Restoration
By Anna Otto
anna_otto@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Skinner,
Dr. Scanlon, as well as X-Files belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions,
and FOX. I am borrowing them just for fun, no copyright infringement is
intended. Everyone else is mine. All quotes used here are from "Master and
Margarita", with great love and deepest admiration to Mikhail Bulgakov.

Archive: yes, anywhere, as long as my name and the rest are still attached.

Rating: R 

Classification: SRA

Spoilers: Memento Mori

Summary: withheld at author's request.

Keywords: character death, Mulder/other, Mulder/Scully (?)

Feedback: Yes, please. Send all comments and flames :-) to 
anna_otto@hotmail.com

Author's Notes: (this is a long introduction, but please, bear with me?)
1) This story is hard to summarize. I also feel that providing a summary
would ruin the surprise. I must warn you here that there is severe angst
within. I was listening to Mozart's Requiem when I wrote this.
Judge for yourself :-)
2) I didn't intend for "Master and Margarita" to become such an essential
piece to this story. i know that few people read it, and it is not required
to follow the story. The basic stuff about it is explained inside. This is 
not a crossover. I beseech you to read "Master and Margarita" after this; 
it's a literary masterpiece everyone will enjoy.
3) Gethsemane is ignored in blissful denial...
4) Most sincere thanks to Maraschino for her suggestions and good humor.
This story probably wouldn't exist if not for her encouragement. And please
write more of your own... you are the best, Melanie :-)

On with the story...

November, 2000.

	Mulder stood up and surveyed the basement. Few things have changed 
in the nine years he had spent there. Same ugly-looking file drawers. Same 
"I Want To Believe" poster he remembered fixing to the wall defiantly. Same 
cluttered desk and an uncomfortable chair, living out its last days.
Everything except the people that opened the door of this room...
        Shaking himself out of his reverie, he collected a few papers,
turned off the lights and stepped out. It was time to go home. To his wife.
The echo of Mulder's unhurried footsteps resonated through the desolate
hallway.

/"And a voice, her voice, answered me, `It's me.'"/

September 1999.

        He met Carrie while investigating a case in Baltimore. She was
working in a little bookstore that attracted his eye when he was conducting
a door-to-door questioning, looking for a possible eyewitness to a
kidnapping of a little boy. The district police department was overworked,
and the agent had to do most of the work on a case himself. "They could have
seen it in the store, too," went through Mulder's head. "Might as well check
it out." Inside, it was somewhat dark, but not gloomy; smell of old
leather-bound volumes drifted through the cool air. A husky, honey-rich
voice broke pleasant silence. "Can I help you with something, sir?" The
agent, and then just a man, turned around to appreciate the owner of that
voice. The sight revealed to him was breath taking. An average-height woman
with shapely figure, light brown hair with blond overtones ("highlights",
Mulder registered briefly), beautiful oval of a head slightly inclined to
expose the long neck, and attentive gray eyes that seemed to look way past
his face. Into his very soul.
        "Yes," Mulder managed to speak after a minute. "I was looking for a
copy of `Master And Margarita', would you happen to have it? I realize it's
a rare book..."
        "Say no more," the woman quickly disappeared inside one of the many
isles. "I have read it a few years back, and since then, tried to keep it
in the store in case someone would want it too... here," she brought back a
thick paperback in a few moments. "I am just sorry that it's not hard-cover."
        Mulder looked at her in surprise. This was strange, he hardly ever
met anyone who has heard of Bulgakov's work, much less read it. He uttered
the title in hopes that the store would *not* have it, to save
himself time. But, this woman looked like she appreciated this particular
piece of literature. Pulling out his wallet, he decided to breach the
subject of the kidnapping.  "That is quite all right. Say, did you happen to
see anything two nights ago, on Tuesday - any suspicious activity, something
unusual? I am with the bureau, investigating a kidnapping of a boy from the
neighborhood," he said, paying for the book and flipping his badge.
        "No, as a matter of fact, I was not working that evening. Day off,"
she smiled apologetically. "I wish so that I could help you, I know Brian's
parents. This is quite terrible, they must be beside themselves with worry,"
the woman sounded sincere, her own concern plainly apparent on the lovely
face.
        Mulder nodded, slightly disappointed by his lack of luck, yet again.
He must have questioned around twenty people today already, without any
results.  Brian Warren was now missing for two days. The case was not an
X-File, by any means, just a favor to some old FBI friends. Still, it cut
only too close to home. Quietly, the agent collected his things and turned
to head out. Then, on an impulse, he turned to look at the figure behind the
counter. "It was nice meeting you..."
        "Carrie. Carrie Stone."
        "Fox Mulder. Maybe, I will see you again sometime?" With that, he
pushed the door and returned back to the case.

