Date: Sat, 1 Nov 1997
NEW: Fallen Cards (Part 1/4)

******************************
T h e X - F i l e s
Fallen Cards

For Twig, in Memoriam

by Euphrosyne <Euphrosy@netcom.ca>
Posted October 31, 1997

Classification: T (A, R)
Rated: R
Spoilers: mid forth season: up to and including MM but
before Geth

Summary: There is a murderer at large who kills only on
weekdays, Mulder and Scully each go through angst, Scully has
a cold, and M&S protect a potential victim--maybe.
None of this happens quite yet, however. Except for the cold.

I disclaim everything to do with this story.

All right, a longer disclaimer is at the end of this part, along
with a few ramblings and some fawning obsequience in the
general direction of my beta-readers.

Please remember that, brief or lengthy, feedback of any kind--
flattering, grudging, flaming--oh, okay, if you twist my arm I'll
accept long, complimentary, incoherent gushing, no really, it's
okay--is gratefully accepted. All comments, criticisms,
concerns, questions, suggestions, spelling advice, formatting
tips, and general thoughts, etc. can be sent to and will be
welcomed at euphrosy@netcom.ca or publicly (but cc. me a
copy and let me know where)--I'd love to know what you think.

***********************************
Fallen Cards
Prologue: Fugue
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)

Part 0 of 21

*******************************
Prologue: Fugue

"Late, late yestre'en I saw the new moon
Wi' the auld moon in her arm,
And I fear, I fear, my dear master,
That we will come to harm."

--Old English Ballad, "Sir Patrick Spens"
----------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, November 13, 1997
Upper West Side, NYC
7:24 a.m.

Edward Street was quietly busy in the bitter November
dawn. Despite the tang of winter in the air, every manner of
person rushed by, with the echoing click of high-heeled Italian
leather and the damp squelch of rotting leaves.

It was a hubbub that blended into a familiar, soothing
background as Kara walked quickly toward the train station,
checking the watch on her wrist. She had that meeting with the
City Council representative this morning, one of her firm's most
important clients, and couldn't believe she would be late. She
checked her watch again. Doing so helped not at all; she was
already late and could not control time. Yet the gesture, formed
of sheer habit, was comforting to her tense mind.

Approaching the station entrance, Kara paused, despite
the time. A man stood there stiffly: briefcase, umbrella, and
tasteful overcoat in hand, an intent expression on his face. A
grubby child clung to his hand as the crowd milled past.
Curious, she stopped; when he merely stood staring, she turned
back to continue on her hurried way. With a shock she realized
that a year ago she might have inquired if anything had been
wrong, maybe looked around to try and see what fascinated him,
or wondered about the incongruity of the tiny girl with him, but
now--today she hadn't the time or energy. Guess her brother
was right--she had changed from the simple country girl she
once had been.

Long after the rushing of office workers, students,
children and others had quieted down, long after Kara had
caught her train, countered the sly comments of her obnoxious
office-mate, and rushed in to her meeting three minutes after
eight, the small child slipped off the bench and tilted her head,
shaking her dirty curls to look up at the man slouching on the
bus stop bench. She tugged at his hand.

Tapping cigarette ash onto the pavement, the man
roused. Lifted his head, pushed back his hat, and turned
towards the child just before rising. And looking at the little
girl, he blinked.

Had anyone else been looking, they would have
noticed the most curious thing. Reflected in the man's grey eyes
was an image. An image of a young lady, tall and pretty, with
long fair hair and a hesitant smile. An image of Kara Jennifer
Matthews , youngest associate at Waters, Blake and Silverman.
The late Kara Matthews, who even at that moment, was being
pronounced dead at Mount Sinai General Hospital.

And the unblinking child, still staring him in the eyes,
smiled.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Manhattan, NYC
11:21 p.m.

She awoke with a faint scream on her lips and tears
wet on her face. Again. Almost every night, since she'd been a
child, since she could remember. She'd tried to avoid sleep, but
the day had been so exhausting--and why, oh why, couldn't she
remember his name?

She wished she could call someone. But the only one
she had counted as a friend had been Kara, and Kara would no
longer be there; never again.

She had met Kara at a party in law school, as unlikely
a place as that was to meet anyone. She had been in her last
year, tense and serious, and Kara had been a fun-loving first
year. It was strange that they had begun to speak, stranger still
that they had ended up spending the entire night in
conversation. Kara was bright and pretty and popular while
Kate was shy and reserved and, even in three years, had made
few friends. But somehow, Kara had seemed familiar, almost
disturbingly so, although that was, of course, impossible; for
Kara was a wealthy and brilliant scholarship student from
upstate Vermont, and Kate had lived her whole life in the city of
New York.

But their friendship, amazingly enough, had continued:
past Kate's graduation, past Kate's gruelling year of Bar
Admission exams, past Kara's subsequent graduation and call to
the Bar. Continued to the present day, until Kate had gone,
reluctantly, fearfully, into work that morning.

A quick morning phone call, and a friendship that
continued no longer.

Mark had been the one to call her. Mark was one of
the most well-liked assistant D.A's there, charismatic and
ambitious, with clean-cut good looks and an easy charm. Mark
was also one of Kate's few friends at the office.

An appropriate choice, moreso as Kara had been his
favorite--and only--kid sister, four years younger.

Despite the fight the siblings had had, only three days
ago.

It had been quiet at the office, everyone treating Kate
with deference, solicitude. They all thought Kate a trifle
strange--but everyone had liked Kara. And Kate had been Kara's
friend.

Apartments a twenty minute walk apart, phone calls
every night.

Similarities too strong to ignore.

Kate had left the office before noon, and no one had
uttered a word. The funeral was tomorrow.

In a world where trust is a myth built on illusion and
deceit, in a profession where the shallow inspiration of trust is a
valued skill and persuasive duplicity is considered high art,
integrity and honesty are rarely found. Kate had found those in
the one girl she counted as friend in her school days, the only
person she had ever felt able to label thus. In a life spent behind
masks, it was comforting to let the mask slip, even if only a very
little. Relaxing, refreshing, and so longed for. But always
cautiously, never completely. Even then.

She was so grateful that none of them could see from
where she came. Even Kara had not known--although Kara she
had trusted, to the extent that Kate trusted anyone. It was none
of their business--her private mystery, a mystery none could see.
And anyway there was nothing to be done, no person of whom
she was certain enough to tell. In any case, she knew better than
to dwell on a past that was filled with nothing but pain.

In darker moments, she acknowledged that truth was
she could not tell what she herself did not know. And she tried
never to want what she could not have.

Regardless, she had turned what life she had into a
modest success, bit by bit. She had transformed herself from a
withdrawn and seemingly sullen child, a New York street kid
and a child without a past, prey to theft and prostitution, into
something resembling that of a well-adjusted person. Dark
brown hair and smoky blue eyes; a tall, slim figure that
gracefully carried off the suits she was required to wear in her
chosen profession. She was known to be intelligent and
articulate, bright and attractive.

So, carefully, young Kate developed the socially adept
facade required of the legal profession. Changed her name
slightly from what she had been given, enough to erase the
remaining shards of the child. Now Katherine Sarah Jacobs. A
bright young star at the D.A.'s office. Not yet twenty-nine, she
was good at what she did--though she admitted having a
naturally eidetic memory helped in her field. She was even
organized now--after a fashion, although her co-workers still
considered her desk the office joke. She was going places, they
all said.

The fact that she remained determinedly single and a
bit of a loner could easily be attributed to the demands of her
career, not the hidden need to have time alone, time in which
she didn't need to constantly force a smile. And anyway, she
told herself, there were a lot of people that jealously guarded
their privacy; she was just another one of those people.

The only thing that she couldn't seem to get rid of was
the damned nightmare. Almost anything triggered it--tension,
happiness, fear--and of course, with Kara's death, she had
expected it that night. The only reason she went to bed early
was to ease her grief, and she knew that this night, no matter
what she did it had been unavoidable. And although it was the
same every night, it seemed worse, somehow, tonight. Maybe
because she was already distressed, grieving for a friend who
had died so young. Wondering why Kara had died, with no
cause of death, nothing.

No answers.

No one to call to ease this lingering unease.

Just circles in circles; lines on a page. Mysteries and
patterns. Another to add to the pile, and it was too late and she
was too confused to worry about it tonight. Which only brought
her back to the dream. A memory of long ago, a forgotten
consciousness that emerged only at night, in the land of myth
and shadow. A memory that arose in the one place where she
could not prevent it.

In her dreams, she lived in another time. Where she
was young and she was happy. Before she had learnt of
harshness, when she still believed in light and rainbows. When
she yet believed that innocence and beauty were any kind of
protection in the world. A time when she had loved, and had
faith in, fairy tales.

In this suspended land, betwixt sleep and wake, her
life was very different. There, she watched herself as a shy but
laughing child, with a mother who was bright and beautiful and
held her close and an older brother who was tall and strong and
who knew everything there was to know. She had a father also,
although she did not remember him much; he had a rare, kind
smile and a gentle voice. They had known about her, the father
and mother, but not the boy; known what none else did, and
loving her despite this had told her never to reveal her secret to
another.

In these dreams, she barely recognized herself. She
dreamt wistfully; this side of pain, as she tried not to remember,
because it hurt too much to know what she had been, and what
she had become. The life she could have known, could have
lived. Nonetheless, she desperately wished to wake at this
point, for waking here meant she avoided what came after.

But usually she could not. And then the dream
blurred, briefly, only to continue. A kind-eyed woman, different
in manner than the first. But still the same mother, although
now with pale brown hair and a strained, sad half-smile. A man,
tall and somewhat frightening, larger than life, who had picked
up her child-self and tossed her, wished her a happy eighth
birthday and called her Sammy Jo. He had a hearty laugh, but it
sounded artificial, forced. She wanted to like him, and knew
she did not. The same family, a little older.

By this time she was afraid. There was something not
quite right--she was unsure of what, exactly--about the joviality
of the man, and something disturbing about the faded quality of
the mother. There was, in fact, something faintly sinister about
this whole family portrait in her dreams, something she could
not quite tell, something she could not quite recall. Almost as if
even her dreaming mind liked the perfect myth, clung to it, and
dared not disturb it.

Then the dream sharpened, focused. On her brother,
always, and the disquieting parents faded away. Here the
feeling became bittersweet, sorrowing yet glad. The only
constant in her dream.

Her very own brother, serious and sweet, irritating and
wonderful in the way that only barely tolerating older siblings
can be. She was stronger than him, though, not physically but
otherwise----practical and impulsive, a tomboy waiting to
happen. Both the child-self and the dream-self understood this,
that this had always been so, despite the age difference. He had
been the sensitive one, the one who was quiet and hid the hurt
he felt, the one who always ended up taking the blame for
everything that had been either her fault or his, no matter what
she did. But he had not known, and she had never felt able to
tell him. And now, within her dream, she feared for him. This
was the brother she'd abandoned even though he was frightened
and needed her. But she could not protect him. And now, now
he lived only in dreams, in her nightmares.

Because by now the dream had changed and they--she
and her brother--were fighting. He was calling her a cheater,
and she was returning the favour. But he had done the cheating.
She had known he had done it though. He thought he was sooo
clever, and hated to lose to his younger sibling. But she knew,
had always known. Inescapable knowledge: this was her gift,
and her curse.

There was so much anger, though--and her dream self
lamented and silently chastised the other for it--and then . . . and
then she was being taken away. For some reason, the man in the
dream was sending her away, and although he was not there,
somehow she knew it--he was calling, sorrowing--but she could
not quite trust the sorrow. The brown-haired lady was letting
her go, her misery palpable, tangible; born of weakness but
somehow more real . . .

And above all, sharp regret. She had not wanted to
leave her brother alone. She loved him--the only one who truly
did in this dream world--and knew he loved her. Knew with a
certainty beyond any other. Although things seemed to happen
quickly , as she went she had time to think, and to wonder. To
wonder, angrily, why; why didn't he stop her from going? For
she did not doubt that he could: he was her older brother and
could do anything. He knew she really didn't mean any of those
things she said, didn't he? And after all, he had been the one
who had cheated, not she.

But then, in her dream, he turned towards her, and his
hazel eyes were almost black with fear. In that instant, she
tasted bitter remorse at having doubted him, however briefly.
Then he called her name. But she couldn't hear him properly,
and she wasn't sure if he was calling her, Kate, or her dream
alter-ego. And crying for forgiveness, desperately wanting to
reassure, to explain, because she did not want to leave him by
himself, did not want to go, did not want her last words to him
to have been provoked by rage--I'm sorry, so sorry--she took a
breath to call his name . . .

And that was when she always woke up. For almost
17 years, she had woken to a silent room with fleeting fragments
of a dream dissolving from her frantic mind, and a wordless cry
half-formed on her lips. For almost 17 years, and many more
months, she had tried to remember. To remember his name. Or
at least recall her own, although for some reason her own
seemed less important. It didn't matter.

