Disclaimer part 1

Open Book(2/2)
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Part 11: Stepping Up to the Plate

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Sun. 26 June

I'll have to mark today on my calendar, I
guess, for good or ill. Important things happened
today.

Actually, it started last night. Well,
_actually_, it started when Dana Scully walked into
that basement office three years ago and suddenly
it wasn't just me against the world anymore. Suddenly
I had a partner. Not the snitch I thought they'd sent
me. A _partner_. I don't think I've ever really known
quite how to deal with the revelation that no, I'm
not on my own anymore. Either I take for granted that
she's going to be there no matter what, or else I drive
us both insane with my guilt over getting her involved
in this mess.

...That's not fair either. Most of the time we
_do_ work so well together. Most of the time she _is_
my better nature and I'm the question she just can't
resist asking. Lately we've been seesawing from one
extreme to another, and nothing stayed resolved even
if we did try to talk about it.

I'm holding my breath as I type this because
I don't want to jinx it, but... I think that's finally
changed.

I think we've settled a lot of things today.
Well, no, we didn't really lay to rest any of the things
that've marred our partnership for the past few months.
But we finally bridged the gap and started _talking_
about those things. We don't have to solve all our
problems overnight. Hell, some of our `problems' don't
really need solving. I mean, sometimes Scully's skepticism
drives me nuts, but what would I _do_ if suddenly she
stopped giving me those great `Give me a BREAK, Mulder'
looks and quit challenging me to prove that I'm right?
A Scully who agreed with all my theories unquestioningly
would be almost as bad as no Scully at all, and no Scully
at all is unthinkable.

Maybe that's why I think we're back on the right
path now. Because we've finally agreed that things don't
have to be perfect between us. The important thing is to
tell each other when it's not working out instead of
keeping it locked up because we don't want to hurt each
other.

We're both carrying way too much emotional
baggage now from everything we've experienced together
for that strategy to have even a prayer of success.
The fact is, Scully and I are going to step on each
other's toes now and then. And other people are going
to stomp on both our feet sometimes. There's no way
to avoid getting hurt, and devoting all this effort
and deception to that end is just hopelessly naive.

But that's exactly what we've both been doing
for months. Perfect example: the nameplates on the office
door. Scully has nominal desk space on the second floor.
Her name is up there on the section list, with a mark
next to it indicating she's assigned to the X-Files. I
never put her name on our door because I didn't want to
damage her career. It's not the up-and-coming section,
that's for sure. And she's going to want to ascend up
the ol' ladder one of these days; I know she's committed
to the X-Files, but eventually she's going to have to
make the call... can she do more good scurrying after
the paranormal with me, or running things from a position
of responsibility upstairs? So, even though it's our
office and she's without question the other half of the
X-Files, I didn't put her name on the door. I found out
today that Scully _wants_ her name on the door. She's
proud of the work we've done. She doesn't care what they
think upstairs. It's more important to her to have that
acknowledgement of her work than it is to protect her
career. But I was so concerned about protecting her that
it didn't occur to me that I might be hurting her by
failing to acknowledge how important she is.

When the X-Files were shut down we'd only been
working together a few months but already I knew that
losing her was worse, by far, than losing the opportunity
to directly investigate the paranormal. When she disappeared
for those two months, in part because I'd co-opted her
for a case I was working on, it was... like nothing I
could have imagined. And when she came back I just wanted
to know she was safe. Working together again with that
new appreciation of our partnership made us both leary
of alienating each other. I know I couldn't imagine losing
her again. After we gave up our chance to learn more
about, well, _everything_, in order to secure our own
safety, and then on top of that, Scully lost Melissa...
we both retreated after that. The more I think about
everything we've been through together, the more
amazing it seems that we've come through it all
relatively intact. And together. Always.

Last night, after we had it out over the
investigation and I went out to the crime scene
again-- that was bad. It starts raining while I'm
out there, after I _walked_ out there, so I took
shelter under that damned oak tree and stared off
into space and wondered if Scully had just given
up on me completely when she found out I ditched
her again. At the same time, I looked up at the
low skies overhead and knew that whoever took
Rebecca and Darcy didn't whisk them away in a UFO.
Whoever took them... whoever took Scully... whoever
took my sister... they're just people. People like my
father. People who, by whatever bizarre justification
they concoct, manage to convince themselves that
they're doing the right thing.

I'd really almost rather believe that it's
aliens. Then at least you know why you can't understand
their motivations. And then at least there's a possibility
that perhaps understanding can be reached. We are not
alone in the universe. There's hope.

If it's _us_, on the other hand... if we're
doing this to each other... it's just another reprise
of the same incomprehensible litany of pain and grief
and suffering that has plagued us throughout our short
history. There are so many reasons why I'd rather see
lights in the sky than darkness here below it.

