Mulder willed himself to stop the ruminations, the wallowing in a perverse
sort of self pity. Of course Scully believed in him. He knew she didn't buy
into his theories. He didn't buy hers either. But there was respect, wasn't
there? Trust? Often. Love? Love....was that what it was in the final
analysis? Was that what made these last months so shattering? What made the
hurt worse, the betrayals more intensely felt? Maybe. Mulder settled back
into his couch, feet up on the coffee table, sighing deeply. The journal
called to him, a siren song in the mist of a rainy night...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 14, 1992

Blevins called me in today. They've decided to assign me a partner. Right.
More likely a spy. Keep tabs on Spooky, make sure he's not wasting the
taxpayers money with wild goose chases. That will be the official story, of
course. But that's not what they're really afraid of.

They're too afraid of Mattheson to have prevented me from taking on the X-
files project. He sings my praises to the subcommittee daily. Tells them
I'll be director some day, pointing to my pristine track record and uncanny
knack (his words, not mine) to cut through the bullshit and know what's really
going on, in a killer's mind or an elaborate anti-government consipracy. Both
of these being nominal concerns of the bureau. But maybe that has scared some
of those in our esteemed government, who have their own interests in keeping
the truth buried in these files. Whatever. I sometime's wonder what
Mattheson's agenda is. Is he, like me, a seeker of truth? Has he his own
nightmares buried, unresolved in the X-files? Or does he just understand the
rules better that some of his colleagues? Or worse. Whatever.

Profile of Dr. Dana Katherine Scully. Tough exterior. Stubborn, smart,
confrontational, strong. But for one small barely penetrable breech is
surrounded by a emotional fortress. My initial assessment. God help me, I
like her. She's a hell of a foil. Challenges my every word. I need that.
But I also have to remember, keep reminding myself, why she was sent to me.
She's part of *their* agenda. Her job is to destroy me. I have to keep that
front and center. I cannot trust her. Something tells me, though, that the
powers that be have misjudged Special Agent Dr. Scully. I sense in her a kind
of integrity, a deep committment to ethical standards. I can't just put my
finger on it. Maybe she can be swayed to the light side. Anyway, it's just
an impression.

I like the verbal sparring. I'd forgotten how alone and isolated I'd become
with the X-files project. She'd sharpened her epee before coming down to the
basement, tho. Not sure if she or I won that first match in the basement.
Actually, I think I jarred her a bit with the strange molecular structure of
the proteins taken from the affected kids in Bellfleur, Oregon. Don't know
what jarred her more: the proteins she couldn't identify, or the fact, that
despite my reputation, I actually presented hard evidence and used a
scientific methodolgy to find it. Thank the stars for that biochem minor at
Harvard. Seems everyone focuses on my graduate training at Oxford in
behavioral sciences and forgets that to be a good criminal psychologist you
need to have a fundamental understanding of the biochemical interactions,
hence the biochem minor.

She wants me to let her in. To open up to her. To be her partner. I can't
do that. And I think she understands that. I think that despite what they've
told her about me, she did her own research and determined that I wasn't
exactly the crackpot I've been made out to be. At least I hope so. No, Dr.
Scully, you'll have to work for my trust. I can't trust you now. I know why
you've come, and I know you write reports to Blevins on just about everything
I do and say. How is it therefore possible for me to trust you? To be your
partner. We work together. You with your agenda, and I with mine. Working
in parallel but not together, at cross purposes. Not the best basis for a
partnership, hmm???? Tomorrow we leave for Iowa.

March 22, 1992

Ah, the chink in the armor. I was right. There was a breech. And last night
I saw it. Probably for the last time. That's probably a good thing. Nothing
would crumble my own hardened defenses faster than a repeat of last night.
The setting, I'll have to admit was ideal. A killer of a thunderstorm. Power
outage. A new partner--new female partner--terrified of a reality askew she
wasn't prepared for. She can't say I didn't warn her, though. She came to my
room. I wasn't sure at first, what the hell was going on. I thought,
perhaps, it was part of the plan for a quick demise to my credibilty. The
easy way to get me out of their hair. Young, green, female agent, clothed in
only her bathrobe and underwear, casting herself into the all-too-waiting arms
of her slightly older, but-still-young, new partner. A partner with a
reputation already. Visions of OPR hearings flashed momentarily through my
mind, and I next epxected to be hauled off on harassment charges. The
thoughts, tho seeming an eternity at the time, lasted only a moment or two.
She was shaken. Shaking. Relief for her (and me) when the bumps on her back
were mosquito bites. But she was still shaking as she threw her arms around
me. The room took on a surreal quality. As my better self waged a battle
with my libido, I gently patted her shoulder, inviting her to sit down and
catch her breath.

She was ready. She needed to hear the truth, my truth, my history. I needed
to lay it on the line for her and she could make her choices. So, I told her.
It felt good to tell someone finally, who would, at least on the face of it,
listen without a derisive grin. So I talked. Told her all of it. Well, not
all of it, but enough. She listened, asked questions, insisting she wasn't a
part of any agenda, and that it was her intention to solve the case, nothing
more.

I feel I've never been closer to the truth as I am tonight. Lost time. God.
Lost time. Nine minutes. We both felt it. How could she not have? But she
denies it. She would have to. She needs to hang on to those last vestiges of
the world she perceived. As had I at the begining of this journey. She can't
explain the implant taken from Ray Soames, or the cases of Billy Miles, or any
of the other vicitms. But I can. And my report relfected that. But Scully
also turns in reports. I know that, in a way, she holds my future in her
hands. She can break me or not. I could play nice, not let her in at all,
let her see only the cool, clinical detachment I've so carefully cultivated.
The consumate professional I can present. Not tell her what I really think.
Play along, solving the cases on my own like I always have. Let her write
reports that say nothing, because she sees nothing. But of course, that's not
my style, is it? Honest Mulder. Too fucking honest, sometimes. And a part
of me wants to trust her--trust someone. I am so tired of the isolation, the
exile. But what if it costs me my job? My access? Then I'll never find her.
And I will have failed her again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder was pulled out of his nostaliac reverie by the shrieking of his cell
phone.

"Mulder."

"Hey, it's me." Her voice was tender, light. Tired.

"Everything ok, Scully?"

"Yeah. It's just this damn storm. My lights went out, and I need to finish
some reports. Can I induce you to by me a cappacino and help me finish?"

"Anytime, Scully. Starbucks on 4th? Half an hour?"

"Great." Click. Mulder grabbed his trenchcoat and headed into the night.

Mulder smiled inwardly.