Because in all those nearly 17 years, she never, never
could.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
End of Prologue.
__________________________________________________
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:
~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:
Well, I'm caving to popular pressure and leaving my hideously
long author note to the very end of the story. This is the short
version. Really. And see? It's even at the end of this part.

Just wait 'till you see the piles of stuff at the real end.

I've had this story kicking around for almost a year now; my
knuckles are knocking and my fingers are getting hot and cold
flashes as I type this. This is the only complete story with a plot
I've ever written before, even in private. It's rated a conservative
R, for some profanity and disturbing scenes and images.
Spoilers? Nothing past Leonard Betts or maybe Memento Mori
I don't think. Certainly the last couple of fourth season
episodes never happened in this universe.

All right, if you really require a disclaimer: I confirm that I have
no rights in property or otherwise to any of the recognizable
characters contained herein and that Mulder, Scully, et. al. all
belong to someone else, most probably Chris Carter and 10-13
productions. I am not deriving and do not plan to derive any
tangible profit from them whatsoever (yeah, I wish!). However,
this story, such as it is, does belong only and solely to me, and
should not be reproduced either in whole or in part without my
express permission (just so that I can be amazed that you would
actually want to reproduce any part of this part!). In addition,
any characters I have made up--including Mark, the incidentals,
etc., are exclusively mine and mine alone (ha!). Lastly, although
I have named real cities, most location details are likely
inaccurate, and for this I apologize. This disclaimer constitutes
good and fair notice and applies to each and every part of this
story. If for any reason you do want to copy this story or
borrow any of the characters, e-mail me first and ask.

Alternatively, if this disclaimer does not please you,
you may instead read any other general disclaimer
to any of the other stories and insert it here as you
like.

Thanks go to a whole slough of people, and I'm pulling a
Jennifer Capriati--you'll be glad to know I'm leaving out the
hordes I elliptically whined at and thanking only, for the first
draft I wrote months ago: Jeannie, of BRC fame, who edited
and held my hand through the first chapters to the writing of the
bulk of the first draft, Megan R. for her prompt comments that
kept me going, Michelle C., for her careful critique, and Melissa
R. for her comments on the opening.

Special thanks to Hindy who asked to read the draft months
later, did a thorough edit for me, let me use her as a sounding
board, and really saved this from an eternity on my harddrive.

Thanks also go to Becky, beta-reader to the stars, for the pretty
patterns--and all her attempts at salvaging and trying to talk
sense into me. But the evil are not so easily won ...

Finally, thanks to Deirdre, Natalie, and Char, who told me at
various points not to delete it. Also to those kind souls who
sent me feedback as I posted the first half--you know who you
are.

If I asked y'all not to feel obliged to comment, I'd be sincere, but
at the same time I'll sit here and cry large salty tears if you don't.
Please, please, rip this apart, tell me I have terrible grammar,
point out that I cannot format, rave about my inability to
punctuate, tell me my plot's incoherent, simply tell me you read
it at all, whatever... critical comments are wonderbar, but any
comments are good comments. Unless they're flames. In which
case, they're still comments and thereby good, but on a relative
scale they're fairly low in the goodness factor.

I have greatly enjoyed the opportunity to write and post, and
thank anyone about to read this. The process has given me
untold pleasure in the joy of creat ... okay, *fine*. I did it for
the feedback. Yeah, yeah, all I want is feedback. I'm a pathetic,
lonely soul with no mail in my box. I grovel well, though.

Seriously, if you enjoy this story, please write me. If you hate
this story, please write me. If you couldn't care less about this
story, well, you can still write me. If you haven't read the story
but want to know how to cook spagetti, you can still write me--
I'm really not so picky.

I promise not to whine or beg anymore. Well, not much,
anyway.

I'm still allowed to hint gently, right?

Thanks for reading.
__________________________________________________

******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 1: Edge of Belief
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously disclaimed)

**Please note--although this is chapter 1, there is also a
prologue contained in Part 0 that, like all prologues, goes
before this.**

Any and all comments--positive, negative, or otherwise--
received with much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter I--Edge of Belief

I had a dream that love would never die,
I dreamed that God would be forgiving--
But I was young and unafraid,
And dreams were made and used and wasted . . .

--Fantine, "I Dreamed A Dream"
Les Miserables (The Musical)
__________________________________________________

Friday, November 14, 1997
Alexandria, VA
3:02 a.m.

It was a quiet night, a night when even the stars shone
with a hushed magnitude. The pale light of the waxing moon
seemed brash as it spilled over dusty floorboards and paper-
covered tables. And in the starkly furnished bedroom, a figure
tossed restlessly on the plain iron-frame bed.

Mulder dreamt. He was crossing a bridge, a rope
bridge in a lightning storm. The wooden boards were wet and
rotting, and had no more strength left than would damp
cardboard. The river below was swollen; wild, white and
writhing below him. He knew better than to try to cross, but
Scully was on the other side of the bridge, and calling to him.
He did not know why, but with dream-logic, he knew he must
get to her.

Had to get to her. Needed to get to her. So he began
to cross.

Then a board broke, and another. He was falling, and
as he fell, he heard her laugh, free and gleeful.

Only to find himself standing, dry and dressed, in a
room. A dark room, with one window. The sun shone behind
the window, but a dark shade was pulled over it, leaving only a
faint gleam of light at its outline for illumination. A figure
stood before him, face turned slightly away from him, staring at
the window shade. Samantha. He could not see her, could
barely make out her profile in the darkness, but he knew. He
would know her anywhere.

He also knew, had always known, that soon she would
look at him and come to him and then everything would be all
right. It was the stuff of a thousand fantasies; the faith that gave
meaning to all he did. If she would just look at him.

"Samantha," he said, "Samantha." Her face turned
toward him. Her eyes were closed. Suddenly, frighteningly, her
eyes flew open. But these were not the eyes of the child he
remembered, the girl who had followed him anywhere, the sister
who had adored her older brother. These eyes were dark and
cold and blazed with an unearthly light.

And then the figure, who was his sister and not his
sister, spoke.

"I do not know you." Her words were razors of ice and
splinters of steel, inhuman and indifferent.

*I do not know you*, she said, and his world shattered.
Because he knew with every certainty that this person had once
been Samantha, and if she would not acknowledge him, all was
naught. But she was one of them now, he realized,
understanding this truth, mind protesting, even before she began
to change. But he could not refuse to believe as she kept
changing, and changing. And as she mutated further from the
sister he knew into a creature he could no longer even recognize,
he began to scream mindlessly at the horror, the hideousness of
the creature that was once his sister, that was still his sister,
even as his heart more silently keened its terrible loss . . .

And then he woke. Woke to the sound of his own
scream echoing in the still, lonely room. Woke covered in
sweat, with the touch of a single tear cold on his cheek.

Awake, he could not stop shaking, as his mind
replayed, over and over, the unreal terror he had just witnessed.
Your fault, his mind screamed, for thinking you could sleep, in
a bed, all the night through. Your fault, his heart whispered,
that she was taken, and so you pay penance. Your fault, his
soul cried, because you have failed all these years. So he sat up,
and drew his knees tight against his body, wrapping his arms
around them and stayed like that, shivering, until the birds
began to sing outside his window in the thin, pale grey of dawn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Annapolis, MD
6:54 a.m.

Scully woke that morning feeling less than wonderful.

In general, she hated getting up in the morning. While
she loved actually being awake early in the day, a rare
occurrence for her, mornings and she normally had an
independently exclusive relationship. She hit her snooze button
until the last possible minute, rolled out of bed and into the
shower, dressed to hide the fact that she was practically
sleepwalking, and left her apartment, looking polished and
feeling hazy. It usually took her over an hour before she felt up
to rational thought. It was one of the more irritating things
about Mulder, really, that he always was so alert in the
mornings--even more, that he expected her to be so.

But this morning she actually felt slightly unwell--no
doubt the onset of a truly annoying cold, her mind muttered.
She hadn't, in fact, been feeling well for the last couple of
weeks--horrible nightmares, waking up constantly throughout
the night, and mornings where she felt a curious assortment of
aches and pains. She'd been eating lightly as well; her stomach
had been in full revolt. While she'd been healthy for the last
several months--the frequency of the nosebleeds hadn't
increased, which could only be a good sign--if this kept up she
promised herself she'd go see a doctor. The stomach pain,
although mild, really should not be ignored if it persisted, even
though she was sure it was merely stress and the latest virus.

She did not acknowledge the fact that it had been fairly
bad all week, and she hadn't been able to stay at work past early
evening for the past few days. She'd been putting off seeing a
doctor for several days now, telling anyone who asked--
including Mulder and her mother, when she cancelled on
Sunday dinner two weeks ago--that it was the 'flu and would
soon pass.

But she had a self-imposed rule that she never stayed
home from work, unless going was practically impossible; and
even though today was worse, it still didn't qualify in that
category. She hated the feeling of a wasted day that should have
been better spent, hated the feeling the following day when she
felt as if everyone had moved slightly ahead of her, leaving her
just a few steps behind and unable to quite catch up.

Besides, she didn't think she could face the look on
Mulder's face if she stayed home for a simple cold--either smug
or concerned, or God help her--both, she would probably end up
hitting him no matter what he did. Undoubtedly, he would beat
her to the office this morning, and truth be told, she was too far
behind not to go in today. So to maintain a good working
relationship with her annoying partner, it was imperative she go
in today.

Armed with this slightly obscure logic, Dana looked
longingly at her rumpled bed before she left. The slight
weakness of her limbs having thrown off her finely tuned
morning schedule, she hadn't had time to make it and the
temptation to crawl back in was great. Tugging at her skirt, she
dropped the bottle of aspirin into her briefcase. Just in case.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
3rd Floor
9:47 a.m.

"Hey, Scully, when did you get here? I've been looking
all over for you. D'you have a minute? I want you to look at
this."

"I have no time this morning, Mulder. Forster's been
wanting this autopsy report for two weeks now and I have to
finish it by noon, along with 3 weeks of expense reports that I've
been promising Holly so she can process it for Skinner for this
quarter's budget. And my expenses were really high with this
last case, and if I don't finish it for this report it won't get filed
till next quarter, which means that they'll make a fuss about the
entire thing. So unless it's crucial, can you wait till the
afternoon?"

Mulder had breezed into her office, sans jacket, with a
load of heavy files and the expression of a child at a midway
fair. Scully, on the other hand, had not looked up once from her
notebook, calculator, and laptop precariously perched on the
assorted pile of files, papers, and books concealing her desktop.
Her voice was calm, but the overall impression was one of
controlled frenzy, marked by the quick ponytail she had pulled
her normally coiffed hair into. It was a blessing that he had not
disturbed her flurry of reports and autopsies yesterday; was one
more morning too much to ask?

"Really Scully, this is fascinating. Here, just . . . " He
paused to dump the stack of files onto her desk--right over her
notes, and with a thud just hard enough to displace the careful
balance of her laptop--forcing her to maneuver wildly to prevent
it from crashing unceremoniously to the ground. Danger
averted, she turned her attention to its cause. For his part, that
cause seemed rather oblivious to the havoc he had created, still
standing and continuing his sentence without interruption.

Having rescued her laptop, Scully focused her efforts
on glaring at Mulder, who was flipping through the messiest file
she had ever seen--before she joined the X-files.

" . . let me show you some of the photographs in the
file. It's amazing. Appears there have been sightings of a large
object in a corn field in Idaho. There have been several
witnesses, and they say that the lights are hovering. Several of
the reports include statements from people who say they've
experienced episodes of missing time, and the guys--Frohike's
really excited about this by the way, almost as excited as when I
gave him your numb . . .", the file in his hand tilted a bit, he
almost lost a paper, reorganized, "I mean, the guys are collecting
more data as we speak. One of the witnesses included a member
of NICAP, who made sure to take these pictures--yeah, well,
they're not all that clear . . . " He found the photos, looked up,
noticed her frosty expression, hesitated. "What?"

She was silent, merely looking at him.

She watched him clue in. "Guess now's not a good
time. I'll come back later. Sorry, Scully." Chagrined, gathering
up his stuff, he left her office. When he was gone, Scully let her
lips curl into a smile, and shook her head once. Despite
everything, she could always rely on Mulder. He really was
incorrigible.

She bent her head back down to her work.

Outside, Mulder walked back to his office, biting the
corner of his lip, brow creased with worry.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
11:35 a.m.
Office of Asst. Director W. S. Skinner

"Good afternoon, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, thank
you for coming on such short notice. I trust you both have taken
time to review the file?"

"Yes, sir, may I ask why this file has such priority?"

"It was requested by some members of Congress
because of the frequency of the deaths--eleven deaths in just
two weeks. They're calling them the All Saint's Murders . . . the
first murder having occurred on Halloween, just after midnight
November 1, and since every one of the victims has been, as
you've seen, involved in charity work of some kind. Given the
prominent nature of the victims--at least two were close relatives
or friends to the requesting members--it is thought to be a matter
of some concern."

