ancient history. Zeus Faber. Ring a
bell?"

The Scarred Man set his sherry on the table
beside his chair. "It resonates. How much does
our friend know?"

Krycek shrugged. "Somebody did some sloppy
housekeeping. Somehow, Scully came across an old
file some feeble old Naval commander forgot to
shred years ago."

"Nonsense," Spender spat, irritation deepening
in the folds of his sallow face. He crushed his
Morley into a crystal ashtray on the windowsill.
"Every piece of documentation, every scrap
regarding the Zeus Faber and its mission was
destroyed. Commander Keegan oversaw it
personally -- he was firmly in our pocket."

"Well, there must have been a ripped seam
somewhere, cause the cat's out now," Krycek
countered, not looking at the Cigarette Smoking
Man. Spender's jaundiced eyes blazed.

"This man, Scully," the Scarred Man interrupted.
"Is he a threat? Can he divine the significance
of this information? Could it lead him to us?"

"William Scully's a fool, a bull-necked
Neanderthal," Spender sneered. "Beyond a certain
weasel-like cunning..."

"Even a weasel can rut around enough to do some
serious damage," Krycek said. He turned to the
Scarred Man. "We can't take a chance of him
taking this to Agent Scully, to Mulder."

"He despises Mulder, and despite his abundant
shortcomings, Bill Scully is devoted to his
sister," Spender protested. "Too much so to
willingly place her in danger."

Krycek laughed mirthlessly. "You're suddenly
quite the judge of psychological character,
aren't you? Just like you've read Mulder all
these years?"

The room went silent. The Scarred Man looked to
Spender expectantly. Eyes narrow, the man at the
window pulled a pack of Morley's from his
jacket, tamped out a cigarette, and placed it
between his thin, bloodless lips. The corners of
his lips then turned up in a ghastly
approximation of a smile.

"All right," Spender said pleasantly. "Perhaps
you should keep an eye on our William, find out
what he knows, see if our weasel ruts or runs."
The smile disappeared. "But no violence. Not
yet. We don't want to flush Agent Scully out of
the bushes on some family vendetta."

Krycek glanced at the Scarred Man, who nodded
and retrieved his sherry. Krycek half-turned to
a grim Spender and offered a two-fingered salute
before heading for the elevator that served only
this floor.

Spender located a match, fingers trembling only
slightly, set his cigarette aflame.

"And so," the Scarred Man finally uttered,
contemplating his sherry. "Do you think our
friend should be apprised of this quite
unpleasant new development?"

Rattled by the reference to Strughold, Spender
drew deeply on his Morley, blue smoke leaking
through the cracks in his sour smile. "Mr.
Krycek has far more faith than I in William
Scully's powers of comprehension and inclination
to, let us say, rock the boat. No, gentlemen --
this is merely a bump in the road. No need to
disturb our friend...yet."

Act III Scene 3

3605 N Street NW
Washington DC
Friday 2:30 pm

"To the left. No, Langly, your _other_ left!
Yeah, yeah, now be careful of the woodwork.
Geez, have you ever moved furniture before?"
Mulder growled as the wooden cabinet shifted in
his hands and suddenly he was bearing the full
weight of the object as he moved up the steps
and in the front door.

"What's this thing made of -- mahogany?" the
blond haired conspirator complained loudly.
"Damn it, Mulder, you said you didn't have much
stuff to move!"

"I don't," Mulder shot back. "It's just what I
have is heavy. Quit your bitchin', everything
else is clothes."

"What about the other stuff? Chairs, tables, a
bed? You gonna sleep on the floor, man?" Langly
asked sarcastically.

"I have a bed, it's being delivered. And I
found a couch at a second hand store down on M
Street. I paid an extra fifty for the store to
deliver. Other than that -- "

"You're living at Scully's," Langly finished his
sentence with a note of disgust. "Man, why are
you throwing away all this dough on a place
where you're only gonna keep your fish? We'll
let the fish have our storage closet for half
the price your dumping down this money pit!"

Mulder shot him a vicious glare. "It's not any
of your business, Langly," he warned. It would
be impossible to explain to any of the three
Gunmen why he felt the need to keep a separate
residence from his partner of 11 years. He
really wasn't sure of his reasons and he darned
well wasn't going to put in the effort to make
his favorite geeks understand. His favorite
bachelor geeks.

"I'm just saying, it seems like you're spending
a lot of money, money you could, say, give as a
charitable contribution to the free press,"
Langly continued.

"Free press? As in your rag?" Mulder asked with
one raised eyebrow.

"Hey, freedom of the press comes at a high
price, my friend!" Langly said haughtily.

"Yeah, not to mention all the high tech
equipment that you guys keep picking up on
Ebay," Mulder sneered. "Just help me get the
rest of the fish tank. I have to get it set up
before the fish figure out they're living in
Scully's punch bowl and decide to stage a
revolt."