/"I am not afraid of anything... I'm not afraid because I've already been
through everything."/

        They found the kidnapper soon, after Mulder interviewed one of
Warrens' neighbors. The wife was a slight woman, nervous and jumpy; the
husband looked quiet and full of himself. He used a venomous stare to calm
her down and answered most of the questions on his own. The wheels started
churning in Mulder's head just looking at those two. Something was wrong
here, and he intended to find out just what it was. After obtaining a search
warrant, he and a few other police officers turned their house upside down
and found little four-year old Brian in the attic. He was apparently unhurt
"as of now", Mulder commented cynically, but scared to death.
        The couple, Phillips, was quickly apprehended. The wife, though
completely aware of what was going on, was released in a day after it became
apparent that she lived in terror of the man she called her husband. Years
of abuse, physical and emotional, nurtured great fear in her, until it was
all she was aware of. The day when he didn't speak to her harshly, didn't
beat her senseless, was a holiday. The couple's children, also abused by
their father, lived far away now. Brian was just the next victim.
        When it became obvious that he couldn't talk his way out of this
one, Phillips admitted to kidnapping the boy. He didn't disclose of the
intent of his actions, and Mulder shuddered to think of all the possible
reasons. The choice of a victim was prompted by some ill air between
Phillips' and Warrens. Just a neighborly little conflict, as Phillips
described it. The man was clever, but not in self-control any longer.  "The
monster grew an appetite," Mulder wrote in a case report. The fact that
Phillips has not been reported long ago, by someone who knew him and what he
was, angered the agent. The idea that such a fiend lived unnoticed for so
many years, by so many people, sickened him.

/"Completely joyless days followed..."/

        There was little in Mulder's life those days to brighten his world.
He saw malevolent gray skies that hid behind the fluffy white clouds and
shining yellow orb of sun. Every day, he went to work and investigated
dreadful cases from X-Files and other departments, not shying away from
additional load, but rather welcoming it. He didn't exactly revel in the
darkness of each case, but he did find strange solace in seeing terrible
things. It drove a point home. It seemed to convey to him, each time, that
terrible things indeed happened. They happened every day. To different
people. In different cities. For all imaginable reasons.
        The madness of profiling welcomed him, and he often teetered at the
edge of it, looking with intellectual curiosity just beyond. It would be so
simple to step over, but something held him firmly in check and he turned
back, each time, with regret.
        He rarely went back to his apartment; his fish were long dead and he
didn't dare buy new ones. His scarce furniture coated with dust, and his
kitchen sink rusted from not being used too often. Mulder spent most of his
time away from Washington, traveling and investigating; when he was in the
city, his office was his home.
        He still looked very professional, every inch of his clothing
polished and fashionable. Nothing penetrated his cool exterior, and the
message he radiated to all those who saw him was "Back off!" No one
knew what went on behind his eyes, often shaded by the dark glasses. No one
suspected what happened inside his brilliant head. But, if they cared at all
to know, Mulder would tell them that terrible things happened there. Every
day.

/"I'm going to kiss you on the forehead, and everything will work out as it
should... take my word for it."/

        Mulder's partner died two and a half years ago. It was not cancer,
though in all honesty, he had to admit that if not for the knife that sliced
its way between Scully's shoulder blades, she would have been dead soon
anyway. He still remembered her pasty pallor and unnatural thinness from the
few last weeks he knew her. The headaches she tried to hide and the
nosebleeds that she couldn't; finally, the fainting. It happened a couple of
times in the office, and each time Mulder would pull out his cellular and
start dialing 911, when she would wake up and manage to convince him that
she was `fine'. And both times, Mulder felt like completing the call, and
getting an ambulance to revive *him. * He abhorred himself for not taking
her to the hospital immediately. He hated himself for not asking her to
resign. He cried silent tears because he *needed* her with him, every day,
and to tell her to leave, whether to the hospital for treatment, however
useless, or home to her family, was beyond his strength.
        Mulder did try, made a few honest attempts at the `big talk', and
each time Scully would attempt to change the topic, or shove results of the
tests that proved she was just `fine' in his face. The tests that Mulder
despised because he couldn't understand their terminology, and because one
day he knew they would prove that Scully was anything but fine. Once, she
said openly that she could not imagine leaving X-Files. Or her partner. For
any reason, for any enemy, be it a person or a tumor. She needed to be with
Mulder as badly as he needed her. So, each one of the `big talks' led them
nowhere.
        Both agents were still hoping for some sort of a magical cure, but
it was not quickly forthcoming. "If there ever was one," often thought
Mulder. Sometimes the whole thing seemed so simple to him, he almost
laughed. They are just biocells, dammit, isn't there some chemical compound
that can kill them? And they *are* contrasted in structure from the normal
cells, so can't this compound just differentiate between the two? But the
recipe of that elusive substance was, indeed, not to be found so easily.
        And so the pair went on. Searching along the possible routes of
investigation: Scully sifting through medical research; Mulder still looking
for Dr. Scanlon and any and all pertaining information. After all hard work
they both put into finding a cure, it was all for not.