"But sir, I don't . . .."

"Agent Mulder, Senator Matheson personally
requested that you take this file." Skinner's voice softened a
fraction. "The latest victim, Kara Matthews, was his niece."

"I see. Will that be all sir?" Scully's voice, steady and
cool.

"Yes--please close the door on your way out."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
4:56 p.m.
Basement

Mulder looked down at the file, but he wasn't really
concentrating. He had gone upstairs to check something over
with Scully, but had found her office empty, her things gone.
Odd, and disquieting. She had arrived late for the meeting,
done her work in a rush, and left far too early. Granted, it was
Friday, but Scully was not the type to cut out early--even before
a weekend.

She'd been cutting out early all week.

Something was wrong. He knew it. Maybe he should
call, although she was probably fine. And she'd snap if he
called to check up on her again. He'd already called about a half
hour ago, before deciding to go up in person just now. But she
was gone.

If he tried calling again, could he relate his call to
another small point in the case? Surely he could, and kill two
birds . . . and disturb what little weekend she had.

He glanced back at the last lab report in the file, and it
blurred before him. He looked at the ceiling, back at his desk,
and over to the wall, covered in articles and photographs. And
his poster.

He contemplated it for a minute. He was no longer so
sure it held true.

Sighing, he started to pack his stuff into his briefcase
as well. He'd finish reviewing this at home. He couldn't
concentrate here, anyway. He grabbed the case, and grabbed his
jacket, and overbalanced, falling against the wall. Damn. He'd
ripped his poster. Not badly, but a little. Oh, well, he'd fix it
later. He turned and left the office as a corner of the poster
floated slowly to the floor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, November 15, 1997
3:35 p.m.
J. Edgar Hoover Building.
Office of Asst. Director Walter S. Skinner

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully."

"Sir."

"Thank-you for coming on such short notice this
afternoon. I apologize for the confusion. I'm reassigning the All
Saint's File."

"But sir, reports have just come in of another two . . ."

"Because of the frequency of deaths, there had been
some concern as to risk towards other government officials and
employees. However, that worry has since been put to rest, and
the priority of this file has been lowered. I am sorry for the
inconvenience, but I will want the file returned to be reassigned
later. You can return the file to me at your convenience as long
as it is here by the end of the week. But Mulder," and here
Skinner paused to look at directly at the agent, "you are behind
in several of your assignments. Therefore I am not immediately
reassigning you to a case--so you may feel free to work on
whatever you think needs to be done for the remainder of the
month. Dismissed."

As they left, impassively surprised, Skinner turned to
open his window a crack, despite the chill. He shivered slightly,
but his office needed to be aired. He'd always hated the smell of
cigarettes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
3:52 p.m.

"So, what do you think that was all about? I thought
you were caught up with all your paperwork, Mulder." She
gazed at him piercingly.

"Hey, don't look at me like that! I *am* finished,
Scully. I'm wounded you'd doubt me." He looked at her with
the tragic expression of someone cut to the quick. She snorted.
"Although, maybe," he suggested wickedly, "*you're* the one
not finished?"

She didn't dignify that with an answer.

"So, Scully, what *do* you think it means? It's almost
like he's telling us to do whatever we want . . ."

"Skinner giving us carte blanche; will wonders never
cease." She grinned, his mood infectious.

"Stop it, Scully, you're giving me ideas." A playful
leer, the requisite look. "You know what I think?" He ignored
her soft groan. "I think he wants us to investigate this case.
He's practically given us his blessing."

"Mulder . . . honestly. I haven't had time to look at the
file properly, and can't make sense of it. It's tragic, but people
die, and sometimes--sometimes it's uncertain as to why." She
sighed. "It's been reassigned, Mulder; just let it go." God, she
was tired.

"I don't buy it, Scully. Thirteen people--oh, we got
another two reports in, late yesterday and this morning--all share
the same unexplained manner of death. Look." They were back
in the basement; he strode in quickly and sat down, not even
glancing behind to see if she followed.

He spread the file out on the desk, continued. "The
first was in Madison. A quiet high school teacher. Then
Chicago. Dr. Colleen Sommers, a paediatrician. The librarian
in Detroit. The engineer who had just began his fifth year
working for the City of Akron. A fourteen-year old boy in
Cleveland who wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. A nurse
in Buffalo. Kenneth Jones, an accountant employed by the
State of New York found mysteriously dead in his downtown
Rochester apartment. Mr. Kevin Thatcher, college professor
and resident of Albany. Taught environmental studies. Dr.
Karen Steinberg, orthodontist with a thriving practice in Boston.
Christopher Wells, a graduate student in immunology, down
from Princeton, visiting family in Providence. Senator
Matheson's niece in Manhattan, a children's book editor who
died Friday afternoon in Queens in a similar way and after lunch
I got an e-mail from the guys that a second-grader named
Caroline was reported dead on Long Island early this morning."
He looked up from the folder. "There you go. Scully? You
feeling okay?"

She nodded. He looked at her sharply for a moment,
chose not to comment on the dark circles under her eyes that
even make-up could not conceal. "Not much of a pattern, it
seems except for the nature of the victims--all young, healthy,
successful. Even the kids were all A students. All the adults
were professionals, worked in the service sector, all lived in
major cities, most of them in the east. Most had some
connection to the government, directly or indirectly. All the
adults volunteered, or contributed generously to charity. Even
the little girl had just taken part in a charity play with her
Brownie troop. Cause of death inexplicable in each case,
except."

"Except?"

"Except, Scully, for a strange mark on the collarbone
of each victim, rather like a birthmark that appears a good hour
post mortem. Medical personnel are baffled." He smirked at
her, but she didn't say anything. "Scully?"

"Yeah, Mulder, just drifting a little. Sorry--I did get
all that."

"And there have been no reports of death on Sunday,
although, as far as I know, Thanatos doesn't usually take a day
of rest." No response. He sighed. "Anyway, I've been doing a
little digging. Look at this. A lawyer in Los Angeles died under
exactly the same circumstances. As did a medical researcher in
Sacramento, a politician in Austin, and a newspaper reporter in
Salt Lake City."

"Well, why aren't any of those in the file?"

"Well, that's because those murders occurred in the
first week of November, 1988. 10 years ago, Scully. 10 years
ago."

She didn't even want to think about how long he'd been
here last night. "How can you be sure, Mulder, that they're
related? I'm pretty sure that there's no recording of anything
unusual anywhere in the old file."

"Yes, but all of these reports note the birthmark. And
in every case, it's exactly the same, a large red apple-shaped
splotch on the left side below the collarbone."

"Apple-shaped?"

"That's what it looks like . . . 'and the fruit of that
forbidden tree' . . .". He grinned.

"'Whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and
all our woe'. I took English in undergrad too, Mulder. So, have
you reached a conclusion yet? Some way to make this into a
report-editing nightmare?"

"Not yet." He smirked unrepentantly, then sobered.
"But last night I had a phone call. Someone who warned me I
would get this case and that I should refuse to take it. But I've
never been that obliging, Scully." A wicked grin now, with an
almost undetectable trace of concern coupled with anxiety.
Undetectable, certainly, for anyone that knew him less well than
his present audience.

"Well, Mulder, book us tickets. I guess we fly out to
Chicago or something on Monday?" She tried not to sound
hopeful.

"Long Island, Scully--I think that we should work
backwards, from where the clues are freshest. No point in going
today--I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight." His voice
was unusually gentle.

"Fine, Mulder, whatever you want. I'll be upstairs if
you need me."

After all, it was only Saturday.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, November 16, 1997
Annapolis, MD
7:38 a.m.

Scully sat bolt upright. Rather than waking, as usual,
just a few moments before her alarm went off for the morning,
she had slept in. While her hatred of morning was not a secret,
this was getting silly. She never slept in. The past few days--
well, weeks, had been different. Besides the occasional pain,
she'd been feeling unusually disturbed in the mornings, more
than just your too-little-sleep, too-much-to-do morning anxiety.
To top it all off, she'd been waking not just tired, but exhausted,
as if her nights had actually depleted rather than refreshed her.

Silly, really. Probably she was just a little depressed
or stressed or something. She'd been thinking a lot about
Missy, lately, and about her father. And about the track her life
had taken. She'd been pouring so much into work--into the
project that a few years ago had seemed to be a bit of a frivolous
assignment, one she'd been hoping would be short-term. She
almost had to laugh at herself back then: ambitious, far younger
than she was now, dreaming of stellar recommendations and a
quick reassignment to something more career-enhancing. Never
thinking about the work itself, not really. Not what she was
doing, and what it meant to be doing it. Not like she did now,
every day.

But she also resented what her life had become. When
had she become the X-files agent, the partner who would leave
to go across country on a fine Sunday morning without a second
thought? Before, she had been a woman who enjoyed quiet
lunches with her colleagues, had loved going to the theatre or
reading a good book, had made sure she went home for dinner
with her mother every other week.

No longer. Now work consumed most of her life, and
mundane chores the rest. When she was not working, she was
content to simply stay at home, doing little or nothing. Sure,
she still went out for lunch or dinner every so often, and tried to
see her mother when she could, but now even those occasions
were few and far between.

She did not know when she had begun to put so much
time into work. She could lie to herself and say that was the
nature of the 'Files, and that would be true, to an extent, but not
wholly. She could say that Mulder was an extremely demanding
partner, and that too would be true, to an extent. But in the end,
it had been her choice. She let Mulder demand things of her,
she let work dominate her life, and she gave up the dinners and
the theatre tickets. She was not sure why. Escape perhaps; at
first because of her father, and later with Missy . . . throw in a
small part revenge.

And then, of course, there was Mulder: who could
really refuse him anything? She smiled, and then sighed. Too
many could. Too often, too many did.

Whether or not he deserved it.

In the end, though, it was, always had been, her own
choice. She just wasn't sure that it wasn't time to change her
mind a little. She really was getting tired of not having a life, of
not having simplicity. Warmth and friendship. Maybe
something more. She missed that--for all the fact that really,
even when on those rare occasions when she did go out for
lunch these days with any of her old acquaintances, all she
could think of was the latest case, the piles of paperwork,
laundry she'd rather be doing, what Mulder would think and say
about her inane luncheon companion . . . she really needed a
life.

But that did not solve the real problem, she thought,
steeling herself as she rolled out of bed and walked softly to the
bathroom. I really am unusually tired. Maybe I should go see
someone. If it gets any worse, she vowed to her rational mind, I
will.

In the other half of her mind she knew she wouldn't,
although it *had* been getting steadily worse. As it was, she
loathed the monthly monitoring appointments she was still
compelled to make. And because, in her heart, she knew there
was no easy, medically treatable problem attributable to her
current symptoms.

Besides, Dana Scully, B.Sc.(Hons.), Ph.D., MD.,
Special Agent with the FBI, had always hated going to the
doctor.

She looked at her watch. Man, she was sluggish this
morning. Didn't help that every one of her muscles, for no
reason she could fathom, screamed protest. There was no help
for it though--she was going to be very, very late. Maybe she
could ask Mulder to pick up some coffee as a delaying tactic
before he came by to pick her up--she hated snide comments
about women and morning preparation.

She looked at her hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror,
and sighed. Makeup would be very necessary this morning,
despite the time. Couldn't go to New York looking like a
wreck. And it definitely wouldn't do to let Mulder see her like
this.

Even in the most secret recesses of her mind, she
would not acknowledge the cause of her restless nights, nor the
disturbing images that lingered behind burning eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 18, 1997
11:26 a.m.
Long Island, NYC

With luck, she'd be home in a couple of hours. The
investigation into a case they weren't even supposed to be
working on had led exactly nowhere, and now another little girl
had disappeared from the same class that Caroline had been in.
Just this morning--while they were here. Mulder had taken that
*real* well. And there was no trace of the Davidson's youngest
daughter, Anais. When they had arrived, they'd been told Anais,
Caroline Davidson's younger sister, had been missing for over
three weeks . . . her mother had tucked her in for the night and
in the morning the child was gone. And now Caroline was dead
as well.

The parents had been devastated at the loss of both
their children: the mother had had a nervous breakdown, and
the father, a speechwriter for a local Congressional candidate,
had been unresponsive and uninformative when Scully spoke
with him, although tears had glinted in his eyes. The girls had
been the couple's pride and joy, adopted late in life through the
aid of a very expensive, very exclusive private agency. Scully
had not been able to speak with the mother. However, the
interview with the devastated father had been just lovely.

What could she tell him? One daughter was dead, and
the other--a pretty little girl barely four years old--she had no
information about. Kidnapped or runaway, after three weeks
Scully doubted they'd ever find her, if she was even still alive.
Against Scully's better judgment, she'd indulged Mulder and
talked to Missing Persons, checked hospital records, but it was
a lost cause. And Mulder had a closed, intense look about him
that frightened and unnerved Scully, although he'd barely said
anything at all. It didn't help that he'd watched her do the
autopsy on Caroline, a seven-year old who'd had dark hair and
dark eyes and that even Scully had to admit looked uncannily
like old photos of Samantha.