"Ewww, not to mention what the G-woman is gonna
do to you when she hears what's been living in
that same punch bowl," Langly said, making a
face. "Oh, and remind me next Christmas to
avoid the eggnog."

They placed the fish tank along the wall near
the bay window. It looked totally out of place
in the otherwise bare room.

"You gonna buy a rug, or figure you won't need
one?" Langly asked derisively as he plopped down
on the floor and leaned against the wall.

"I'll get a rug," Mulder replied. "In due
time," he added tersely.

That comment got Mulder a well-executed snort
from his friend.

"Keep this up and I'm not sharing the stash of
Sam Adams Scully put in the fridge," the agent
warned.

Langly had the good grace to look worried.
Quickly, he hopped to his feet and rubbed his
hands together. "So, where's all the stuff for
the fish tank. Can't keep the little critters
in that cramped punch bowl forever!"

Together, they made short work of the fish tank
and soon Mulder was busy filling it with buckets
of water from the kitchen and adding the de-
chlorination drops. Langly looked at his watch.

"Well, amigo, I have to split. I promised Byers
I'd stop by the cleaners on the way home and
they close at 5:00."

Mulder refrained from making any comments about
the domestic chores the guys assigned each
other. "Well, take a six pack with you. You
earned it," he said nodding toward the kitchen.

"Hey, thanks, Mulder! See, you aren't such a
prick all the time," Langly teased. He
disappeared into the kitchen and then reappeared
with the beer under one arm. "I was just
admiring the refrigerator. Probably the last
time I'll see it looking so . . . fungus free."

"Get out. Now," Mulder growled, but his eyes
twinkled with amusement.

"I'm leaving. Tell Scully I said this is an
enormous waste of money," he called as he
reached the door.

"Now, Langly!" He heard the door slam and
smiled. "Speaking of Scully, where is she?"
Mulder asked the fish as he added them one by
one into the tank. "She was just going out to
buy toilet bowl cleanser. How long can that
take?"

As the last fish dropped from the net and swam
happily around the fish tank, his cell phone
rang. Mulder grabbed for it in his front
pocket.

"If she's asking my opinion on what brand of
toilet bowl cleanser I want, I'm not going to be
held responsible for my actions," he warned no
one in particular.

"Scully, did you get lost?"

"Mr. Mulder?" asked the voice on the line.

Unconsciously, Mulder stood up straight.
"Bill?" He almost didn't recognize the man's
voice, it was tight and strained. It sounded
like he was whispering.

"Mr. Mulder, I have to speak with you," Bill
said hastily.

"Bill, look if this is about me living with
Scully, you don't have to worry. That was
temporary and I have a place of my own now. As
a matter of fact, I was just in the process of
moving in. So whatever you have to say -- "

"Mr. Mulder, please, I don't have time for this.
I need to speak with you, immediately. I've
come across something, something I think is . .
. of a highly sensitive nature."

"Why do you want to talk to me?" Mulder asked,
confused.

"Look, I found some old papers. They seem to be
important. I saw a name in one of the reports.
William Mulder. A submarine, the Zeus Faber --
"

Mulder was listening intently now, and heard the
line cut out for just a fraction of a second.
It was long enough to know that they were not on
a secure line.

"Bill, hold up, OK," he said, interrupting the
man in mid-sentence. "This may not be the best
way to have this conversation. Why don't we
meet somewhere tonight and talk this through."

"I can't be seen with these papers. I have no
idea what level of security -- "

Mulder frantically searched his mind for a way
to give Bill a meeting place without saying it
aloud to whoever else was listening. "Don't
worry about the papers, put them somewhere safe.
Look, there's a bar not far from your sister's
apartment, she really likes the place. They
serve great corned beef and cabbage. Do you
know it?"

"Yeah, yeah, she took us there, Tara and me, a
couple of years ago."

"Good. It's quiet, safe. Be there at eight
tonight, all right? Till then, don't tell
anyone what you have."

"Then you think this is important," Bill said
nervously.

"I don't know," Mulder admitted. "But you've
definitely got my attention."

"I'll see you tonight, Mr. Mulder. At eight."

"I'll be there," Mulder assured him. "Bill, can
I ask -- why me? Why not your sister?"

He heard the other man bark out a bitter laugh.
"I wasn't sure she'd believe me," he said
honestly. "Tonight, Mr. Mulder."

"Yeah, tonight," Mulder replied and closed down
the phone. He wondered if there would ever come
a time when his lover's brother would refer to
him as anything other than 'Mister'.

Mulder startled when the door to the duplex
opened suddenly. "You would not believe the
number of people who shop at Home Depot on a
Friday afternoon!" Scully said in exasperation.
"I got some drain opener, too. The tub seemed
to be running slow when I was cleaning it this
morning -- " She looked up from her inspection
of the bag she was holding when Mulder didn't
respond. "I wasn't gone that long, Mulder. Are
you angry with me?"

He drew in a breath and shook his head.
"Nothing like that, Scully." He took her into a
quick hug and led her over to the stairs so they
could sit down. "I got a phone call just now."