I still believe in the existence of
extraterrestrial life. I still believe that alien
beings visit this planet. But I no longer think
it's as simple as curious grey ETs scooping up a
few humans and prodding them to see how they react.
Whatever's happening here is big and insidious and
a great deal of it involves human beings, not aliens.

It hurts. I understand why so many people
believe in god and the devil, or hate the opposing
political party, or another race or creed. I don't
want to acknowledge that those people are human,
that they are like me, and that whatever allows
them to wage this secret war is also in me. That
to them, I am the enemy. And that there is a possibility,
however remote, that they are right.

These thoughts were chasing themselves in
circles around my head last night until I wanted to
stick my fingers in my ears and say "I _do_ believe
in spooks, I _do_ believe in spooks, I do I do I do..."

And then my cellphone rang. Scully caught
me at the worst of it. She shouted over the rainstorm
raging all around me to tell me to stay there; she
was coming to pick me up right now. Or something along
those lines.

Was I grateful that my partner hadn't thrown
up her hands in disgust? Of course not. Instead I put
myself through another bout of self-recrimination on
one of my old favorites: Why Do I Do This To Myself,
And Worse, Why Do I Do This To Scully? That one's
always high up on my personal Top 40. I give it an
86; it's got a good beat (my head against a wall) and
you can dance to it (if you're into waltzing on a bed
of nails).

When Scully showed up I was desperate to
convince her-- and therefore, myself-- that what
happened to Rebecca and Darcy _was_ alien abduction.
I think I demanded to know what she thought had fried
half the tree, fungus or something? How could anyone
snatch two young girls from a country road and somehow
get them into a mysterious train car several miles
away without anyone noticing, anyway? (Easily, that's
how.)

Scully gave in on the tree ("You're right, I
sent a sample to the lab; it's heat damage") and then
persuaded me that standing out in the driving rain would
not significantly contribute to our investigation.

Somewhere in there, I apologized for the mess
with the train inquiry and finally came clean about
what's set me off about this case... the thing with
the family right at the beginning, coming up against
Mr. Colt and running head-on into thinking about things
I've been avoiding for so long. I asked her if she
thought the train was really our best lead. At that
point, I wanted Scully's sane and steady viewpoint
because I wasn't sure I could ever keep my head on
straight again.

She agreed, and told me how it felt to stand
in the girls' room; how it resonated with everything
she remembers and chipped at the edges of all the
things she still can't recall. Again, I was so worried
about hurting her that I'd never asked her about the
memories she lost of those two months. Which means
that I was never able to help her deal with the loss
of those memories. And she also told me that I'd been
wailing like a banshee all Friday night. So I guess
Jung cleaned my house for me, at least for a few hours,
in my dreams. Too bad the cobwebs keep coming back.

We came back to the hotel, both soaked through
with rain and worn out from our confrontation. I was
dispatched to my room with instructions to take a hot
shower and sleep _right_away_, and after putting on
the television for background noise, I did just that.

And woke up at two in the morning or thereabouts
to find Scully sitting on the edge of the bed looking
like a cross between a guardian angel and Florence
Nightingale... all she needed was the little white hat.

Another screecher, as it turned out. 9.9 on
the Mulder scale, as Scully put it with a tired attempt
at a smile. After the week we've had, she came over and
woke me up to give us both a break.

Funny thing, though, my throat didn't ache like
it usually does if I've torn off a bad nightmare. I asked
her about this and she revealed that, well, actually,
maybe screecher wasn't the right word. Apparently this
time I was talking, crying, coughing and generally
sounding like someone was working me over with a
blackjack and a blowtorch.

How can she still be so patient after putting
up with this kind of craziness for so very long? I
got up out of bed and paced, trying to remember what
had set me off in the dream, and she asked gently:
"What is it?"

What is it? Scully, I just want to find them.
I want to believe that we can figure out every puzzle
eventually; I want to believe that together, we can
do anything. I want to live in a world that makes
sense, not this horrible place where people vanish
for no reason, where we protect each other until
protection becomes oppression, where we lie to
each other in the name of love.

I said that.

And she answered. She said, "Even if we
find Rebecca and Darcy, their disappearance won't
make sense. Mulder, I know you think that everything
will be okay if we could just find them, but it won't.
There will always be another abduction case waiting
for us. There'll always be riddles we can't solve
and questions we can't answer. There had to be some
way for you to reconcile that, because I see how it
tears you up every time we come up against something
like this and damn it, Mulder, you deserve better than
that."