/"Oh, what madness!"/

May, 1997.

        They were investigating a series of ghastly murders in DC. The
killer was ruthless, leaving each victim, all of them pretty young girls in
their twenties, as a bizarre display of guts and blood; eyes cut out
of the sockets, and *gone,* ears or nose sliced off. Except for the
ever-missing eyes, other wounds inflicted were on varying body parts, but
the knife and killer's MO were always the same. All murdered women appeared
to have nothing but beauty in common. Violent Crimes were stumped, so they
requested the services of the Spooky team once again. Scully, creeping
herself and her partner out, mumbled something about human eyes being quite
a treat in the Reticulum. Then looked chagrined.
        They took the case.
        Despite Scully's extravagant theory, and common speculation that
this was a work of Satanist cult, Mulder was convinced that the eyes were
just a present that a killer took from each of his victims. One day he found
himself staring at a disfigured body of a young black-haired woman, whose
face, even in death, managed to look exquisite. The pale, heavy eyelids
covered the absence of large brown eyes. Mulder could not doubt their color
and shape as he contemplated their owner. Suddenly, he imagined those once
lively, sparkling eyes floating in a bottle. In some psycho's gruesome
apartment. The image was so revolting that it sent his head reeling, walls
of the morgue colliding in the shortened line of vision. But in that moment,
Mulder actually felt himself inside the killer's head. And he understood.
        The profile Mulder put together was frightening. Scully could read
her partner's repulsion between the lines, in each painstakingly drawn word.
Suddenly, each of the autopsies she performed on this case, her horror at
what remained of each body, were a far cry from what she knew Mulder must
have experienced while writing this profile. Hell 101, a weird reminder of
school course numeration flew through her mind. No, she corrected herself
with derision, Hell 401, Hell 501 sounded more like it. After all, Mulder
was a graduate in this fine educational institution. Freshman classes were
not for him...
        "The killer realizes that he is evil; each murder is premeditated.
Though he doesn't know any of the victims personally, he watches them from
a distance for some time before finally killing them. It is a very close
distance... the women never realize that the man who passes them on the
street a couple of times will prove to be the weapon of their demise...
The killer longs to approach each of the victims; but expects them to turn
him down, probably based on his earlier experiences with females. He has
some physical deformity, not crippling or too hideous, but ugly enough in
his imagination. He scratched the word `romance' from his vocabulary some
time ago. So he punishes them for not knowing him, for not loving him. He
takes eyes in hopes of preserving the picture of their pain and
sublimation... It is, quite literally, a gift of their love to him. He needs
to believe that these women are willing to give up the windows to their
souls for him...
        The twisted mind of this beast is already in hell; and he tries to
recreate this hell for others as he goes along."
        The profile went on forever, describing where to look for a man, his
probable appearance and job descriptions, and his childhood. Vivid colors of
a torturous portrait of a monster. Scully was haunted by the visions of him.
Mulder looked like a shadow, obsessive and intent on one purpose only: to
catch that monster. Later, he recollected his behavior with shame. Yes, he
was finally successful in finding the killer that would have taken many more
lives. But at the same time, he overlooked his partner's illness, and her
failing strength. And her great concern for *him. *
        There were no witnesses to any of the crimes; no fingerprints were
ever found. The fact that none of the victims were related to or knew the
killer complicated the matter further. The list of subjects was not very
long, but impressive nonetheless. Mulder was worried that the killer would
strike soon and he suggested that the few most likely suspects be followed
and stopped in time, if need be. The police and FBI were both desperate and
they agreed - anything to prevent another murder from occurring, and
another young woman's plunge to death.

/"Guess that something awful has happened to me... Come to me, come,
come!!"/

        The night that Mulder kept replaying over and over again, wishing he
could have done something differently, the agents were staking out the house
of one of the suspects, James Byrne. On the photo, he had a flat nose as if
it was repeatedly smashed against his smiling, round face. But such a normal
name, Scully considered, scanning the list of possible killers'
descriptions. She was bored as she waited for something to happen. Mulder
slept, slumped in a driver seat, his brow creased as if he were seeing a
nightmare. Suddenly, a movement attracted Scully's eyes. The door of the
house remained closed and by her calculations, Byrne was still inside. Even
so, she wanted to check it out. The agent decided not to wake her partner,
since she was certain that this uneasy slumber was the first semblance of
sleep he got in a week. Whatever she saw was not worth it.
        Scully got out of the vehicle softly and went to look around the
house. Finding nothing and no one, she couldn't understand what it was that
she saw in the first place. Maybe a stray cat or a squirrel... probably some
nonsense she shouldn't have paid attention to. Mulder... he would be worried
if he woke up and she wasn't there. Scully turned around and started walking
back to the car when she felt such a familiar trickle of blood upon her lip.
Before she had a chance to pull out a tissue, an abrupt searing headache
overwhelmed her and she doubled over in pain, praying for it to stop.