She frowned. "From . . .?"

"Your brother. Bill."

Immediately, Scully's hackles were raised.
"Mulder, if Bill said something to upset you --
"

"Oh, he upset me, all right, but not in the way
you might expect. Scully, somehow Bill has come
into possession of some papers, old reports, he
said. My father's name was in those reports,
along with a submarine -- the Zeus Faber."

Scully's eyes grew wide. "Oh my god! Mulder,
Bill might have stumbled onto -- "

"Worse than that, Scully. I think someone might
have his phone tapped."

"No! Mulder, we have to get to him, he might
not be safe. Tara, the babies, . . . my god,
what are we going to do?"

"I told him to meet us at the bar down the
street. I didn't give any names or addresses, I
gave him a description of the menu."

"They only serve corned beef and cabbage," she
interjected.

"Exactly. Luckily he remembered it from a
previous visit home. I know the indigestion I
get there has always made it a memorable
experience for me," he said, trying to lighten
his partner's worried mood.

She gave him a brief smile.

"We'll meet him there tonight, eight o'clock."

Scully looked at her watch. "That's in four
hours," she stated.

"He should be safe for now," Mulder tried to
reassure her. "I really don't think they'll try
anything in the Pentagon. Too many security
cameras."

"But we don't know who was listening. Why would
anyone be bugging Bill's office phone? Mulder,
what if it was Krycek? Or Charlie?"

"Let's not count the rotten eggs before they
hatch," Mulder advised, pulling her into a hug.
"He's a big boy. He'll be OK."

"I hope so," Scully whispered into his shoulder.
"I hope so."

Act IV Scene 1

The District Club
Washington, DC
1:30 pm

Krycek had barely closed the club "service door"
that served as the entry to the private elevator
when a pair of gloved hands seized the lapels of
his leather jacket and propelled him into the
alleyway. Only the suddenness of the attack
enabled Krycek's assailant to drag him to a
dumpster behind the steakhouse across the
deserted corridor.

"The hell you think you're doing?" Charlie
Scully growled, thumping Krycek's shoulder
blades against the bricks. "You brainless ape!
You trying to ruin everything?"

Krycek brought up both arms and knocked
Charlie's away. "You touch me again, and I might
get a little blood and brain matter on that
Tommy Hilfiger ensemble of yours. What the hell
are you ranting about?"

Charlie came up nose-to-nose with his foe. "You
planted that goddamned file in Bill's office,
didn't you? Thought you'd screw with all of us,
see if you could use my brother to light a few
fuses."

"That's what you'd like the old Nazi to think,
isn't it?" Krycek said, smoothing his jacket.
"What'd you do, Charlie? Send in a crack squad
of Kelly Girls to clean out that office? Face
it, you screwed the pooch, asshole."

"Mother--!" Charlie bellowed, throwing a left
hook. Krycek caught his fist, twisted it
backward and used it to spin his opponent
around. He slammed Charlie into the side of the
dumpster, and kicked him in the ribs as he
struggled to regain his feet. Charlie slipped on
a rotting lettuce leaf and landed on his ass.

"Your girlfriend Strughold's losing his grip,"
Krycek sneered. "He's lost his control of the
situation, as evidenced by this little show of
'muscle.'"

"That right?" Charlie said from his seat in the
mingled waste grease, garbage, and likely human
detritus of the alley. "You think the Morley Man
up there's a tower of strength? He's one pack
away from a respirator and a rubber room. You
think it's any coincidence Mulder's still
walking around? Spender doesn't have the
cojones, the stomach. Look, can I get up now?"

"No. And save me the NYPD Blue lingo."

"Look, Krycek. It all comes down to who's on the
winning team and who winds up in a cloud of
radioactive dust. I like my odds right now. You
oughtta look at your own odds -- that old man's
had it. They know it. Join the winning team,
man. We got a spot for you, a good one, varsity,
if you'll just be smart about this."

Krycek spat on the concrete next to Charlie's
left Italian loafer. "You little pimp. You have
no idea what this is all about, what we're
trying to do. To you and the old Nazi, this is
all some kind of power grab. Varsity, Jesus. I
like my current position, Charlie. Why don't you
think about where you're sitting right now?"

"You bastard!"

Krycek laughed and headed for the street.
"Little club soda oughtta take that crap out,
Charlie."

Act IV Scene 2

The Watergate Hotel
Washington DC South West
2:00 pm

Charles Scully hurried past the red-coated
doorman and toward the bank of brass encased
elevators. He was late. Not woefully so, but
in a business where fortunes changed in a blink
of an eye, he could ill afford the luxury of
even an overactive traffic signal, much less a
run-in with the likes of Alex Krycek. He tapped
his foot impatiently as he waited for the
polished doors to spilt open and allow his
entrance.