...We talked for hours. Really talked. Cleared
up a lot of things that've been weighing on us both for
a long, long time. Scully finally got a chance to tell
me about the nameplate on the door. I faced up and told
her a little about my father, how it was to live with
his silent judgement all those years, and then to learn
that it was himself he had been judging. She told me how
scared she is of what happened during those two months
she lost, of how it's made her lose her sense of self.
Finally I could reassure her by telling her how I carried
the night Sam went missing for years upon years inside me,
always wondering what had happened, who I was that I could
allow such a thing to occur. All those thoughts and stories
and doubts and fears spilled out and by the end of it we'd
reached a weary, steady peace.

By that time we were both so exhausted that it's
not too surprising that I dropped off around dawn, and
Scully fell asleep not long after. So I guess the gossip
in town will be right on that score: we did sleep together.
Emphasis on sleep, thank you.

We both woke up around nine. We both have slight
but annoying colds. And sometime during that long, amazing
conversation, we found one more point of common ground.
I like DS9, and Scully likes Next Gen... but we both really
_hate_ Star Trek: Voyager.

After a trip out into Warmington-at-large to have
lunch (a normal lunch where I actually ate food like a
normal person) and stock up on tissues, we came back and
set up in Scully's room and started throwing around theories.

We wanted to cover every possibility, so I tossed
out every single scenario I could conjure, starting with the
most paranoid and unlikely. I apply this one to all our
investigations, and I call it the Wicker Man theory because
it follows the plot of a great movie I saw in England once
called, of course, _The Wicker Man_. The basic idea: there
_was_ no crime, it's all a big masquerade designed to draw
us out here and tie us up in order to distract/discredit/kill
us. Of course, we disposed of that one right away, but
Scully thought it was interesting that this is always my
first idea about our cases.

Then, that an incipient serial killer did away
with the girls. We pegged that one a very, very remote
possibility and set it aside, because with no evidence,
we can't follow up on it even if it's right.

Then, alien abduction. Also a possibility. Also
remote. Again, there's not much we can do about it except
to document every single aspect of the case in hopes of
reconstructing what happened when (god, _if_) the girls
are returned.

Murder and a coverup was the next one. Apparently
when I reacted badly to Mr. Colt, Scully wondered if I
saw something in him that she didn't and if he might
be our perpetrator, using his local clout with the police
and county bureaucracy to block investigation. Again, we
have the remote possibility that someone in the community
killed the girls for some unknown reason; the lack of evidence,
in this case, could _only_ be the result of a coverup. Since
we have no indication this is the case and no motive for such
a scenario, we shelved that one as well.

Next up-- Rebecca and Darcy ran away from home.
Doesn't make any sense, really, but at least they had
a plausible reason for that. We spent twenty minutes
putting together the game plan for handing that part of
the search off to Missing Persons and letting them take care
of the process of notifying runaway shelters and hospitals
and so forth, things they're just better equipped for than
we are. The locals already did this to some degree, but
the advantage of working for the federal government is
wielding that all-important clout.

Finally, and foremost on both our minds. In the
past we've encountered evidence that there exists a secret
network of trains used to test human subjects. A family
history of women disappearing for brief periods suggests
genetic testing. That doesn't explain why Rebecca and Darcy
have been gone for so long, but I have a gnawing suspicion
about that. I told Scully and she went pale, but had to
agree it's likely in the context of this scenario. They
might be keeping the girls for so long because they're
conducting tests on Darcy and her baby.

We both fell silent after feeling the weight of
that one. It took real effort for us to take out the
Burlington Northern fax and trace the route of the train
that stopped near Warmington that night. The station
manager must have been impressed (or scared) by my visit,
because he'd had his secretary contact the conductors and
found that although no records of the extra car existed,
there was an unidentified numbered car taken on by the
train in Tennessee before it stopped near here in Ohio.
The fax traced that car from here through Illinois and
Iowa.

Scully and I looked at each other, nodded, and
got on our respective phones. Four hours later we'd
wrestled with most of the employees of Burlington Northern
and tracked the car to its present location; it's in
Missouri, headed east. Headed back this way.

My first urge, of course, is to charge off to
Missouri, jump on the train (maybe not literally, this
time...), break into the car and rescue them. But the
fact is, as Scully was quick to point out, that we
don't _know_ they're on that train car. We suspect,
but there's no way to know short of busting down the
door of the numbered car and last time I did that the
explosion made a crater in a stretch of Iowa farmland.

Scully's phone rang while we were mulling it
over. She put a hand over the receiver and whispered,
"Cleveland paper," and made a face. "No comment. Not
right now. No, I'm sorry, I can't comment on that at
this time..."

"Get his number," I said to her suddenly.

She frowned at me; at that moment I wasn't
sure why I'd said it either, but she asked the guy
for his number and promised to keep him apprised of
future developments. She hung up and looked at me
expectantly.