        James Byrne was going to kill tonight. He contemplated the picture
of Lucy, his intended victim, with a mixture of lust, hatred, and longing.
She was beautiful... very beautiful. Fair skin, green eyes, curly hair, and
those long, long legs... The bitch. She would not even glance at him, and he
walked so close by. He liked her, he thought she would be the one. And she
ignored him, just like all the others. She was exactly the same as all of
them. She deserved to die.
        James turned off the light and stared blankly out the window. Soon,
he would dress and walk out into the night. Comfortable in darkness that hid
his ugliness. Alone as he served death to those who offended him. Triumphant
as he gazed in their eyes, the pain he brought magnified as if through a
distorted lens.
        And then he saw her... a pretty small woman with red hair. He
watched, fascinated at her movements, quick and graceful. The night washed
her figure in moonlight and James could almost envision her dressed in a
ballroom gown. She would look magnificent in a long dress, creamy fabric
hugging her body. Oh, it has to be creamy... to showcase this porcelain skin
and highlight this dazzling hair. Or skip the damn dress. Who needed cloth?
This woman would look even better without it.  What was she doing here
anyway? This was not a place for a girl like her. Look at that suit, cost a
fortune probably. Wait, what is that bulge on her hip? Not a... oh, Jesus...
A gun.
        Cold blood pulsing in his veins, Byrne quickly assessed the
situation. She was most definitely a cop. A beautiful one, but still a cop.
It meant that the police were after him. They were watching him. He couldn't
kill tonight. The thought filled him with blazing anger. He suddenly hated
the woman that he admired only seconds earlier. He wanted to kill her
instead of Lucy. If the police were after him, they would catch him
eventually. Might as well take the life of their own. It would serve those
fuckers right.
        When the woman stopped unexpectedly and grabbed her head as if in
terrible pain, James Byrne was very surprised. And very relieved. He was
lucky; if he could catch her now, she would not even struggle. How
convenient. Not losing any time, he opened the door, ran to the crouched
figure, and plunged the knife in her back.

        Scully felt the blade rip through her jacket and skin, to the very
center of her being. In the agony of a headache, she could not even care
about what happened. Not a sound escaped her lips as she fell on the
ground, coherent thought fleeting her mind. And then her headache stopped
and she felt no more.
        Mulder woke up from the sound of footsteps. He opened his eyes
slowly and stretched his arms, forgetting that he could hit Scully in the
process. Speaking of Scully... where was she? Worry and fear instantly
penetrated his conscience as he found himself alone in the car. How could
she just leave? How could he fall asleep on a stakeout? Why didn't she wake
him up? The agent ran out of the car, in the direction of Byrne's house.
The scene revealed to him was engraved in his brain ever since. His petite
partner on the ground, her dark purple jacket no longer navy, blood still
streaming from her nose. James Byrne, his features distended in a grimace of
hideous joy, kneeling to pull the knife out of her. The worst nightmare
coming alive before his very eyes. For a second, the agent actually thought
he would wake up and it would be over, and Scully would be there. Shaking
him lightly from another bad dream. Still alive. Still Scully. Still.
        Mulder killed the bastard in cold blood. He shot him first in the
heart, and then between the eyes, Scully lying motionlessly a few inches
from his feet. Then, he took a cellular out of his pocket, dialed  911,
and finally completed the call without any distractions. Lastly, he pulled
the knife out of his friend's heart and turned her over. Knowing well that
the call he made was now useless. And that the lifeless body could
not be revived by the medical team when they arrived. Mulder closed Scully's
blue eyes that looked past him and wiped the blood from her lips, still red
and sensuous. And then he just held this woman who was everything to him,
and cried. Feeling as if his heart was going to dissolve in his tears,
finally relieving the all-encompassing pain he perceived. Crying harder when
he understood that it wasn't going to happen.