The elevator chimed and he resisted the urge to
push the doors open fast. Once inside the car,
he stabbed at the top floor, belatedly
remembering the key on his key ring that gave
him access to that most secluded of meeting
places. With a mild curse, he shoved the key in
the slot and hit the floor button again. This
time the button glowed a pale orange and the car
started its ascent.

He'd received the call just an hour before. He
didn't like unscheduled meetings and to make
matters worse, the assistant on the phone had
denied any knowledge of the agenda. Charles
Scully detested not knowing what meetings were
about. He was not in a pleasant frame of mind
when the elevator car finally ground to a halt
and the mirrored doors slid open.

Strughold glared at Charles as he made his way
around the room to the only empty chair. "Were
you detained?" the old man asked in a raspy
accented growl.

"Unavoidably," Charles answered automatically.
"What have I missed?"

Strughold glanced around the table, his eyes
falling on the select few men sitting with an
air of comfortable interest. "There has been a
leak, a possibly damaging leak that has just
been brought to our attention."

Charles looked at each face around the table,
trying to discern who had knowledge and who did
not. For the most part, the group would have
been terrors in Las Vegas. Not a single pair of
eyes gave Charles any information, or sympathy.

"A leak concerning what, may I ask?" Charles
gut twisted at this game of 'cat and mouse', but
the old man was running the show and there was
little the younger man could do to stop his
gamesmanship.

"The incident aboard the Zeus Faber," Strughold
bit off the words precisely.

Charles stomach hit rock bottom, but he fought
to keep his expression blank. "Are you
certain?" he asked.

Strughold seemed to take the opportunity to
cough gently. The other men in the room
exchanged glances, but said nothing. Charles
was aware of how far out on a limb he now was.
"We are quite sure."

Sweat was pooling down Charles' back as he
furtively scrambled for possible responses. He,
more so than any other individual in the room,
knew what was at stake if such information was
made public. Furthermore, he knew exactly how a
leak of this magnitude could play out, who might
facilitate it. He swallowed the burning
sensation at the back of his throat. "How far
has it gotten?"

"Our sources seem to think it has not reached
its intended destination," Strughold said
mildly.

That gave Charles some small measure of relief,
but it was short-lived. "What do you propose?"

Strughold took a drag off the expensive cigar in
his hand and smiled. "It's a simple matter,
really. The leak must be plugged. As of yet,
no harm has been done. But it is imperative
that the matter be resolved -- quietly and with
due haste, before the leak becomes a deluge."

The little spark of humanity left in Charles
Scully trembled.

"I trust that you are in agreement?" Strughold
asked, his eyes never leaving Charles. It was
as if the old man was testing him, testing his
loyalty. After all Charles had done for this
man, for this group of men, to be tested so was
a dagger to his confidence. But it was all for
the greater good. Eventually, everyone, even
his family, would be made aware of that.

"I see no other option," Charles said flatly.

Strughold smiled briefly. "I'm happy you see it
that way. I knew I could trust you, Charles."

Act IV Scene 3
Starbucks on G Street
Washington, DC
5:00 pm

Bill's knuckles were bloodless, wrapped tightly
about the warm china mug. Had they cast a glance
at the hard-looking man in Station 2, any of the
latte-sucking yuppies, wired college kids or
minimum wage slaves scattered about the
excruciatingly hip coffee shop might have feared
a sudden shower of porcelain shrapnel and hot
liquid.

But William Scully had selected this Starbuck's,
a stone's throw from Capitol Hill, specifically
for the bustling anonymity it afforded. A trio
of congressional aides two tables away, stripped
to shirtsleeves, ties at parade rest, jackets
draped lovingly across chair backs, nattered
about some piece of crucial legislation or the
hot new intern or some such bullshit -- it was
all white noise to Bill. Their opposite numbers
-- a knot of university kids, fashionably
disheveled in distressed GAP and Banana Republic
-- were in animated discourse at a table along
the wall, pumped up on Grandes and ranting about
Bush or the rain forests or maybe just the
latest grunge/rap/pop . Ordinarily, Bill would
have felt the temptation to tell the spoiled
punks to shove a scone in their foul little
Generation Why mouths, the impulse to dump his
own steaming java over the head of the most
self-important of the congressional Pep Boys.

Fortunately for all, he was light-years away
from their universe, encapsulated in his own
fear and cunning ruminations. The white knuckles
clamped about the cup were the only signs to the
world outside that William Scully was
dangerously close to shaking apart like a used
Yugo with a bad tranny. Those superior Marine
jarheads could keep their Semper Fidelis
bullshit -- Bill knew those who were always
faithful wound up always dead, always
disillusioned, or constantly clearing tables in
some pussy coffee joint. Semper Stabilis -- that
was William Scully's credo. Always a rock,
always cool, spine straight, hands at 10 and 2.
Anyone catching a glimpse of the man at Table 7
would see a spit-and-shine remnant of a once-
great society, possibly reviewing his
forthcoming testimony before House
Appropriations or Senate Intelligence or keeping
an eye out for some Arab with a bogus visa and a
shoeful of plastique. 9/11 and Navy NCIS had
heightened everybody's sense of military
melodrama. Pussy pretty-boy Harmon, Bill had
silently sneered whenever Tara watched that
piece of crap.