A miserable three days.

Scully stood, shivering a little in the stiff breeze,
waiting for Mulder to get back to the motel. Several of the
officers and agents were also staying there or simply waiting to
hear the latest, and everyone had ended up converging in the
courtyard as afternoon approached. A couple of other agents
still hung around--a couple of outside agencies as well as the
local FBI had been involved since technically neither she nor
Mulder were supposed to be investigating this case--as well as a
few of the motel's regular patrons. She just wanted to go home.

One of the agents was staring at her. She refused to
react. Hurry, Mulder--tell them we're going and let's get out.
She hated it here.

At least she'd been physically feeling better. And
unlike Mulder or the last few weeks, she had slept soundly last
night. Every cloud . . . thank god, here comes Mulder. And,
good grief, he looks happy.

"Scully, guess what--we found Jessica. She was just a
runaway--nothing more. Gone to a friend's house instead of to
school, and she just came home. Just a prank, Scully, just a
prank."

There was a smile plastered all over his face, full of
exuberance and relief. And he wasn't thinking.

He came up to her, and grabbed her by the waist; there,
in full view of everyone. And giving her a quick hug, he leaned
forward to kiss her. It was brief, impulsive, and so natural. For
a moment she felt herself lean forward in response. Then she
stopped, and pushed against him. He let her go, and she looked
at him. The whole episode had lasted mere seconds. The only
one that probably even saw was that leering agent, and she was,
in a way, glad that he witnessed it.

But then she looked around, and while the officers had
left and the other agent was engaged in conversation with the
motel owner, other people *were* staring, she thought, and she
didn't want to make a scene. But the damage had been done.
The awkwardness between them was apparent, and she wouldn't
meet his eyes. Thoughts in turmoil, she did have the presence of
mind to smirk at the offensive agent, to pretend as if the whole
thing had been staged for his greasy benefit. Then she turned
and went inside, walked into her room, closed the door. Pulled
out some forms and let the mindless checking of boxes absorb
her mind.

When he knocked on her door a few minutes later,
after he'd talked to the agents and they'd left, she debated not
letting him in. But that would've been childish. She sighed.
They had to talk. Quietly she opened the door and stood aside.

And she read the answer in his eyes. They were filled
with regret, and embarrassment. But clear. No sorrow, no
hidden love. Nothing more than simply the Mulder she had
always known, and nothing of the man she sometimes thought
she saw. Regret at having caused her any discomfort, however
minor.

Nothing more.

As he apologized, quickly, awkwardly, and as she
accepted his apology with a laugh and a pithy summary of the
annoying Agent Barnes, she kept up the constant lecture in her
mind. You're better off, Scully, she told herself. You could
barely handle taking care of a dog, and Mulder's a lot more
involved. And as for commitment . . . well, you've returned your
toaster for a microwave and the microwave for a toaster oven
within the space of three weeks. And you're still not happy with
the appliance. For heaven's sake, you can't commit to a toaster
oven, much less a relationship. Nothing even happened,
anyhow. It's better this way. Really.

And she resolutely ignored the part of her spirit that
cried out at having lost what she would never know.

Heart's desire unrealized.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
End Part 1 of 21.
__________________________________________________

*********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 2: House of Cards (Part 2/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously disclaimed)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter II--House of Cards

And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth
them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his
house upon the sand:

And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds
blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell and great was the
fall of it.

--Matthew 7:26-27
__________________________________________________

Friday, November 21, 1997
Alexandria, VA
10:58 p.m.

Mulder sat on a chair, TV turned low, glass of scotch
in hand. The twenty-first of November. The final month of
autumn.

His sister's birthday.

One week later, 24 years ago, she had been taken. And
so he was allowed to be miserable, to give in to sadness.

He had sufficient cause, he mused. The past few days
had been, frankly, terrible. Rain, cold, a touchy partner, a
resistant police force, no proper authorization and hence a lack
of adequate resources. Flight delays and baggage mixups.
Basically no clues or evidence. And the deaths had continued,
one a day.

Nothing.

Not only had they not been able to find anything, but it
got worse. The Davidson's other daughter had simply vanished,
and there was nothing they could do. Although they'd talked to
Missing Persons, the agent they'd spoken to had merely
shrugged his shoulders and shown him the new list of missing
persons for the current week. It was New York.

The sweetest looking kid, the poster girl for innocence
and beauty. Gone. Probably dead, by now. Or worse. Only
four, a baby. Anais. Gone, just like . . . it gave him a headache
to let his thoughts dwell on it, however briefly.

No answers.

And the death toll piled up--a high school senior, a
young mother, another child--a two year old infant, for God's
sake, had all been killed *while* they had been investigating.
Besides the psychologist and the architect. Mulder did not
doubt that they were all murdered, although Scully still argued
about even that, when she talked to him at all.

Because of course there had been his huge blunder.
Scully hadn't been returning his calls all week either, unless
they were specifically work related. Even though she hadn't said
she was angry and hadn't seemed upset when he'd dropped her
off late Tuesday afternoon--on the contrary, she had been
excruciatingly polite and professional. They'd both taken the
day off today, although he thought she might have gone in at
some point to pick up the paperwork they should've been doing.

He still couldn't believe what he'd done. It was the
stress, and the child, and the dream . . . and the fact that she
hadn't noticed how tense he was as she usually did. And that he
missed her--she'd been so distracted and distant lately. He'd just
been so desperately happy in that one second. . . he couldn't
explain it. He'd always been so careful--for so many years and
months and days. Even though lately he'd been thinking about .
. . but he couldn't stand to lose her friendship. It was all he had.
He gulped down liquid warmth.

And the other kid, Caroline, the 7 year old--he
shuddered and drank another shot. She had haunted his dreams,
albeit fleetingly. Not that he didn't like variation, he though
bleakly. Can't become predictable or anything. But he had
dreamt of her before he ever saw her picture.

Caroline Rachael. His mother's name had been
Rachael.

His mother, whom he'd buried less than six months
ago.

In New York he'd finally seen a picture of the child,
with her family. Had felt almost faint when he saw it. A whole
family now wiped out. Just like that. Without any suspects at
all. No leads, nothing. He couldn't have done the interview
with the father, and had been grateful Scully'd offered to do it.

But the part that shook him was the recognition.
Because his reeling mind recognized the girl in the picture to be
the one he'd dreamed of. Noting, dispassionately, that he'd
dreamed of her the very night before her death.

In his dream, she'd been very alive, very young. And
Mulder, unlike his normal persona, had not felt awkward around
this very serious little girl with her dark, dark hair and her
startling indigo eyes. And then she'd smiled at him, and he'd felt
himself warmed from the inside out. Felt himself smile in
response.

She'd been in a room with a single light, building a
castle of cards; a child's game, a simple pastime of precision and
creativity. And he'd walked up to the table to take a better look.

And bumped into it. The cards shook, and the whole
structure caved in.

But the child said nothing. Merely looked at him, eyes
dark and full of sorrow and reproach.

And through the deathly silence, he could almost hear
Sam's voice calling his name.

Then he'd woken up.

Over a whole week ago, and he still couldn't erase the
image of those eyes.

He'd been so upset when he saw the picture, he hadn't
even been able to think about it while he was in New York.
Couldn't have spoken of it there.

Even so the knowledge was there, hovering
malignantly. Stress and worry and intense relief combined--the
whole trip had drained him. And then, when he'd returned, he'd
wanted to mention it to Scully, needed to mention it. Needed
desperately to hear her laugh at him, putting it into perspective
as mere silliness. Dismissing it so that he too could dismiss it
and forget.

Soulful dark eyes in a narrow child's face.

But there'd been no chance to bring it up, and he hadn't
even been able to reach Scully at all today. It was unlike her--a
small, insecure part of him feared that maybe she was so mad at
him that she didn't want to talk to him. But that wasn't Scully--
if she was angry, he'd have known.

And not only did he need to hear her voice, he was also
really worried; she hadn't looked well and had been acting
strangely all week. She'd looked better in New York, for sure,
but he still wasn't convinced something wasn't wrong. She'd
been disorganized--not so you'd notice, but less than her normal
efficiency, and she'd been staying home whenever possible for a
couple of weeks now. She'd come in later than usual, leave
earlier, and, come to think of it, would barely talk to him unless
she had to. He *hadn't* noticed at first, but now . . .it was just
this side of alarming, and past upsetting. He turned his mind
away from that train of thought as well.

And so, tonight, there was nothing to impede the flow
of his solitary thoughts. The thoughts that returned, on this day
of all days, to Samantha, and his loss.

Technically, Mulder had heard the tapes of himself and
knew there was probably nothing he could've done that would've
changed anything. And he had felt better after hearing them.
Until then, his greatest fear was that everyone was right--
someone had kidnapped or killed his little sister, and he had
merely watched and done nothing. He had almost convinced
himself that they were right.

It helped to know that his memory of that night was
clear. That he hadn't hid or run and just let his sister be taken.
Or worse yet, invited them in.

That there was nothing he could have done. That the
events had been impossible to change. No one could have
helped.

That he had been young--barely twelve--and scared,
and unable to move. That They had arranged it that way.

But a part of his mind whispered that those were
simply excuses. It was the part of his mind, of himself, that
believed in finding the truth because it could be found. The part
that believed in self-reliance, in being strong despite adversity.

The part that secretly scoffed at the drunkard on the
street, noting the difference between he and himself and
believing, however, wrongly, that there was a reason in that
difference. A self-determined reason. That you really did
control your own life; shape, to some extent, your own destiny.
And given that this was so, if you do control your life, if you
choose to fulfill the role you play, if victims in some way allow
themselves to be victimized--well, then, all those years ago he
could've done something.

He had taken the classes--he had several degrees, for
heaven's sake. He understood all about social factors and family
background and cycles of abuse and accepting that things
happened that were simply beyond control. Still.

He and Sam had been very close as children, and he
had loved his sister with all the intensity of a young boy.
Pretending indifference yet, when it came to the test, hating
anything that caused her pain.

If only he had tried harder, wanted it more, not been so
angry with his sister because she hated to lose so badly. His
sister Samantha, who had never once lost a game of Stratego.
To anyone.

The same superior, favoured kid sister that was
irritated by the smug, obnoxious brat he had been. The boy who
had tried to be what his father had wanted; the boy who tried to
be smarter, and faster, and better than everyone else. Even if it
would never be enough.

The boy who hated to lose, and the sister who always
deserved to win.

The younger sister whom, his father had told him,
lectured him, yelled at him, it was his duty to look after. Before
she was taken.

His beloved only sister whom he had been raised to
protect.

Whom he had let go.

In fact, although he was older, he was not much
different from the obnoxious young man he had once been. He
knew it was wrong. In many ways, he had been a victim as
much as Sam, and self-blame was a classic response.

Knowing this didn't change how he felt. Or the voice
that told him, still, that all the rationalization and psychology
classes and whining in the world couldn't change reality--that
often, things were not done simply because those with the
power to act didn't *want* things done badly enough.

And he had to ask how badly, that night, had he really
wanted to save his baby sister? The question echoed in his
brain, over and over, despite the haze of alcohol and exhaustion.
Because he could not answer it, because he did not know.

The fact is, it is impossible to analyze your own
subconscious. Even if you are the only one who can. And so,
he would never know. But even the possibility that there was
something more that he could've done--or even tried to do--was
enough.

He had *wanted* to believe, to believe the reassuring,
insidious voice that told him to do nothing. And that, that
simple moment of desire--that was the rub. It was for that
moment he cursed himself every day.

Because when the voice faded and the horror sunk in,
it was too late.

It always was.

The phone rang, he reached over to grab the receiver,
and a deep, garbled voice issued two words. "Meet me." The
line went dead. Standing, grabbing his jacket, Mulder left the
apartment.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere
1:24 a.m.

On a deserted street, a tall man stooped down to talk
through an open car window. The empty silence eerily
magnified the low sibilance of the harsh words.

"What's so important about this file? What aren't you
telling me?" Mulder was exasperated and infuriated.

"You'll see, Agent Mulder. There are those that do not
want you to have this information. But this is important."

"How? How can one woman be this crucial?"

"You will do what you will, Agent Mulder. I cannot
give you any further information. But . . . she is next in the
pattern. And that is the key."

"And, Agent Mulder?" Mulder looked up sharply. "If
I were you, I'd look after your partner. She's not . . . well."

"What do you mean by that? Answer me!"

But Mulder was talking to air. The car had driven off,
and Mulder could not catch it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
2:18 a.m.
Alexandria, VA

Later, in his apartment, Mulder opened the file he had
been given. To find within it four newspaper clippings and a
single photograph.