/"Just look at your eyes! There's a wasteland in there..."/


        After Scully's death, Skinner was reluctant to talk to Mulder. He
knew that there was nothing to say, or to do, to alleviate the guilt and
suffering his agent was undoubtedly consumed by. Upon hearing the news, the
AD was devastated himself - and Scully was not, by any means, his anchor in
life. But she was Mulder's. Steeling himself for the worst, Skinner went to
the basement instead of inviting Mulder upstairs. A gesture of respect for
his best team of agents, the last gesture he could afford them both.
        He would never admit it, could never explain it, but what he saw
scared him. Mulder, perfectly dressed and shaved, reading through a case
file. An exemplary portrait of a good FBI agent. Looking absolutely normal.
Except for the dark circles under the eyes perfectly devoid of expression.
        "Agent Mulder..." Skinner started and could not finish the phrase he
forgot to prepare.
        "Yes, sir?"
        AD didn't like the voice either. It was deceptively empty, just like
the eyes. And it was cold and full of darkness, hiding just underneath.
Threatening to engulf everything that the man sitting before him was. "Hmm,
Agent Mulder... I came to talk to you about what will happen now that..."
        "Now that what, sir?"
        "Agent Scully is..."
        "Dead. I know. What did you want to say?"
        Skinner shuddered inwardly. This was not what he was expecting.
Discarding the present course of action, he said the first thing that came
to mind. "You are required to show at the FBI psychologist's office today
at 2:00." Damn, he would have to make an appointment quickly, probably
rearrange their schedule... Upon seeing resignation in Mulder's face,
Skinner added, almost an afterthought, "I expect you will continue your work
with X-Files. Please try to stay in town... for your appointments."
        Skinner turned and walked away, unable to contemplate the ghost of
his agent any longer. Whoever allowed Scully and Mulder, one of them sick,
and the other exhausted, to participate in a stakeout was going to pay.

/"When [he] says that he'll bring me back to life, I don't believe him.
He's humane and simply wants to comfort me."/

        The weeks without Scully stretched into months. Mulder diligently
met with the psychologist twice a week. Dr. Schwartz was good-natured and
inquisitive, but he hasn't been successful in persuading his patient to
talk. That is, talk about the important things. Mulder was quite adept at
telling the good doctor what was expected of him, psychology training
operating in full gear. He never declined an invitation for another time
"to chat", as Dr. Schwartz inventively put it. He pretended to listen to
therapist's advice. It kept Skinner at bay, and it seemed to make the
psychologist happy, so the appointments continued.
        Mulder ignored curious and sorrowful looks; turned a deaf ear on
condolences. He clenched his teeth and got through the day. He didn't allow
himself to fall apart in public. His grief was private; only at home did his
tears ever come. In agent's mind, the guilt for Scully's demise lay entirely
upon his shoulders; chain of logic leading him to this conclusion
unquestionable. She was not operating to the best of her ability, this
caused by illness, illness caused by abduction, abduction caused because of
him. Not to mention his denial of that fact at the time. Or that he wasn't
fast enough to save her, that he was sleeping while the serial killer turned
the knife inside her. After all the near misses, after all threatening
situations from which Scully and he emerged triumphant, they got careless.
And they both paid for it.
        Many times, Mulder thought that should death find him, he wouldn't
mind. Would welcome oblivion with outstretched arms. The days without his
beloved redheaded partner were hell on earth, and often he looked upon life
as his punishment. However, Mulder never thought of ending it, not even in
the most severe bouts of depression. He just had to live through this, and
maybe if he were lucky enough, rest would come sooner than later. But he
would not prompt it.
        During one of their weekly meetings, Skinner shoved a memo from
Schwartz in Mulder's direction. "I don't believe myself of further use to
Agent Mulder's health. He does not present any danger to himself or others,
though I do believe him to operate under intense stress. I sincerely hope
he will find another therapist, perhaps one he will trust more, and seek to
improve his state of mind. For now, I suggest we stop the appointments."
Mulder's only reaction was to raise an eyebrow. Skinner suddenly looked sad,
almost old.
        "I wish you would share, Agent Mulder," voice soft and tired.
        "I wish you would give up, sir."
        "It helps, you know..."
        "I don't need help."
        A disbelieving look from Skinner followed.
        "Fine. I don't *want* help. My grief, my memories are all I have
left. I will not share a drop of either. Now if you will excuse me, sir,
I have another case to take care of."
        Skinner hunched his shoulders and turned to stare out the window as
Mulder silently stepped out of the office. The subject of the conversation
never came up again.

End of Part 1/2

Part 2/2

/"It seemed to me, especially when I was going to sleep, that some octopus
with supple and cold tentacles was stealing up to me, coming straight for
my heart."/

October 1999.