His discovery of the papers had been the razor-
sharp boundary between the universe William
Scully had known and functioned in with no small
proficiency -- and, when the occasion
necessitated, no small cunning -- and a dank,
uncertain future. The man who was destined to
reign with the lions of the Republic, the soon-
to-be-father, the last great scion of Admiral
Scully's family, now cowered in some D.C.
coffeehouse.

Semper Stabilis, he repeated. He couldn't let
the insanity that had enveloped Mulder start to
flirt with his mind. Bill had always hated
Mulder -- for the slow deterioration of Dana's
sense of rationality and reason, for the
emotional and, he was increasingly certain,
physical control he maintained over his little
sister, and simply for the kind of
undisciplined, disrespectful, intellectualized
"man" Mulder was. He was everything inimical to
William Scully, to men of honor and valor, to
men.

But now, Bill understood, Fox Mulder at the
least was no coward. For years, Mulder had lived
with and been persecuted and pursued for
information that shook the very foundations of
the world men like Bill Scully imagined they
ruled. The revelations that now had Bill
scurrying for an escape hatch had merely driven
Mulder on into the darkest territory inhabited
by the worst monsters mankind had ever spawned.

And that made Bill now hate Mulder with a
previously unfathomable new passion. The very
concept that Mulder drew on some reserve of
inner strength, that he possessed a decency and
heroism Bill likely could never attain, turned
the soldier's universe upside-down. The
knowledge of the true man that lived beneath his
uniform would rapidly destroy him, or at least
the illusion that had sustained him.

"Semper Stabilis."

"Sir?"

William jumped, only to find a young nose-ringed
man with a rag and spray bottle standing before
him.

"You need something?" the boy asked, staring at
the brawny gaping man with his paws wrapped
possessively about his mug.

He'd said it aloud, unconsciously. "I don't need
shit," Bill finally growled, loudly enough to
silence the congressional butt-buddies and the
member of Squirrel Jam over by the wall. "Ah,
no, really, I'm cool. Sorry, OK?"

The busboy nodded once, a wannabe jerk of the
shaved head, and fled as rapidly as his cool
would allow. The aides were still staring --
Bill glared them back into hasty debate.
Squirrel Jam was amused, chortling and
exchanging whispered barbs. Bill contemplated
violence toward the kids, and the fresh infusion
of caffeine-powered testosterone momentarily
revitalized him.

This was Mulder's arena, he recognized
reluctantly. In fact, had it not been for
Mulder, this probably wouldn't be happening now,
Bill told himself. He had to give the letter to
Mulder -- hell, Fox would get a blue-veiner when
he read its contents. Mulder could have his
precious proof, get it put in the Post or maybe
the Midnight Sun. He had no future, no destiny
to fulfill but an appointment with madness in
the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

And if his sister's partner didn't make it into
print, if the transfer of the letter put the
hounds on Mulder's spoor and he disappeared to
Alpha Centauri, all the better for Dana. Bill
shoved back from the table, casting one last
homicidal glance at the kids on the wall. A
titter of ridicule erupted as he headed for the
door, but that was all right. A weight had been
lifted -- or would soon -- and the air out on
the sidewalk was fresh and clean.

William Scully strode back toward his car with a
renewed sense of purpose and confidence, his
eyes darting only infrequently between the
strangers with whom he shared the pavement.

"Hon?"

Bill remembered to exhale as he recognized
Tara's voice on the cell phone. He'd nearly
jumped when the phone had trilled, almost
creaming a homeless man. "Yeah."

"Babe, Matthew's got an ear infection -- it's
driving him crazy. I called in a prescription
for some amoxicillin at the Walgreen's -- the
one near your office. If I'd known you weren't
there, I would've called you first."

"Had some papers to deliver," Bill grunted, then
remembered he didn't need to alibi himself with
Tara. At least he hadn't lied, not really.
Semper Stabilis.

"Can you pick it up, Honey, please? Matt's
really in pain."

"Sure thing, no problem," he said, more
cheerfully. "Tell the little guy to buck up --
cavalry's coming. Love you, Babe."

"Love you, too. Lasagna sound good to
celebrate?"

"Mm. Later."

Bill couldn't have given a rat's ass if Tara
were waiting for him at the door with a platter
of equine diarrhea. But the normalcy of his new
errand was reassuring, and his chest began to
loosen as he looked for a good turnaround.

The pharmacist at the Walgreen's had been
excruciatingly slow filling the script, and Bill
had stalked among the greeting cards, the
Russell Stovers, the insipid D.C. shot glasses
and blasphemously unpatriotic T-shirts until his
promised 10 minutes had elapsed. When the
pencil-necked pill-pusher had launched into some
droning monologue about drug interactions, Bill
had snatched the antibiotic from the counter and
made a beeline for the exit in mid-drone.