The first clip was from a small town paper and dated
September 18, 1975. And the article chilled his blood. A
picturesque little place near Buffalo. Mapleton. A missing
child case had local police baffled, and had turned a small town
where you knew your neighbours and joked about big city crime
into a place of fear and silence. In a single night. No witnesses,
no evidence. Nothing. Just a child put to bed at night, and no
longer there come morning. A nine-year old girl named Colleen.

She had wanted to be a doctor when she grew up.

The second article was dated exactly one year later.
The young girl had been found, wandering the streets of
Mapleton, a block from her home. She had no memory of who
she was. Her parents, Dr. and Mrs. Sommers of Mapleton, did
not wish to speak with the reporter further, except to say how
happy they were at their daughter's return.

The second article was from a Cleveland paper five
years previous. A young boy had been walking home from
school but never arrived. The picture was a younger version of
Colin Harrison, the teenaged fifth victim in the case.

And the last article was about Kara Matthews. An
article from over two decades ago. June 14, 1976. Kara had
disappeared one evening while her parents were at a charity
function out of town. The nanny could not recall what had
happened. There was a media ban on all further details.
Stapled to the article was a copy of a police report, stating that
the child had been found and the case should be closed. The
report was signed and dated June 28, 1976.

The last thing in the envelope was the picture;
scrawled across it were three India ink words, "She is next."

He looked at the picture, and the image of a pretty
young woman with haunted eyes imposed itself on his brain.

Not yet over.

He rose and shrugged on his jacket. He'd find this
woman, and maybe, just maybe, he'd find some answers.
Maybe.

The clock on his wall clicked loudly. 3 a.m. Already
early Saturday. If this woman really was next, her time was
running out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, November 22, 1997
3:25 p.m.
Annapolis, Maryland

Scully turned over in the bed, and every muscle
screamed with fire. She didn't understand it--she'd never felt
like this before. And worse yet, although she must have
basically slept for almost eighteen hours--she'd been out cold
until about eleven this morning, and her memory was a bit hazy;
she had probably taken some of that detestable cold remedy in
her cupboard last night, she supposed--she did not feel better.
She'd not even been able to get up to answer the phone this
afternoon; the pain had been intense and she felt feverish.

But nothing, physically, was actually wrong, no more
than usual. Nothing to account for this. Her cancer was still in
remission according to her last monthly, and her bloodwork had
been clean. Just to double-check, she had even made herself
beg an extra appointment from Laura, an old friend from med
school, now an internist with a thriving practice in the heart of
Georgetown. Despite the short notice, Laura had fit her old
first-year housemate into her busy Monday afternoon schedule;
the appointment was for noon the day after tomorrow.

She'd made herself book the appointment, although she
had felt more or less fine the last few days--even if she hadn't
slept in her own bed at all the whole week. She and Mulder had
been flying or, to keep down the unauthorized expenses--ugh,
that's going to take a *lot* of imagination come report time, she
told herself--going on interminable drives back and forth
between various cities. They'd been trying to interview the
families of the victims in the All Saint's case and, as a result,
she'd ended up spending even more nights than she'd ever cared
to sleeping on a grungy motel mattress. The only exception was
Wednesday, when she'd had to do all the backed-up autopsies
she'd been assigned, which had ended up with her being stuck
late at the office. Not wanting to drive all the way home, she'd
managed to get to her mother's who, about a year ago, had
moved from Baltimore to a trendy little condo in the Adams
Morgan area--a conveniently short drive from the Hoover
Building. Hmm, Dana, maybe you should consider moving too,
she thought to herself, yeah, great idea--just as soon as you get
some time.

And the week had been simply wonderful, starting with
New York--three days of an exercise in frustration. A family
who had lost two children in the space of a month, the seven
year old dead of unknowable causes and a 4 year old girl who
had vanished completely. A cute enough child: tiny, with
strawberry-blond curls and dark blue eyes. Not even the
satisfaction of a cause of death, or the knowledge of what had
happened to either child.

The picture in the file was a family photo, taken in the
summer, with the smaller girl standing beside her darker sister.
Both with those amazing blue eyes, despite the fact that the two
children weren't really blood relations. The sister Caroline, who
had simply gone into convulsions during an afternoon at school.

The same thing had happened with every victim.
Convulsions and death. No poison in the bloodstream, no
disease or other physiological condition, no medically
discernible cause of death. Just death.

Death without reason.

She sighed, and the lonely, painful image of an
innocent woman, dying slowly of cancer, flashed through her
brain.

With no leads, and nothing to go on, Mulder had
finally agreed to cut their losses and return home. They'd
arrived back in D.C. from Savannah, where the last reported
death had occurred, late Friday morning. By mutual consent,
they'd taken the day off. Mulder, who hadn't been sleeping well,
looked ready to drop, and Scully was more than happy to have a
day to herself.

The deaths would continue regardless, she knew.
They'd made no headway into the case at all, and Scully was
simply grateful that the killer took at least Sunday off. To be
honest, she needed the break too.

Scully moved again, slowly, to minimize pain. She'd
been dreaming, too, of late--similar to nightmares about her
abduction, but more vivid, more clear, less substantial. Thank
God she'd slept well at the motel; the last thing she needed was
Mulder worried about her where she could not avoid him. The
dreams had returned, though, to plague her weekend.
Nightmares of horror and darkness, the kind she had been trying
to block out; but lying here, weak, tired though not at all sleepy,
it seemed her mind would not obey her dictates. This last had
been the worst.

It was a nightmare of abduction, like the others but
different. She lay on a table, bound in a spread-eagle position.
The most vulnerable of positions. Completely open, completely
defenseless. She had vowed to give them no satisfaction.

The first thing she felt was the blood, wet and sticky
down the side of her leg. And then, a splintering pain.
Suddenly, the whole right side of her body felt like it was on
fire: a searing, scorching pain. The world was pain, with
nothing to counter it.

She had not screamed aloud, although her mind did so
silently. She did not let out the constant whimper of her heart,
or at least she thought she did not. Because she was Dana
Katherine Scully, and Dana Katherine did not scream. Did not
whimper. Did not beg. But it began to matter less and less,
until finally even pride, even self, even love and hope could not
hold out in that dark place of pain, and fear, and despair.

And she began to scream, not caring, desperately
praying for someone, anyone to hear her. The horrible sound of
her own cries reverberating in the windowless room. But as her
vocal cords gave out, the screams became fainter and fainter, and
the hope that someone would hear her became less and less.
Until she began to think herself mad. Until she began to think
she would do anything they asked. Anything to stop the pain.
To control the fear. Anything. Because, in the dream, she no
longer believed in hope.

Then, with gratitude, the numbing black.

And then the dream faded, and began again. But not a
repeat of before, slightly different. As if the They in her dream
began the torture anew when she returned to awareness.

The worse part of the dream was her own loss of self.
Control, which she valued more than anything in this world,
being stripped from her in the haze of drugs and pain. Being
kept marginally aware, but unable to move, and often delirious.
The minutes blending into endless hours, marked only by
periods of pain, and periods of passivity. Time passing without
meaning, she who lived by her wristwatch. Being fed
intravenously; all bodily functions beyond her conscious
thought. Feeling as if her body was no longer hers, and, worse
yet, as if her mind would soon cease to be as well.

And this would continue, all the night through. She
did not wake, which was odd, but she did remember. At first
vaguely, and now, more and more clear.

Must be some strange sort of mild delirium, she
decided, or a weird reaction to that generic cold remedy she'd
taken, although she couldn't remember doing so--nevertheless,
she was going to throw out the remaining bottle ASAP.

Although this morning, when she woke, she woke to
pain all along her left leg. And a long mark, faint and white but
straight as a ruled line along her calf. A mark she did not
remember having been there before.

A mark like a healing scar.

Mulder had called that afternoon, frantic. Wanting to
know where she was, although he tried to hide the concerned
tone. She had not known how to answer him; lied and said
she'd been visiting her mother. She'd been using that excuse a
lot lately, and wondered if he was suspicious. Apparently he
had tried several times Friday evening and she had not
answered. She said she hadn't had her cell phone on either and
had turned the phone off immediately after coming home.
Unusual behaviour for her, granted, but she said she'd needed
some time to relax away from everything.

She swallowed the guilt. She was well aware that last
night had been, could have been, Samantha's birthday.

She didn't mention it. Neither did he.

They made small talk for a few minutes and then she
said she had to go. She hung up the phone carefully, a frown
creeping across her features. He had sounded odd, as if he
didn't quite buy her explanation. Before he said good-bye, he'd
asked if everything was all right. That was very unlike Mulder.
She shook herself mentally. Jeez, Dana, now you're paranoid.
Why wouldn't Mulder believe you? Of course he does.

Melissa, she thought wistfully. The stray, unwanted
thought. Missy might have understood.

She turned her mind forcefully away. This was
ridiculous. She merely had a cold. A bad one, to be sure, but it
would be gone by morning. Of course.

Dana Scully moved again, reached for the remote
control. She turned on the television, and found a mindless
sitcom. Cranking up the volume, she let the whine of spoiled
television children drown out the fear in her mind.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Washington, D.C.
11:23 p.m.

Margaret Scully slowly got ready for bed, thinking
over the events of the day. It had been a quiet day: a day for
reading and cleaning and conversing with friends. A day when
she had not pushed herself to do very much, because she'd had a
vaguely uneasy feeling all day. She sighed as she turned down
the coverlet.

She'd had an upsetting dream the night before. She'd
dreamt of a child, a tiny child with masses of red-gold curls and
a daintily upturned nose. Fragile, delicate, exquisite. An
achingly beautiful little girl. In a way, the small girl reminded
her of her own two daughters, one now buried, and the other . . .
well, Dana was very busy nowadays.

It had not been an unpleasant dream, just--
disconcerting, maybe. There had been the child, and she had
been sitting, and playing. With a deck of cards. And then she'd
laughed, a free, clear laugh, and had said her name was Anais.
She seemed so happy, so innocent.

But then she had looked up, and with eyes like the
blue of a darkening sky had said, very seriously. "It's too late,
for me. I played too long, and now it's too late. They'll look
after me now."

And the moment passed, and the child giggled, but this
time it did not seem to Margaret that the sound held the same
sweetness as before. And the child said, "I know your daughter,
Dana. I like her. She's not like me, but she could've been.
She's too old, they say. It's hard to change when you're older, I
guess."

The little girl fell silent, and then suddenly she threw
the whole pack of cards in the air. She ran around, screaming
and giggling her high-pitched giggle while the cards all swirled
and fell to the ground. Swiftly she bent, and lifted up a single
card to show to Margaret.

"Here it is! I've found it! My favorite card in the
whole pack."

And Margaret looked at the scrupulously detailed card
held in the fine-boned little hand.

The Queen of Spades.

At that Margaret, who had never been superstitious,
shivered and woke up. In spite of herself, her heart had been
pounding. But she had gotten out of bed, poured a glass of
water, and come back to sleep.

And she had resolved to call her only living daughter
as soon as she could. In fact, she had tried to call Dana this
morning. But there had been no answer, and the beep on the
machine had been unusually long.

She was sure everything was fine. Someone would
have called if there had been anything wrong.

Well, she'd break a rule and pester Dana to come spend
the day tomorrow. Just because. She hadn't spoken to Dana for
several days, and it was high time she found out what that girl
was up to. She'd seemed so tired when she'd visited on
Wednesday.

She was probably just concerned because Fox had
called this morning, asking for Dana. Come to think of it, he'd
seemed really confused when she said she hadn't heard from her
daughter in days. Almost anxious. But then again, according to
Dana, Fox always sounded anxious. And if anything had been
wrong, she would've heard from him again.

But Margaret had never heard him sound like that.

She'd call Dana, and maybe invite her over for dinner
tomorrow night. Yes, tomorrow night would be fine. A lazy
Sunday dinner. She missed her daughter; when Dana visited
she was so rushed, and they barely ever spoke lately.

And then, maybe, she'd see about calling those sons of
hers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 2.
__________________________________________________

******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 3: Queen of Spades (Part 3 of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously disclaimed)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter III--Queen of Spades

She knows not what the curse may be
And so, she weaveth steadily
And little other care hath she . . .

--Lord Alfred Tennyson, "The Lady of Shalott"
__________________________________________________

Monday, November 24, 1997
J. Edgar Hoover Building
3rd Floor
12:03 p.m.

Mulder had come up to drop something off at Scully's
office and found her gathering her things. Quietly, because she
hadn't yet noticed him, he watched as she meticulously cleared
away the top of her desk, organizing and filing. He wondered if
she had plans for lunch already.

He sighed. He very rarely went anywhere for lunch--it
was a non-event. He came; he worked. When he was hungry,
he found something to eat. Scully, on the other hand, always
had her lunch hour planned out--an errand, a friend, a personal
appointment or even just a somewhat work-related meeting.
Never just nothing; always someone she needed to see, someone
whom she couldn't keep waiting. He admired her and envied
her--her easy relationships, the respect she kept. But maybe she
was actually free this time. His investigation into the
photographed woman was going so badly . . . He cleared his
throat.