        Days after Warren case was completed, Mulder found his mind
returning to the woman in the bookstore. Her dignified stance and luminous
eyes located their way to his daydreams. Visions of Scully, the visions he
both loved and feared, generally occupied most of his days and nights; her
specter ever-present wherever he slept. *If* he slept. Carrie was a welcome
change, and that particular notion filled him with guilt.
        One day, he sat in the cafeteria with a few other agents whose
company he tolerated. Lost in a daydream about Scully that time; relieving
the moment when James Brown knelt before her body. Sweat poured off his
forehead. Hands clenched tightly; eyes squeezed shut to fend off the vision.
After what seemed like hours, he heard a voice, so far away, calling him
back to the present, "Mulder? Mulder, hey... Are you OK?" Mulder gradually
came to reality, whispering feverishly, "At least she still has her eyes."
The neighbors at his table recoiled in fear.
        Oh, this has gone far enough, Mulder thought. If this doesn't stop
soon, you will be a welcome guest at the mental institution. He thought of
Carrie who did not resemble Scully in any possible way. A few weeks later,
Mulder drove back to Baltimore. Not on a Tuesday..."
        Finding a familiar old bookstore, he hesitated on the crumbling
steps. What was he going to bring into this woman's life but sadness, grief,
and several obsessions that permeated his very being? He always destroyed
those close to him. He could bring up a few revealing examples to prove the
case at hand. But as Mulder closed his eyes and started on his way back to
the car, a familiar voice called him from the store.
        "Fox! Aren't you going to come in?"
        Starting at his first name and turning around, Mulder saw Carrie in
the doorway. She was smiling and frowning simultaneously, blue dress doing
wonders for her figure. "How does she make that face?" he wondered as he
grinned at her expression despite himself.
        "Looking for more Bulgakov?" She questioned more to say something
than to hear the answer.
        "No, actually..." Mulder scanned his memory for some obscure author,
but nothing came to mind. Giving up, and stepping inside the bookstore, the
agent decided to plunge. "Looking for you," he admitted and for the first
time in many, many months, did not think of the terrible things.

/"I was struck not so much by... beauty as by the extraordinary,
incomparable loneliness..."/

        Carrie thought that she was not beautiful. But she was unique. Her
every feature was well defined, her voice resembled morning meadows and deep
dark rivers. Her charm and poise were undeniable. She was never forgotten by
anyone who met her, be it a man or a woman. And she rarely forgot anyone,
too. Knowledge that each human being deserved to be recognized by name and
greeted with a smile were taught to her since childhood and were lessons she
remembered most vividly.
        Carrie was a loner more by profession than by choice. The literature
was her world, and she knew each book in the store. But few people visited
the little old place; who paid attention to heavy brown volumes when there
were chain bookstores in supermalls and flimsy paperbacks with colorful
pictures? The store made no money, and she seldom collected salary from its
owner. Yet, she came back each day because it was her life and she couldn't
walk away from it. Just like that.
        When the FBI agent visited, Carrie was amazed at how quickly her
heart was lost. His mention of `Master and Margarita' was unsettling. She
knew the book and its author were extremely popular in Russia, especially
after perestroika. But few heard of it anywhere else in the world. Though
translated to English and published a few times, the book was recognized and
discussed only in literary circles. Stumbling upon it during one of her
daily explorations of dimly lit isles of books, Carrie read it in one day.
And staggered at its depth and almost prophetic visions of hell and heaven
in the realm of Earth and beyond it. She admired beautiful Margarita as much
as she loved the tragic Master. And their romance filled her with
trepidation at its complexity and simplicity. Fox Mulder reminded her of the
book even before he spoke of it. There was an air of tragedy about him that
enveloped his eyes and resonated in his voice. He knew things she never
wanted to know.
        Carrie felt like she could almost touch his grief and pain. She was
preparing to extend her hand and remove them from the features of the man
standing before her and questioning her about the lost boy. Appearing more
lost than any missing child. She stopped just in time before making a
complete fool out of herself. The moment when he turned around and asked her
name, young woman felt suddenly happy. He did say that maybe he would see
her again... And as she waited, assured by the strange certainty that Fox
Mulder will come back, she tried guessing the reasons for his sadness and
thought of what she would tell him. All words abandoning her when he finally
did.

/"I walked alongside her, trying to keep in step with her, and to my
surprise, I felt no constraint whatsoever..."/