The street was lined with the usual cast of
losers and miscreants, costumed in doo rags and
clown pants and high-rent sneakers. A whiff of
hot dog from a wagon down the block normally
would've tempted Bill's resolve, but in his
current state, it raised his gorge. He
studiously ignored the heckling cap-and-tie
peddlers, and stepped off the curb.

"Yo, man!"

Bill spun, heart leaping. A middle-aged man in a
filthy Redskins cap and a stained, open tux
shirt held out a wavering palm.

"Yeah, my brother, you. You a soldierman, right?
You wanna help a fellow Marine. I was in the
Persian Gulf, caught me a case of the Agent
Orange."

Rather than correcting the derelict's breach of
branch and obvious fabrication (he was at least
a decade beyond serving in the first War on
Hussein), Bill turned and headed for his car
across the broad avenue.

"They gave it to me!" the man called
plaintively. "The space aliens gave it to me."

Bill's feet froze to the asphalt.

"Government, they know what they done to me!
Hell, brother, you got to know, too. They gonna
give you a scorching case of the Agent Mulder."

Bill's head ripped around. "Mulder?" he rasped.

"You be moulderin' in the grave, all right, them
space aliens get their hooks in you."

"Who are you working for?" Bill demanded.

"Useta work with the U.S. Postal Service, but
they found out I had the Agent Scully an'--"

Bill's fingers flexed at his side as he stared
at the disheveled assassin. "You leave her out
of this, you mother--"

"Naw, man, wasn't her. It was the supervisor. He
says I'm crazy, I'm rippin' off the TV Guides."
The man looked down the street. "Hey, brother,
you might wanna--"

Bill's muscular neck twisted, and his eyes
bulged right before the black Caddy ripped the
breath from his lungs with a sick organic thud.
His battered body ricocheted off a parked
Caravan, shattering what major bones the initial
impact hadn't, and William Scully's open eyes
fixed on the homeless man as his head lolled
lifelessly.

The Caddy squealed onto K Street as a streetful
of horrified onlookers stood affixed and
shocked. The homeless man kneeled next to the
broken soldier. He started when William's eyes
blinked once and blood burbled from his lips.

"Zeus..." Bill rattled.

"No, man -- Calvin, Calvin."

Bill whispered something else.

"Favor? What you want, man? Ain't got no money,
but if I can, I'll try."

The last sparks of electricity faded from
William Scully's aortal node, and his eyes
rolled back.

"Well, shit," the man in the Redskins cap
murmured.

**

Mulder folded his cell phone, glancing up at
Scully with a look of concern and confusion. Her
eyes widened.

"Nobody's at the house, and Bill's cell number's
no longer in operation," he drawled, the phone
hanging limply in his fingers.

Scully inhaled sharply. "God, Mulder. Do you
think they could have found out? What would they
do...?"

"Scully, calm down," her partner murmured,
grasping her shoulders and pulling her to him.
"Tara and Bill probably went out to celebrate
the big news, and you know how reliable the cell
phone companies are. Let's just drive out to the
house and check out the situation. OK?"

Scully clung to him silently, then pulled back
and nodded, her eyes filled with dread. "OK."

The phone sounded as Mulder was slipping it into
his pocket. "Muld --. Mrs. Scully? Hey, Mrs.
Scully, Maggie, tell me what's --. Oh, God.
God."

"What?" Scully cried out. "Mulder, WHAT?!"

Mulder looked anxiously at her. "Where?" he
asked her mother. "We'll be right there."

He ended the call and looked up, stricken, at
Scully. Her lips moved, but no words escaped.

"It's Bill," Mulder said tonelessly.

Scully's legs wavered. "Oh. Oh. Please."

Mulder stepped toward her.

"No, no, NO!" she shrieked, dropping to the
carpet.

**

"It was a hit-and-run driver, they said," Maggie
Scully said, worrying the shredded Kleenex in
her hands. Shocked, the red-eyed woman stared
somewhere between her daughter and Mulder,
toward the emergency ward monitor station.
"Upscale car, probably some senator or diplomat
not thinking about anything but tonight's
reception or party."

Mulder glanced at Scully, who closed her eyes
and squeezed her mother's hand.

Maggie sighed. "Your father always said they
drove like maniacs in D.C. Bill, your father, he
said they had too many crucial things on their
minds to worry about anybody's safety. They'll
probably never catch him, you know."

"Mom," Scully begged, eyes overflowing.
"Please."

"They were the ones with their heads in the
clouds, you know," Maggie said, turning to
Scully with clear eyes. "Both of them. Important
men, full of important ideas and honor and
courage and all that bullshit! Bullshit,
bullshit!" A nurse, arms full of flowers, turned
abruptly to regard the sudden burst of
obscenity.

"Mom," Scully whispered, pulling her to her
small form. Maggie collapsed against her, her
body racking with sobs. Mulder stood by
helplessly, hands dead at his side.