"Hey, Scully, here are those reports with my
authorization. By the way . . . you doing anything for lunch?
Want to order in some pizza?" He spoke quickly; to his own
ears, both awkwardly and eagerly. Okay, Mulder, that was
wrong. New York had been *such* a mistake. What a
miserable trip.

Scully looked up and tried to focus on what was going
on. She was feeling so off these days. Mulder . . . Mulder was
asking her if she wanted to order in. For a moment she
considered telling him 'no'--a guilty pleasure to refuse, to tell
him that she did have a life beyond this office, beyond the
obsession. Wouldn't even be out of the ordinary. Going out for
lunch was an indulgence of Scully's, something she tried to do
for herself once every so often and Mulder knew that. It let her
feel connected to the world, to normalcy, to life. Let her feel
like she had something of a life left. But, as usual, that was
before.

Lately it was rare she had the time, rarer still she had
the inclination to do anything so involved in the middle of her
day. If she had the time for a lunch, she usually just rushed
through work and tried to go home early instead. But today she
had thought to not just follow the normal routine but rather to
pick up something at the cafeteria and then stop by Laura's
office for a couple of tests. While Scully had done the
bloodwork herself on Friday and forwarded the lab results to
Laura's office, Laura had hinted at maybe running a couple of
the more exotic tests that her oncologist normally didn't run--
and Laura had also said she'd taken a look at Dana's bloodwork
and consulted with a specialist friend of hers in infectious
disease research to double-check, discreetly of course. Scully
certainly didn't want Mulder along for that. She opened her
mouth to refuse.

But when she saw the hope on Mulder's face, and then
saw his face fall ever so slightly, she fudged and told him she
was going out to grab something and invited him along,
knowing Mulder hated to leave the office midday. No one was
more surprised than she when he accepted.

Well, she was feeling so terrible that maybe it was
better that she went to see Laura later, she thought. The whole
thing was just such a hassle and at this time of day there were
probably be other patients scheduled anyway, and she knew had
there been anything at all, it would've shown up in her
bloodwork. Instead, she'd drag Mulder over to that tiny diner a
couple blocks away and get some of their soup. Homemade and
hot, it was the kind of comfort food she craved. No need to put
Laura to the inconvenience; she'd call to set up an appointment
for another day.

Yes, another day would be much better.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
4:32 p.m.

By late afternoon, she was convinced she just had
some sort of nasty stomach flu.

Well, she thought, at least I didn't waste my lunch
going to see Laura--you'd think all that medical school and I
could've figured this out long ago. I'm sure it's viral--just a 24
hour thing. Probably caught it right after I ran that blood test.

In fact, she'd felt almost okay this morning, and now
the fatigue was coming back with the exertion of the day--just
like a regular flu. Choking down that soup was almost more
than she could manage, but necessary with Mulder watching.
He'd have been suspicious if she hadn't even been able to
manage that--not answering the phone on the weekend really set
him off. Oh, well, she thought to herself. Live and learn--and I
still have all this to do before I can leave.

The mound of paper on her desk looked distinctly
unfriendly.

The office was warm, but she still felt chilly and her
hands were like ice. Probably a fever, she thought in disgust,
trying in vain to read Mulder's tiny scrawl in the margins of the
report through watery eyes. Another couple of hours, she told
herself, if I don't feel well by then, I'm going home regardless.
Everyone gets sick, Dana--it's simply overwork. You're just not
used to being out of commission, but it'll pass soon.

Too bad I'm not more like Mulder, she mused. Last
time he had a cold, I could hear his sniffles all the way up here.

She suppressed a grin. While Mulder hated actual
injury and chose to suffer such things in a close-mouthed
silence which frustrated all concerned others, minor ailments he
gleefully and perversely milked for all he was worth. She had to
give him credit, though--even when he was truly ill he never
willingly took time off work.

She had caved and taken the aspirin a half-hour ago
and was hoping it'd kick in soon. It was only paperwork today--
she didn't think she could've survived doing an autopsy--she had
dropped by the basement earlier in the afternoon and Mulder
had been swamped by stacks of it. He had given her some to do,
but not as much as he usually sloughed off on her, she noted
gratefully.

It was just as well she missed the sharp look of
concern he had sent her, observing the pallor of her lips and the
faint sheen on her skin.

Besides, she had her own reports to make, and the
combination meant she was more than busy enough. Still, she
rationalized, I could just as easily do a lot of this at home.

She ignored the fact that she hated working at home
unless absolutely necessary.

She sighed. Her brother had called, inviting her to
dinner because he was in town on business, and she'd lied and
said she had to work late. I'll go home at five, she told herself.
That's tons of time, and the rest I can take home. She returned
her attention to the file in her hand.

By six she felt nauseous and fuzzy. *Please, not
again.* She thought vaguely about taking a cab home, because
going home was no longer a choice. She could not work, and
she did not really feel like driving. Her stomach had begun to
scream in agony. She should, in fact, have gone home over an
hour ago, but she had begun to feel lethargically weak and
thought maybe if she waited she would feel a little better.

It was surprising how intensely this bug worked. It
had been a while since she had the flu, and she couldn't
remember it hitting this hard before. She'd felt a little better this
morning, but . . . she sighed. What dreadful timing. It had been
really busy at the office, lately, especially as it was close to year
end. What with vacations coming up and an elevated crime
rate, they had been swamped with extra work. Extra work that
did not make time for a cold, or for someone who'd been going
home early for the past week. Damn. She stood.

And the world tilted. She sat back down in a hurry.

Great. Dizzy too. Even better. I am going to have to
get a cab; I don't think I can drive. Hate to leave my car here,
but such is life. It was at that decidedly inauspicious moment
that Mulder decided to poke his head into her office again.

"Hey, Scully, I just got back from a meeting with
Skinner. Guess what? Scully?" Mulder noticed with concern
the flush on pale skin, and the slump to her shoulders. He also
noticed how long it took her to respond, far from the crispness
of her usual self. When she looked up at him, her eyes
wandered, unfocused, although her fatigued voice was even and
clear.

"Yes, Mulder, I'm listening. So what now? And can
this wait until tomorrow? I thought I'd go home a little early
today. I think I've caught the flu."

"Sure thing, Scully. I hear there's quite a bug going
around. You gonna be okay? You want me to do anything for
you?" Lame question, but Scully hated leaving unfinished
business around. And she looked truly ill. He wondered
whether he should offer her a ride home, but didn't think, given
current circumstances, she would properly appreciate the offer.
On the other hand, she barely looked capable of standing, let
alone driving. Maybe he better walk her to her car, just to make
sure she was okay. Yeah, that was a good plan. If she was truly
out of it, he could argue with her then.

"No, Mulder, I'm fine. A couple of aspirin and a down
comforter are all I truly desire at the moment." A patent glare
from her at even that query. Mulder tried to back off, but how
many times had he been told one of his most irritating traits was
persistence? At least he had resisted the opportunity to make a
joke, he thought defensively.

"Well, in that case, let me walk you to the lot. I was
just planning to run out to get something to eat--I'm starving--
and it'll give me a chance to run a few things by you."

Wonderful. Now what. Mulder would be offended if
she called a cab now, and she actually didn't feel capable of
anything so involved as walking, far less driving. Why was he
always so hungry anyway? What now?

"Actually, Mulder, I have just a couple of things to
wrap up first, so I'll be a few minutes. You go ahead. I'll be in
early tomorrow morning; we can discuss whatever it is then."
She prayed Mulder would buy it.

Being Mulder, and annoying, he didn't. "That's all
right, Scully. I can wait. I have to glance over this file anyway."

Rats. Foiled again. Now what? Time to fake it. She
stood, gripping the desk tightly, waiting for the world to right
itself. There we go. That wasn't so bad. Pity everything was so
dim.

She walked over to the Mulder blur, feeling a little
light-headed. Well, a lot light-headed. That's okay though. I
kind of feel like I'm floating, like nothing's real. Nod and smile,
concentrate on walking, and get to the car. You can call the cab
from the lot, Dana. It'll be fine. One thing at a time. Let's not
tax the old brain. Mulder's hand was on her elbow, and even
then she almost giggled at her own wit. Mulder was talking, but
she couldn't possible focus on him as well as her feet. She was
so glad that she didn't have to navigate any stairs. It would have
been more than she could handle.

They had reached the elevator, when she shivered
slightly, and then swayed visibly. *All she wanted to do was lie
down, maybe she would.* Everything had gone dark anyway.
Odd, she thought, I don't think I remember ever having a power
outage in November before. But at least with the electricity
gone I couldn't work anyway, so I don't need to feel bad about
going home early. I really need to lie down, though. Here is
good. Just for a moment. And she began to slide bonelessly to
the ground.

Mulder had been watching her like a hawk since they
left the office; she had been acting so strangely, and standing
this close to her, he had a strong suspicion she was running a
fever. So he was prepared, but no less alarmed, when she began
to crumple at the elevators. Even then, dropping the files and
papers in his left hand with a thud, he barely caught her. He
shifted his grip, grabbing her wrist. Oh, God, she was burning
up. No way was he taking her home. The elevator arrived and
he dragged her into it, mentally calculating how long it would
take to get her to the hospital.

A strong arm was around her, and a voice was talking
at her, and although she couldn't concentrate on it properly
enough to understand what it was saying, the arm associated
with it was preventing her from reaching the ground. The hand
gripping her own arm was firm and hard, holding her securely,
tightly upright, in contrast to the hand at her wrist, which was
cool and gentle against her skin there and then against her
cheek. The voice in her ear was urging her to lean into him,
and so she gave up the struggle to try and stand on her own,
letting him support her weight. Just as soon as the power comes
back, she thought vaguely, I'll stop leaning on him. Where was
he going, though? She didn't want to go. She wanted to rest.
She wanted to go home. She tried to protest, but he wasn't
listening. What was he saying? They were going too fast, and
she was so tired.

She moaned. "I'm tired, please, can I just stop a minute
. . . "

"I know, Scully, it's okay, we're almost there."

She sighed. Mulder would be so irritated that she was
ill. But there had been nothing he could have done, nothing
either of them could have done, so what difference did it make?
But happily he was here, which meant he didn't know and she
could tell him later. Somehow, that didn't make sense. Never
mind. She would deal with his anger later, but for the time
being he was here and in control, and no matter how much she
didn't want him to have to take care of her she was grateful. He
seemed to know what he was doing, and it was easy enough to
just follow his lead. She didn't feel up to the task of
functioning right now and was more than happy to indulge
Mulder.

"Come on, Scully, that's it, just a little farther. It'll be
okay, we just have to make it to the car." He wished he could
bring the car up closer, but didn't want to leave her there.
Thankfully, he was parked fairly close to the elevator. He got
her in the car, despite the fact that she had begun to resist his
tugging a little and was moaning incoherent words of protest.
He ran a couple of lights on the way to the hospital.

The fresh air of the open window seemed to revive her
a little, because when they stopped, she opened bleary eyes and
looked around dazedly. "Where are we Mulder? I want to go
home. Why didn't you take me home?"

"Hold still, Scully, we're at the hospital. You're really
ill, and I think it'd be best if we got you checked out before I
take you home, okay?"

She stiffened at his words, and began to plead. "No,
Mulder, I don't want to go. I want to go home. You said you'd
take me home. Please Mulder, I don't want to stay here.
Please."

Nightmares of a cold white room, of green scrubs and
sharp steel. Fairfax Mercy. That sign. Reality blurred with
nightmare. She had been here before.

She was practically delirious, Mulder thought--Scully,
consciously, never wailed. Extremely agitated, she had become
almost frantic, tearing ineffectually at the seat belt across her
body. He reached over to still her hands, murmuring softly to
her, then calling her name sharply.

"Scully! Listen to me for a minute. Look, we won't
stay, I just think it's best if someone took a look at you. Scully.
Trust me." He was getting scared. She seemed really far gone,
and while he hated upsetting her further, he was convinced this
was not your average mild flu. Even if it was, he wanted a
medical authority to tell him so. He was trying to keep his voice
calm and even, comforting, but she was almost screaming in
panicky little gasps, and she looked like she was going to cry.

But he had no choice, and couldn't just take her home.
He had no idea what could be wrong, and she needed
professional help. She had begun to shiver, but for some reason
even that small movement looked painful. She had gripped the
door handle to try to stop the tremors wracking her body, as
well as to prevent him from opening her door. But in her
current state she couldn't resist him at all.

Then she looked at him, fevered eyes glinting.
"Mulder, if you believe in me at all, you will take me home."
And her eyes were intense but clear, for the moment.

He hesitated, and then, decisively, closed her door.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 3.
__________________________________________________

******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 4: Quantities of Sand (Part 4/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously rated and disclaimed)
All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter IV--Quantities of Sand*

Ils marchaient sans savoir l'un vers l'autre
comme la chance quand elle cherche le hasard
deux enfants mis au monde l'un par l'autre
pour jouer les heros d'une histoire . . .