        There was no romance in their infrequent dates, as far as Mulder was
concerned. He did not love this woman, but found himself drawn to her
inexplicably nonetheless. He needed her strength, and her love. Yes, he did
realize that Carrie loved him, and cherished her all the more for it. But
Mulder could not return the sentiment. He felt that a part of him that could
love disappeared a long time ago. Crumbling away with disappearance of
Samantha, and then with Scully's nightmarish death. But Carrie served as a
great shield against the horrors he lived with in his mind and on his job.
She was his medicine for nightmares, the great white knight ready to slay
the dragons and save him. The image made Mulder smile, and that rare
gesture was always returned by Carrie tenfold.
        The idea to propose to her came to Mulder out of the blue, and he
didn't think about it twice. The one woman who could make him happy was
gone.  But he still could make someone else happy; it would not cost him
anything, except for his bachelor's freedom. Which he valued no longer. The
fact that a beautiful, intelligent woman could actually care for him that
much surprised Mulder, but filled him with gratitude. He bought a ring on
the same day, elegant and understated. Just as Carrie was. But prior to
proposing, the agent decided to tell her what came with the ring.
        Over a simple dinner, Mulder shared his experiences with his future
wife as much as he could bear to. He felt it only fair that the woman who
voluntarily agreed to spend her life with him knew just what she was getting
herself into. So he informed her about Samantha, the search for whom still
held its vice-like grip on him. And about Scully, the memory of whom plagued
his heart and mind. Carrie listened, petrified. She realized that
experiences Mulder had been through must have been horrific, but nothing she
could imagine prepared her for the wealth of pain he unearthed before her
eyes. But she loved that man, every part of him, - and if these memories
were a part of him, too, she had really no choice but to embrace them.
        When the ring made its appearance, Carrie cried. And in that moment,
she realized that the tears she shed were more from sadness than happiness.
Because as her hand extended to finally touch Fox Mulder's face, Carrie
Stone knew that she would be unable to remove the shadow of all the terrible
things that happened to him. Though she had to try.
        Their first kiss was brief, but desperate in its intensity. First
time they lay together in bed took Carrie's breath away, and the fulfillment
of being with the man that she loved more than life overwhelmed her. And
Mulder felt the surge of tenderness for the pretty woman in his arms. And he
hoped to keep her safe.
        They bought a small apartment in the city. Mulder had enough money
to buy his wife a bookstore where she worked. Carrie proclaimed this wedding
gift "the best she ever received," as she transferred her little business to
DC. She had everything she ever dreamed of.
        Mulder looked like a mirror reflecting her joy. Maybe, this was his
redemption; he could forgive and forget and move on. In retrospect, he lived
within a fantasy he invented but could not fully participate in. A fantasy
that no matter how real or satisfying, could not alleviate his pain or cure
his obsessions. So, as the days and weeks flew by, and Mulder still started
at every petite redhead that he met, the self-deception started to wane.
Some days, the friendly affection he felt for Carrie turned to resentment.
And some nights, he imagined Dana Scully instead of Carrie Stone in his
arms. In darkness, all the bodies looked the same. It was easy to pretend.
Upon morning's rays of sun, and Carrie's smile that shone even brighter,
Mulder felt the knife churn in his heart, but smiled in return. And left to
work. For about twelve hours.

/"Tonight is the kind of night when accounts are settled."/

November 2000.

        Carrie greeted her husband with a fierce hug and kiss, surprising
them both. Mulder just completed another gruesome case, one he didn't even
care to recall, and the vision of his wife was welcome at this point. Though
she was usually more subdued.
        "What's on your mind tonight, huh?" Mulder wondered into a dining
room with these words. The table was complete with an array of delicious
dishes, candles, and flowers. "Any special occasion?"
        "Fox, come on, sit down. I promise to tell you as soon as we are
settled," still beaming, Carrie took his coat.
        Intrigued, Mulder complied. Carrie returned with a package in her
arms. "I went to the doctor today... no, it's nothing bad," she hurried to
reassure her husband, and without further interlude, continued. "I am
pregnant!"
        Mulder could only stare. He never stopped to think about children.
Now, he wondered why - it was only natural, they were both healthy and
obviously fertile. But children were so *normal,* and his life
has never been. He accepted the package from Carrie with a mute question.
        "This is the first ultrasound. The baby is just two months old, and
well, it doesn't look gorgeous like you yet... but I am hoping."
        Mulder studied the blurry, black and white photo. Saw nothing
comprehensible there, but smiled. "I am... very happy for you, darling."
        The young woman froze, her face pale. Stricken. "You are happy...
for *me?*"
        The realization of what he uttered, the real meaning of his words,
slowly penetrated Mulder's conscience. Still, he tried to regain his mental
balance and repair the damage done. "Yes, I am. What's wrong with that?"
        Carrie proceeded to lock herself in the bathroom and throw up.
Emerging some ten minutes later and looking a shade whiter, she repeated
without expression, "You are happy for me. Are you happy with me?"
        Mulder longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Take away her
obvious physical pain. But he couldn't soothe her emotionally, for he
felt unable to open his mouth. And deliver a lie. So he just stood there,
silently. He didn't try to touch her, but Carrie still sought some more
distance between them. Testing the new waters. Getting her own taste of
terrible things. Horrified at the thought of being in that suddenly stifling
room much longer.
        She always suspected the underlying indifference behind the fondness
and attention her husband unfailingly showered her with. She thought she
could live with it and never asked for more. Ignored the doubts most of the
time. But examining these feelings under a cruel light of day, Carrie felt
shattered and weak.  Unable to continue the charade once she recognized it.
        "I have a comfortable coach in the store. I will be back in the
morning to pack."
        Mulder didn't try to stop her. This marriage was obviously one of
the stupider things he'd ever done. When the door behind her closed, he blew
out the candles and remained in the dark. Alone again.