Maggie suddenly stiffened, and her head rose
from her daughter's shoulder. "Oh, God."

Mulder turned. A familiar figure approached from
the end of the corridor, leaning on a doctor in
blood-spotted scrubs as she numbly stumbled
forward.

The physician passed Tara Scully into Maggie's
waiting arms, and the widowed mother stared
ahead with dead eyes as she accepted her mother-
in-law's consolation...

Epilogue

Hopewell Cemetery
May 25, 2004
11:22 a.m.

"May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be
always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon
your face..."

The sun was indeed shining warm. It was a
gorgeous day, but the mound of lilies encircling
the casket emitted a strong perfume with that
warm sun, and the beautiful sunny day, along
with the grief surrounding the small plot where
Bill Scully, Jr. lay, made Mulder's stomach take
a sickening turn.

As the priest concluded his prayers with the
Irish Blessing, the group began to break up.
Mulder removed himself from the crowd, beneath a
nearby tree, so that those who truly deserved to
mourn Bill could embrace and speak softly to
those that they loved.

He peeled the trench coat from his arms,
sweating with the heat of the spring day. At
this remote location, he truly felt that he
didn't deserve anything Scully had given him --
that he belonged in the outskirts. That family
over there was a unit, and one that Bill had
fought hard to preserve. The moment he'd allowed
Mulder to enter into it, no matter how
reluctant, it seemed to accept another crack,
and he felt like the ice pick.

Maggie glanced his way, curly hair sticking to
her forehead beneath a black wide-brimmed hat.
Her eyes were watery with grief, but she held
him in her gaze, beckoning him for support. His
apprehensions instantly melted. He walked the
short distance to her and was drawn into her
arms.

"Fox, thank you for being here," she shuddered
out, clinging to his waist. Mulder felt the back
of his throat become hot, and pursed his lips to
keep the sobbing back, unwilling to allow her to
feel any bit of concern for him. She was the one
who needed comforting the most, not him.

She pulled back and wiped her eyes with a
mascara-streaked handkerchief. Tara came over to
them, children in tow who were cranky, hot and
unhappy. She too hugged him and tried her best
to keep a brave face for her mother and kids.
The strength of this family was amazing.

"We're going back to the house," Maggie said
without pretense. She squeezed his arm,
pointedly looked over to the gravesite where
Scully stood speaking to the priest, then walked
away with her daughter-in-law.

It was an open invitation, expected that he
follow. Also unspoken was that she expected him
to get her daughter over to the house safely,
that they were all meant to share this moment
together. He was a part of this unit now, and he
could feel the crack of sorrow becoming a
fissure. Now that he knew he was allowed to
care, the real pain was that of his own heart
breaking.

When Scully had finished speaking to the priest,
she walked over toward the casket one last time,
fingering a large lily petal, her eyes red, but
dry. Cautiously, he closed the gap between them,
placed his hand at the small of her back and
stood with her. She leaned into him then,
burying her face into his chest and finally
released all the pain that had been building up
all morning. His dress shirt became wet with her
tears, but he refused to notice. He smoothed
down her hair, holding her all that much closer,
accepting the sorrow she felt as his own.

Her sobbing subsided after a moment longer, and
she pushed her face gently away, but settled
herself closely against him so that he could
still rest his arm over her shoulders. Everyone
else had gone to their cars by now -- only the
low murmur of voices, caught from a distance
over the wind, lingered.

She shifted her arm slightly, so that she could
hold a stack of envelopes more securely against
her chest. Mulder had noticed that she was
designated to accept all the Mass cards for her
mother and Tara. There must have been at least
twenty of them. One, however, was at the top,
and this she pulled from the stack, crinkled
from the force with which she held it.

"This was the only one Mom opened. It's from
Charlie."

Mulder took it from her, removing the card from
the violently torn envelope. Inside the generic
Mass card was a telegram informing Maggie and
the rest of the family of Charlie's deep regret
at not being able to come to the funeral of his
brother. Apparently he was 'at sea' and unable
to acquire leave.

"Why does he even bother? What right does he
have!" Scully rasped out furiously, her mourning
disturbed by the harsh reality of her brother's
convenient absence.

Mulder rubbed her shoulder, attempting to calm
her, but felt the same rage bubbling up within
himself. She bowed her head to accept the
caress, breathing slowly to tamp down her anger.

"Mom's furious, of course," she said lightly.
"Practically crumpled the thing up herself, but
was gracious enough for appearances' sake to
just hand it to me."

"Wrong choice, I gather," he said, handing back
the mangled envelope.

"Yeah," she laughed out ironically. "If I had a
lighter it would have been ashes right about
now."

They stood staring at the gravesite, sun beating
down, birds twittering from the trees, flies and
bees investigating the newly arrived bunches of
pollen. Nature vibrated all around them -- life
continued. At length, Mulder took it upon
himself to direct Scully away.

"Come on, love," he pressed his hand gently
against her back, "they're waiting for us back
at the house."