--Eponine, "L'Un Vers L'Autre"
"Les Miserables" (The Musical)

(*from Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter")
__________________________________________________

Monday, November 24, 1997
Annapolis, MD
11:22 p.m.

It was already past 7 by the time he drove up to her
apartment, having stopped off at his own first for personal
essentials. She'd wanted him to simply drop her off at home,
but he'd refused flatly, telling her he'd go to get whatever she
needed but then it was either his place or the hospital. He
figured he could watch her in his apartment and still get some
work done.

She hadn't argued as much as he'd expected. Which
was why he found himself at her apartment, he guessed. You
took what you could get, in this life.

He'd found a can of soup and made her drink some,
although she'd glared at him and barely drank half of the small
bowl. She'd been tired and trying to hide it, and she refused any
attempt at eliciting an explanation, so he left her alone to go to
bed and had come out into the living room to see if he couldn't
get something done.

He'd called the Lone Gunmen about an hour ago.
Checked on her around about 10 minutes before. And there was
nothing on television.

He was just thinking he'd maybe go for a run in spite of
the burgeoning thunderstorm when the sound chilled his blood.

He heard a scream, and ran into the bedroom.

There was no one there.

The rain slapped against the window pane, the bed was
rumpled but empty, and the sheets were falling in on themselves.
As if someone had lain underneath them just recently but had
been rudely snatched away. Someone like Scully.

The curtains billowed in the cool breeze at the
window.

There was a breeze at the window.

A breeze at the window.

"Please, God", he whispered to himself. "Please, not
again." He ran to the window and looked out through the
driving rain. The street below was devoid of sound, of
movement. Utterly still and silent. Peaceful. He bit back the
bitter taste of panic.

He ran outside, to the parking lot and the street
beyond, but there was no sign that anything was wrong
anywhere other than in his own mind.

Frantically he searched the room, the apartment, the
building. Keeping his mind blank, staving off despair.

Desperately he searched through rain-slicked streets,
by foot and then by car; streets that held no sign of any living
creature, and less so of the only person he wanted to find.

Nothing.

Breeze at the window.

The window.

He forced himself to move faster.

Defeated, he returned at past 4 in the morning,
dripping wet and chilled to the bone. Back to the empty
apartment, the empty bed. It hadn't been long enough to call for
outside help, not yet. And since there was nothing left to do, he
sank to his knees at the side of that bed, dry-eyed and perfectly
still.

Somewhere around 5, he fell asleep.

He woke to the sound of birds chirping and warm
sunlight on his face. And the sound of quiet weeping from the
bed. He looked up.

Scully was there, lying there as if she had never left,
laying on her side, turned away from him. And she was crying--
very softly, muffling her sobs with the down comforter, but
crying nonetheless. He did not think she was aware of him.

But when he touched her shoulder, she flinched away
in panic and pain before reacting in more normal fear and
surprise. Turning her head to focus wide, frightened eyes on
his. And that's when he noticed the two small streaks of blood,
dark and disgusting, marring the sleeve of the otherwise pristine
white shirt that she now wore.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 25, 1997
7:25 a.m.

They had been arguing ever since he woke up, arguing
for at least the last 15 minutes.

He watched her, watched her try to use science to
explain away what she did not want to hear, what she could not
accept. Using it as some kind of mantra, a medieval charm to
ward away evil. She hid herself behind conventional science, as
did so many others. But a part of her remained curious,
remained open to the possibility. He knew her. She was far too
honest for anything else.

"I don't want to talk about it, you know; I really, really
don't."

"I have to know, Scully. How long has this been going
on?"

"I've been having nightmares, Mulder, that's all. The
flu and nightmares. Surely that's not unusual? Not after all
that's happened. A lot of people have nightmares." Her face
was rigid, uncompromising. Angry.

"Scully . . . " He ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
Getting angry in return would not help. She was just scared,
and feeling out of control and helpless. Denial was a coping
method, he knew that. Still, she couldn't just refuse to deal with
this. Couldn't just deny that anything was going on.

Her fever, which had faded earlier last night, was back
up. Her eyes glinted with it. By now Mulder had no doubt why
and he was sure that she knew also. This was the reason she
hadn't wanted to go to the hospital. Confirmation of your
darkest fears was a frightening thing.

Or maybe there was another reason. She'd need
medical attention eventually, and soon; but for now, there was a
more immediate danger.

"I was here, Scully. You did not just have a
nightmare. You were gone. And there are needle marks and
bloodstains on your sleeve. You are sick, with no discernible
cause." He paused. "It's not the . . . it's not that, is it?"

She shook her head, once, a confirming jerk. No.

Which was good, because they never spoke of that,
anymore.

Anger was easier, at any rate.

Suddenly, inexplicably, she was incredibly weary. "If
you know all this," she said, "if you already know all the
answers, why, then, do you bother to ask me anything?"

She was so tired. She just wanted to sleep, to go to
sleep and not dream and wake up and be taken care of. Not to
deal with any of this. Let Mulder do what he wanted, let him
think anything. Let him go elsewhere and solve impossible
cases and spout his bizarre theories. She just wanted to be left
alone.

She wanted her mother.

She swayed where she stood.

Mulder caught one arm. "Come on, Scully, you're
coming with me."

"Where, Mulder." The words slurred together,
incomprehensible. She was too tired to argue properly.

"My place. You might be safer there, you might not.
We know that you can be taken from here. You seemed better
in New York and Savannah, right?"

She blinked at him, confused.

"Scully. Were you having these nightmares when we
were in the field? In New York?"

"No. Not there."

"Then, a change of venue, for now. Maybe a hotel. I'll
have to consider. But only at night, right? Scully?" He had let
go of her arm to pace across the floor, and she had sank down
on the bed, sitting there slumped over. Her eyes were drifting
shut. He knelt down by the bed.

"Scully, you have to tell me. The nightmares come
only at night, right?"

Blue eyes opened, looked at him, closed again. "Yeah,
Mulder, I only dream at night. Most people do", she added
dryly. Maybe she could go back to sleep. Comfortable on the
bed, so comfortable . . .

She let out a gasping wince and clutched at him
spasmodically as he wrapped an arm around her waist, twisting
her body away from him. Frowning, he loosened his grip
immediately as his mind began an endless chant. Don't think
about it, Mulder, don't think. Concentrate on getting her out of
here, and worry about the rest later. "Scully?"

She caught a breath, face pale and bloodless. "Don't
do that, Mulder. It hurts. What are you doing anyway?"

"I think we need to get out of here for a while. You're
going to have to help me here, okay? C'mon, Scully, get up,
that's it, put your arm around my neck, here, sit up for me, great,
all right now, I'm going to lift you, okay, here we go, that's it . . .
"

By the time it occurred to her foggy brain to protest,
they were already out the door, and she was held in an embrace
far too secure--and far too comfortable--to possibly struggle
against.

So, for the first time in weeks, she let herself be taken
care of, be sheltered, protected. Let herself feel she could be.
Relieved, this time, to give up her vaunted control. She settled
her head against his chest and let the steady sound of the
heartbeat against her ear lull her back to sleepy oblivion.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere
At a roughly corresponding time

A lazy smoke ring drifted over the desk, through the
room to finally dissipate into the tobacco-odoured air.

"Not bad."

"I try."

"I long ago gave up smoking pipes."

"Far better than those sticks you inhale."

"So, the project is progressing smoothly." Another
ring sailed around the room.

"Really? It's going well? And those rumours I heard?"

"As well as can be expected. It's under control."

"And what of the rogue experiments? I trust they are
no longer a problem."

"We are making the appropriate efforts to locate them.
It's only a matter of time."

"Excellent. So our latest subject has achieved stasis?

"Presently in conjunction with the other, yes. We are
weaning it to independence."

"And the termination schedule?"

"Proceeding as planned."

"Really. I had heard you were encountering some
resistance with the second stage. According to your report,
subject SDK0223 seemed to be particularly resistant. We had
hoped you would be able to salvage it, you know. We are
somewhat disappointed."

"Yes, well. It seemed to have potential, but no longer.
It has fulfilled its use, and gradual termination seemed to be the
best course, with continued efforts in case it was still possible
to salvage anything. It did perform so well previously. We may
have to accelerate the termination, though."

"Let it be done."

"I am still not so sure that she can not be controlled."

Four heads swiveled to look at the thin man in the grey
suit, who paled under the scrutiny and tapped the ashtray
nervously with the cigarette.

"Really. 'She'." A raised eyebrow from the speaker
sitting in shadows. A cultured voice, accented.

"I mean number SDK0223, of course."

"And why do you take such an interest?" The tone of
excessive disinterest.

"Because of the project. No other reason."

"None at all." The head briefly inclined in mocking
deference.

"Gentlemen, please. That is sufficient. I think that we
have covered all that is necessary. This meeting stands
adjourned. I thank you for attending, and caution you to
remember, as always, the constant need for discretion and
security. Gentlemen, until next time, you may be dismissed."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:48 a.m.
Alexandria, VA
Apartment #42

"So, Scully, you want to tell me what's been going on?"

"Nothing, Mulder. I've just had a cold, and I've been
having some problems sleeping." Obdurate.

"Seems like more than the common cold, Scully. You
shouldn't have been at work." Relentless.

"Well, maybe I was feeling a little worse than usual.
As I said, nothing a few hours of sleep wouldn't, and hasn't,
cured." She was intractable.

"Dammit, Scully, why can't you . . ."

Swiftly, irrationally, she was extremely angry. "What
Mulder! What do you want to know? I can't tell you who they
are! I only saw one of them outside, the one time! Never again.
I don't know, I can't remember, I am ignorant of it, what part do
you not understand?" She was shaking with the force of her
anger, screaming, and the words tumbled one over the other.
Until all at once she realized what she had just said, and
stopped mid-tirade. Clutched the side of the table, fisted the
hand of the arm wrapped around her body, bending slightly.

"I don't know," she reiterated; and quieter, "I don't
know." Her world was crumbling and he would not let it alone.
She took a step back, away from him.

"So you saw someone." His voice was implacable.

"No."

"Tell me, Scully. I won't leave you alone until you do."
He stepped towards her.

"Yes, all right, once at the hospit--"

"God, Scully. No wonder you didn't want to go."
Although he knew that, despite her profession, she hated being
in hospital more than anyone he knew, now. Avoided them in
all but a purely professional role. "Are you sure?"

But the conversation had already become much too
insane for her. So she said in a voice of strained and
condescending rationality, "No, Mulder, I'm sure I just saw
someone I knew."

"Scully, you know that's not the case."

Would he never give it a rest? Clearly she did not
want, the last thing in the world, in fact, she wanted, was to talk
about it. She got up. They were late for work as it was. Maybe
she could get him involved in telling her about this case, the one
they weren't even supposed to be on. Shouldn't be hard to get
Mulder to start babbling about that instead. She walked over to
get her coat.

"Hey, where are you going?" He was content to let the
other issue drop, for the moment. He'd been badgering her for a
while, and there would be better times to talk. And she would
talk--if not to him, then to someone else.

"It's a quarter after nine, Mulder, where do you think?"

"You're not serious; stay a while."

"Mulder, I've barely done any work at all last week. I
can't afford to do less than I already am." She looked at him.
"In fact, we're both late, and you should be complaining about
the lack of stuff I've been completing. What kind of department
are you running?" She was half-playful, half serious. Mostly
relieved at the change of subject.

He tried again. "Aw, c'mon Scully", he sulked,
"couldn't you stay, just this once? My apartment's not that bad .
. . and I've got leftover Halloween chocolate." He smiled at her
entreatingly, cajoling, his best wounded puppy look. "You
know you want to."

"No, Mulder, I have to go." She smiled back, gently
but firmly. This kind of Mulder she could deal with.

And his expression changed. "Correction, Scully, you
will stay. I'm not convinced it's safe for you to leave, and I need
some time to figure out what to do. *You* are going to stay and
rest, as you are clearly not well enough to leave. And if you
won't stay here willingly, I'm simply going to tell Skinner you
were so ill you practically fainted in front of the elevator. And
he'll have you both on leave and in a hospital so fast you won't
even have time to yell at me. Neither of us want that." He knew
he was being high-handed and obnoxious and he didn't care.
Scully was stubborn, but he was equally determined.

"You wouldn't." The faintest tremor in her voice.

"Try me." Grimly.

"Mulder! Don't do this." Her face was white with fury.

"I know you Scully; if the situation were reversed,
you'd do the same to me." He looked at her.

She lowered her eyes. "That's different", she mumbled.
"I'm not really sick. And I'm a doctor."

"So if you're not sick, are you willing to let me in on
what's going on?"

Silence. He sighed. "Then you can't guilt me into
letting you leave, although I do feel badly." He attempted a
crooked grin, tried to catch her eye. "I had hoped you'd agree to
my hospitality willingly. You're giving my apartment a
complex."