/"Things will go badly for me, and I don't want you to perish with me..."
"Is that the only reason?"/

        The agent didn't sleep this night. Rain sang staccato on the windows
of the bedroom; a few enduring autumn leaves shivered on the branches of
naked trees, their auburn color contrasting with darkness of the night.
Morning arrived, equally miserable. Gray dusk filled the early hours,
reminding Mulder of the pools of tears in Carrie's eyes.  Soon, she would
return, and then walk away forever. The thought filled him with sadness and
remorse. But it was better that way; she would have her bookstore, and
now the baby, to make her happy; he would take care of finances. She would
find someone to love her; such a wonderful, beautiful woman was a gift.
        The ringing of the phone broke Mulder's reflections. He snatched it
at the last minute. "Mulder," voice brief and detached as usual.
        "Mr. Mulder, hello... Your wife was in an accident this morning, she
is in the hospital now."
        "What is the hospital?"
        "Holy Cross."
        Minutes later, Mulder drove at about twice the speed limit through
the drowsy city. This was not supposed to happen! this was not according to
the plan. "You should have stayed away from her in the first place, you
idiot! What plans are you talking about now?" Carrie must have been too
distraught to drive, and not feeling well. The weather was terrible... how
could he just let her go?
        Middle-aged, stern man met him in the hallway, introducing himself
briefly.  "I am Dr. Clein. Mrs. Mulder is in critical condition. A severe
blow to her middle section caused an internal hemorrhage, and she lost a
lot of blood..."
        Mulder was momentarily in shock. A blow to the middle section?
"She is pregnant!"
        "Not anymore. The miscarriage followed the hemorrhage. I am very
sorry. If you wait right here, someone will let you know when you can come
and see her."
        Returning to the waiting room, Mulder sat down heavily. The cry of
someone's baby mocked him relentlessly. If she should die now... it would be
the last straw in his personal crown of guilt. Samantha, Scully. Throw in
Melissa and Deep Throat. Carrie. Then he berated himself for this train of
thought. This was not about mea culpa, it was about Carrie. Her life. Her
child ripped away from her. Their child. Just a tiny, unformed bit of flesh
and blood, but a bit gone forever and not to be recovered. If we was punched
in the gut, he would have felt better than he did now.
        Several hours later, nurse touched his shoulder cautiously. "Your
wife is in stabilized condition. You can come see her now."
        Mulder followed, relieved beyond words but tired and drained. Carrie
looked so pale, not the usual bright and strong self after her ordeal. His
white knight without her shining armors. He touched her fingers. It appeared
as if she wanted to withdraw them, but hadn't enough strength. Mulder
removed his arm instead.
        "What happened, Carrie?"
        "It was raining, and it was dark. I was crying, and I didn't even
notice that I didn't have the headlights on. The other driver... didn't
see me... I am sorry about the car."
        "Forget the car... how are you doing? I have heard about..."
        Carrie didn't let him finish. Could not hear this abortive word,
`miscarriage', again. "I am all right, Fox. I wish you would go," she
whispered.
        Listening to that beautiful voice, so lifeless, so full of sorrow,
her husband covered his face with hands. And recoiled at himself, at the man
he'd become. Without saying a single word, he left, Carrie sighing
resignedly behind him.

/"Is that where I'm to go?"... "No... Why pursue that which is
already finished?"/

        Mulder jumped in his car and drove like a maniac, scaring other
drivers. The tires skidded on the wet ground, squealing in protest. He knew
exactly where he was going, and why. Though he hasn't been at this cemetery
since the funeral, he found Scully's grave quickly enough. The agent faced
the stone as he stood in the mud, getting soaked in waterfall pouring from
the sky. Saying goodbye for the first and last time; picturing a beautiful,
strong, loving woman, so vivid in his memories. Imagining all they would
have done together had they been given a chance. Living an entire life in
mere minutes, feeling it dissolve in the smoke of the past. Letting it go.
After the longest time, Mulder drove back. Entering the city, he noticed a
tiny old woman selling flowers on the street corner and wondered where she
found them in this weather.
        On the spur of the moment, he stopped and bought a huge bunch of
wild, disturbing yellow blossoms, not staying long enough to collect change.
Margarita carried a similar bouquet when Master first saw her. Well,
he will reverse the roles. And hope for the best.
        Returning to the hospital, Mulder slowed down. Stepped in Carrie's
room and waited quietly, wet and covered in mud.
        The woman stirred, sensing a presence in the room. And watched the
exhausted man before her, an unexpected epiphany evident on her face.
        "Do you like my flowers?"
        "No."
        "Why, is it that you just don't like flowers?"
        "No, I like flowers, but not those. They are repulsive," a tentative
smile graced Carrie's lips.
        Carrie. His Margarita. His love. Oh thank you, thought Mulder. They
could try again. There was still hope. Tears streamed down his face,
unnoticed, as he bowed gracefully.
        "Your Master, madam. Forever."

END