Scully obediently followed his lead, so
conscience-stricken Mulder could feel it in her
hesitant gait.

"He's gone too far this time, Mulder. We can't
let Charlie get away with this."

Mulder stopped walking. "Scully, we don't know
for sure that it was Charlie. Bill's phone was
tapped. It could just as well have been Krycek.
It's his style. Whoever it was knew that Bill
was going to stop by the pharma--"

"Charlie, Krycek -- I don't care! I just don't
want to do this anymore, Mulder! I can't do this
anymore! I can't!"

The tears were flowing again. God, he'd never
seen her cry so much in their whole partnership
than she had in the last few days. She wasn't
crying outright this time, but just let the
tears run down unacknowledged. She stood still
as one of the tombstones in the line of graves
stretched out behind her. She was tired. She was
distraught. She was vulnerable, and all he
wanted to do was let her know that he was there
for her, and would always be there for her, but
words escaped him.

He reached out to wipe the moisture from her
cheeks, gently scrape the matted red hair away
from her temples. He drew her closer, bent down
to kiss her, nearly crushed her in his arms. She
pulled at his back, crushing him just as much in
return. Between them both, they could find
strength in a single unit, an outpouring of
emotion seething through them by osmosis.

They had always been each other's strength, but
weakness had finally taken a hold of them both,
reached up into their souls and yanked it all
out of them. There was always a time to fight
back, but as they pressed lips and bodies
together, exposed and vulnerable, wishing they
were already home, Mulder felt it. It was time
to give in.

They pulled apart just enough so that they could
breathe, but remained clinging to one another
for support. Scully lay her head upon Mulder's
chest, listening to the heavy breaths he took,
the steady heartbeat, feeling that her cheeks
were wet from his own tears as well as hers.

"Scully," he said in a thick voice.

She nodded, still leaning against him.

He inhaled deeply, stilling himself against what
he was about to say. "Maybe it's time to stop.
This is all too much for us. We have nothing to
lose by leaving, but everything to lose if we
keep on going."

She pulled away to look up at him. "What are you
saying?"

Mulder immediately shook his head, realizing her
distress, and caressed her cheek.

"We can't keep putting Maggie and Tara and the
kids in danger. My whole family is already gone.
We have to protect what remains of yours. They
mean too much to you, and... they mean too much
to me now, too."

Still unsure of where this conversation was
going, and certainly not of any strength to
begin another tirade of emotion, she waited for
him to finish.

"The Bureau," he finally blurted out to clarify,
noticing that she still wasn't getting it, and
berating himself for his clumsiness. "I think we
should leave the FBI. The X-files, everything.
It used to be my whole life, but what's in my
life now it so much more important. We need to
survive, and to protect everything else we hold
dear, I think it's what we have to do."

Scully stood silent. A thousand thoughts ping-
ponged inside her head. She exhaled an internal
sigh of relief that Mulder was not breaking off
their relationship in order to protect
themselves. Realizing now that wasn't at all
what he was suggesting, she distressed over the
idea that he was willing to give up his whole
quest, his life's work at the FBI for her. *Her*
life's work had become his, and he was asking
her to give it up! But it wasn't just for her;
it was for the both of them.

"What about the rest of the world? What about
the consortium, Krycek, Charlie, your mother's
journal . . ."

"They've been there for as long as I can
remember," he spat out. Then more gently, "I
don't think they'll be going anywhere for a
while. If we stop now, it'd only be for the
better. We don't know everything. Never will.
Not now, anyway. At least if we're out of the
way for a while, we'll be safe. The world will
be there tomorrow, and I'd be happier if we were
both still in it."

Scully hung her head low, studying the green
grass at her feet hiding her toes.

"Skinner?" she asked, still staring at the
ground.

"Skinner will understand."

She pinched her eyebrows close together, rubbed
her mouth with her thumb. After a long silent
moment watching the breeze tickle the blades of
grass around her shoes, she nodded.

She shuffled the envelopes and looked up at her
partner. A conglomerate of expressions melded
his face. What resulted was a mirror image of
her own: uncertainty, sorrow, but most of all
peace.

"What do we do now?"

"Now," he pulled her close again, but began
walking toward their car. "Now, we're going to
Tara's. After that, I want you to come home with
me. For good."

This time Scully stopped them in their tracks.

"Mulder?" her voice wavered.

"It won't be 'home' without you, Scully. Will
you come live with me?"

It didn't take her long to answer this time. "Of
course."

They strode through the cut grass purposefully
toward their car, hand in hand. When Mulder
started it up, and slowly navigated through the
twisted drives of the cemetery, he said, "So, I
guess you'll take care of all the paperwork for
your apartment in a few days, follow-up with
Skinner and all that?"

Scully laughed out loud at the thought of
conquering a stack of paperwork all by herself.
She held down her hair against the wind whipping
through the car window as they picked up speed
toward the exit and their new beginnings.

"Some things, Mulder... they never change."

The end . . . for now.

Join us next fall for Virtual Season 12!