She refused to look at him, and he cringed inwardly.
Rage exuded from her every pore. "Only when your fever is
down completely, Scully. Not before." He paused, then added,
"I'll be back in a few hours." She was facing away from him and
pretended she had not heard.

He sighed, and, hardening his heart, he got up and left.
He'd make it up to her later, he promised himself.

Later. He almost smiled at the thought.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somewhere
Trailer of the Lone Gunmen
9:52 a.m..

"So, Mulder, we've discovered the name to the face on
the photograph." Langly moved to lean back against the desk.

"And rather pleasant work it was as well." Frohike
leered. "Exactly why do you want to find this woman, Mulder?
She seems quite luscious. Photographs never lie."

Mulder did not even deign to grant Frohike a reply,
although he did hide a faintly pained grimace. Frohike, a bit
surprised at this grave demeanour in one so usually *not*
serious, exchanged a quick look with Langly. Noticing the
tension, Byers stepped in.

"Let me tell you, this one wasn't so easy", Byers began.
"This woman seems to have no records before the age of 12.
Not surprisingly, she was a street kid, picked up by the child
welfare authorities at that age. But before that, nothing. No
previous records, no family history, nada. And believe me, we
looked."

"So, guys, who is she? The magic question."

"Ms. Katherine Sarah Jacobs. Twenty-nine, and living
in New York City. A district attorney there, rather well-known
actually. You should've come to us earlier." Frohike looked at
him smugly.

"Thanks guys, I'm indebted--a manner of speech only,
Frohike. I value my own skin far too much for that." He
grabbed the data sheet they gave him, smirked in grateful relief
and ducked out of the dingy trailer into the fresh blowing wind
and dark romanticism of the November morning.

At least one thing could still be counted on.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
11:49 a.m.
Alexandria, VA

Scully awoke from her nap to silence. Stretching,
sweaty, she rose from the bed, and went to the bathroom.

She felt much better. She would never have admitted
it, but she had really needed the rest. Maybe a shower--but
later. The bone-weariness had abated, her right hip--which had
been amazingly tender when she first returned, although there
had been no bruise, no cut, no mark of any kind to be seen--felt
a lot less painful now and she was, in fact, ravenously hungry.

She went to Mulder's shelves to rummage around,
certain she could find something vaguely edible. However, the
only appealing thing seemed to be some kind of sugary kids'
cereal, the kind she hadn't eaten since she'd been ten. But,
looking at the box, it seemed more and more to be just the thing.

She smirked to herself. Must be Mulder's influence
urging her on--knowing him, his apartment probably had some
weird Mulder-hex on it. And wonders, there was fresh milk in
the fridge, just waiting for her.

Grabbing the cereal, she wandered over into the living
room, feeling safer and more relaxed than she had in days. She
sat in the large armchair and placed her bowl near the telephone
on the small table beside her. She picked up the receiver,
dialing the remote access number for her answering machine.
She hadn't answered the phone much all weekend and hadn't
bothered to check her messages this morning, although the light
had been blinking when she'd left.

She listened to the messages and then erased them,
mentally noting who had called: Mulder, four times; her
mother, twice; Jack, Billy, and Laura, once each; Cathy inviting
her to a recital this Friday; Laura's secretary Meigan earlier
today, confirming the new appointment; and another few
messages from Trish, Skinner's latest temp. Wonder what that
was about? She sighed.

She was grateful for their concern, but really wished
they would leave her alone. She felt guilty for not returning
their calls, for turning the ringer of her phone off Sunday
evening so that all calls were automatically routed to her
machine, but couldn't seem to snap out of it. It was nice to
know people cared, but right now she wanted a void with no one
but herself and her own thoughts.

Just a few days, she thought, after that, I'll face you all.
I just need a couple of days to figure this out before I can talk
about it. She carefully hung up the receiver and just sat for a
minute. Then, looking for distraction, she began to examine the
small table, antique and elegantly whimsical. Rather unlike
most of the other things in Mulder's apartment.

The table was also covered in photographs, the only
place in the apartment that displayed this kind of personal
memento. Of people, of places. Of past times and present.
There was one of herself, and one of his mother. Some clearly
from college, and some from school. Some just of scenes,
places visited. And one photograph, old and crumpled,
carefully smoothed into a small brass frame. A picture of two
children, young and innocent.

She looked at the photograph of the two kids together
on a beach. Smiling, happy. Like any other kids on holiday.
The boy had his arm around his sister, partly in camaraderie,
partly protective, and the girl allowed this. Pretty children, the
both of them--large dark eyes and dark, dark hair. She ran a
finger around the edge of the frame, then picked it up. Slipped
the picture out of its frame, and flipped the photograph over, to
read: Fox William Taylor Mulder, Samantha Anne Taylor
Mulder. July, 1973. An ornate, flowing inscription in faded
sepia ink. She sighed, and carefully replaced the photograph
and the frame back in the exact same position on the table, the
position marked in dust on the polished wood. She turned away
from the table to look out of the window, onto the quiet street.

She had often thought of Mulder's obsession with his
sister. It was strange that he believed he could save her. A bit
amazing, that he could have such a strong faith in that when he
believed in so little else. It was his own sense of control, the
belief that he could have saved her, that he still could save her,
in a world that he knew was full of chaos, and lies, and
deception. In this one thing he believed, if in nothing else.

Well, that and aliens. She smiled, but there was a
tragedy in her eyes.

What do you do when you can no longer believe in
anything? You start to believe in everything, and the world
becomes once again full of possibility.

Scully had often gazed at the poster on Mulder's office
wall thinking that she, too, wanted to believe. She had seen the
evidence, felt the evidence, painfully learned the knowledge.
But belief was a precipice built of perception and faith,
unsteady and crumbling, standing on the edge of reality over the
chasm of illusion. To believe in Mulder's truth would be to alter
all she had so far perceived to be true. Where does fantasy end
and reality begin? And whose perception held the greater truth?
Tired now, fever returning, she picked up the half-eaten bowl of
cereal and padded slowly back to bed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
2:43 p.m.
Dulles International Airport

Scully heaved her bag in one hand, and tried to look
for Mulder at the same time. "This is the final boarding call for
Flight 156 to New York City, now boarding at Gate 15. Would
all passengers please proceed to Gate 15 at this time. I repeat,
this is the final boarding call for Flight 156 . . . "

Why the hell was Mulder going to New York? It's a
good thing she'd remembered to call Skinner's office before
going back to bed. Even more lucky that Trish, the young temp
replacing the vacationing ever-efficient Kim, Skinner's regular
secretary, was so completely clueless. Scully had called and
identified herself, and before she could say anything further
Trish had begun saying, "Yes hello, you must be calling about
your tickets." Scully had just stopped herself in time from
asking what on earth tickets the woman was talking about and
the girl had continued without pause. "Agent Scully, I have you
and Agent Mulder booked on Flight 156 out of Dulles at 3 p.m.
The flight was pretty crowded, but I did manage to get you an
aisle seat. It was pretty short notice, though; Agent Mulder only
told me to book a flight this morning."

Scully had barely managed to stop herself from
laughing. Clueless types with initiative. Simply wonderful.

"That's wonderful, Trish. Could you do me a favour,
and hold my ticket for me until I come to pick it up? When
Agent Mulder comes in, just give him his, and don't mention
that I called. Just tell him the other one's not ready yet, if he
asks. But don't mention it at all if you can. Can you do that?"

"I don't know, Agent Scully. Although he hadn't said
anything about your ticket, I'd assumed he wanted to pick both
up together, and he is the head of your department." The woman
had sounded unsure and worried.

"Don't worry, Trish, it'll be okay. If you will note, I
actually have equal authority." Must remember again to thank
Skinner for that promotion, Scully thought. She'd been
promoted just this past May, to her delight, and now her level of
authorization and security clearance was indeed equal to that of
her partner's. The third floor corner office was nice, too. She
grinned.

"It's for a surprise, I can't reveal details, and I'll tell him
later I asked you, so he'll know that it's not your fault. I'd really
appreciate it." Reluctantly the woman had agreed, something in
the confiding tone Scully had assumed had appealed to her
frivolous nature, and to seal the bargain Scully had thanked her
far more effusively than she normally would have.

She chuckled. Mulder would not get away with
ditching her this time. Let him even try and justify it--she wasn't
that sick. She craned her neck again, wishing she was taller as
she tried to look over the crowds and shiny, newly renovated
surfaces of the airport.

"Scully!"

She whirled.

"What in hell are you doing here?" His eyes flashed
with rage. Oops.

"Mulder, I was told that the investigation of the case
was taking us to New York, so I packed and came." Best to
keep it simple, Dana.

They had the inevitable argument.

In the end, though, he decided that maybe it was better
if he let her come. Mostly because, although he wouldn't admit
it, he'd been feeling apprehensive about leaving her even for a
day, and wasn't really sure how long he'd have to be in New
York. He ignored the small voice in the back of his head that
said that he wouldn't be too effective at protecting Scully
anyway--when had he ever been?--but this was different. He'd
deal with the situation if and when it arose again. In the
meantime, he'd do everything in his power to make sure it never
would.

Besides, finding this Jacobs woman was one thing, but
after that? He'd probably have to watch the woman for a while,
if she really was being stalked by some bizarre serial killer.
Who knew how long it would be before he could get
replacement agents. Backup would not be easy or forthcoming,
especially as he'd have to explain why he was investigating a
case he officially wasn't even on. Then he'd have to go back to
Skinner and explain exactly why he was working on this case to
get the proper authorization--even if Skinner had given him
some latitude, officially Skinner had pulled him off and would
have to reprimand him--and that would be before deciding
whether to even grant the request. And if he went straight to the
field office ASAC, a photocopied file was sure to look
suspicious. Either way, this might take a while, something he
hadn't really considered until just this minute.

Regardless, now that Scully was here, and ready to
come . . . it would have been hard to send her away. Including
the wrath he'd feel on his return. In any event, he did not want
Scully to be alone overnight. And he didn't know who to trust
to watch her.

Deny it all she wanted, Mulder could not be willfully
blind. He was, he repeated to himself, justifiably scared for her.
The terror of the previous night was still fresh for him, although
she seemed to have blocked it out. If nothing had happened
there last time, New York might once again bring similar
blessings. Time for recovery, to assess what to do.

Ultimately it made her feel better to come, he could
tell. More in control. She'd be just as safe there as here.

Maybe, later tonight, he could persuade her to go to a
doctor at least. After all, he had to get his way sometime. He
had a good friend from undergrad who now practiced in
Newark. An oblivious kind of guy, Michael--and discreet.
Yeah, that's it. She could come, but he had conditions.

So he smirked at her, and laid out these conditions as
they walked through the passageway onto the plane. The
ensuing battle easily ate up the minutes of the tedious flight.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
En route to New York
3:24 p.m.

"Ladies and Gentleman, this is your captain. We
would request that you please keep your seatbelts fastened for
the next several minutes as we anticipate some air turbulence.
We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your
cooperation."

Great, thought Scully, turning even more pale as the
small commuter plane began to jerk. Just perfect. Not only
that, she had begun to feel seriously ill again. She had gone to
the bathroom to take an aspirin, casually, and was pretty sure
Mulder had not noticed her discomfort. Yet. Now she walked
slowly back to her seat; carefully, precisely, knowing that she
just needed to sit down for a minute and all would be well. A
firmer jolt of the plane sent her sprawling against the seat she
was passing.

"Sorry." The passenger, a middle-aged lady, smiled
back reassuringly. Scully kept going. She was almost there
before the world went black.

Shit, thought Scully, maybe this will still work. If she
could just move a little forward, maybe she could kind of
gracefully fall into her seat with no-one the wiser. She reached
out a hand, tentatively, hoping to feel the seat cushion and just
lower her rather unresponsive body into it. No such luck.
Rather than the seat cushion, she encountered Mulder's hand,
pulling her forward, lending her his strength, helping her to sit.

She leaned back and took a breath, eyes closed. She
didn't care, not really. She preferred that he didn't notice--not
that she didn't trust him, but it was still hard to let someone see
all your weakness, all the time. Especially someone you work
with. But she was, in this instance, grateful--better a discreet
Mulder than an indiscreet stewardess had she collapsed in the
narrow aisle.

Yet, for a change, Mulder chose not to be annoying.
He did remark--she expected no less from him. Wouldn't be
Mulder otherwise. But, miracle of miracles, he didn't push.

"Competing with your corpses, Scully?" A dry inquiry,
but to his credit he said not one word more. After she was
settled comfortably, he merely turned back to his paper and
ignored the incident completely, except for one or two
surreptitiously solicitous glances in her direction.

She had never loved him more.

And since that train of thought definitely did not need
to be pursued, she instead closed her eyes and concentrated on
trying to sleep, to blank her whirling mind, to let it drift.

She never noticed when her head fell slightly sideways
and encountered the soft dark material of European wool.

And she likewise did not notice when a careful arm
reached out and tucked her more comfortably into place upon
his shoulder.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 4.
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