"Scully, I have an idea. It won't solve the case.
We won't be able to put it in our field reports, and if
it works, we may miss the chance to find out more about
what's going on here-- but if it does work, it's our
best chance to get Rebecca and Darcy back home safe.
And you're right, that won't solve all our problems,
but it's the reason we're here and I think we'd both
rather find the girls than risk losing them in order
to get a handle on what's going on with the trains.
I would, anyway. It's your call, Scully."

She considered it. It's not as easy as it sounds.
We both want to substantiate this so much. But we want to
bring Rebecca and Darcy home even more. Scully said, "Let's
find them."

"We have to write a press release."

"Wha--" If there's one moment in an investigation
that I prize above all others, it's that instant when
Scully suddenly sees where I'm going and sets out to
beat me there. I saw the circuit complete itself in
her eyes. "Do you really think that'll be enough?"

"Imagine the havoc we created when we discovered
the train system in the first place. Schedule disrupted,
coverups, excuses, the loss of a train car and a genetic
specimen. If we make a move, they'll counter it. But if
we threaten to uncover the network-- telegraph our
intentions-- there's a chance they'll bring back the
girls to keep us from screwing up the works again."

She almost smiled when she said, "I like this
idea a lot better than the thought of you hurling yourself
off a bridge again, that's for sure... what should we put
in the press release?" Scully reached for her laptop.

We worked out the wording together. When it was
finally done, Scully sat back and looked at it, impressed.
"I feel like we've got a bomb sitting here, Mulder."

I had to laugh. "Now you know what it's like."

She gave me a sharp glance. "If we send this to
the papers, Skinner will have our heads."

"I'm willing if you are."

Scully tapped the computer keys idly. "I have
another idea." Which she did. A better one. Tomorrow
morning we're taking our bombshell to the local police
department. We're going to ask Sheriff Falk if he'd
be willing to leak it to the press.

I think we're both a lot more comfortable with
it all now. I stuck around in Scully's room after we'd
finished writing the release. There's no cable, but we
found a great documentary on (get this!) Satanic ritual
abuse (!!) on public television. This is one of our
few areas of common ground-- I tend not to buy the idea
of widespread Satanic cult conspiracies, though I'm (of
course) more likely to give the concept a hearing than
Scully is. So we had a nice, relaxing debate about the
subject. It led us to talk about repressed memories.

Scully asked me if I could help her find a
reliable, unbiased hypnotherapist who could help her
remember what happened while she was gone. I promised
to help any way I can. She shouldn't go to Dr. Verber;
he's good, but after conducting my own hypno-regression
he could easily be accused of bias. I have a few names,
but none of them will offer Scully the kind of objectivity
she needs to satisfy her doubts.

We talked about it for a while, but it got late
and we ended deciding that she doesn't have to decide
now. It's something we can continue to keep in mind when
we're back in DC.

I came over here and flipped on DS9 but as I'm
glancing up at it now, I'm noticing that yeah, it DOES
look kind of like a ratty interstellar flea market. And
Kira's not in leather tonight, just the goofy Star Trek
uniform. Time to turn off the TV and get some sleep. We've
got a case to close tomorrow.

end part 11
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Part 12: Triple Play

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Sunday, June 26

I never thought I'd be considering retirement at 31 years
of age. But then, getting fired really isn't retirement, now,
is it?

But I don't think we have a choice.

When it comes right down to it, it is our only course of
action.

We aren't here to determine if a crime has been committed.
We know it has. Two teenaged girls are not in their home
tonight through no fault of their own.

We aren't going to be able to bring the criminal to justice.
We've tried that one. I wish to God we could bring them all to
justice, but it's just not possible. Every time we come close, they
slip through our fingers, usually with the assistance of our own
government. I'm tired of watching them get away with the lies
and deceptions. I know the truth. Now, I just want those girls
back home.

So we are taking our case to the press.

Those words alternately frighten and excite me. If it works,
the girls will be home. Safe. At least as safe as the good folk of
Warmington, Ohio can make them.

If it doesn't work, we will both be out of our jobs. I can see
the frosted glass window in the door now: Mulder and Scully,
Private Eyes. With a big art deco eye in the middle of the logo.
Oh God, help me. I hope we aren't wrong on this one.

But at least the thought of setting up shop with Mulder isn't
as unpleasant as it would have been a week ago. I haven't had a
night like last night since undergrad. I better explain that
statement fast or I'm in real danger of being misunderstood
should I ever try to publish these journals as memoirs.

I fell asleep right after I wrote the entry last night. I was
exhausted and the two thin blankets on the bed finally managed
to get me warm, after I got up and put my robe on over my
pajamas.

At about 2:15, according to the red digital alarm clock on the
nightstand, I heard Mulder. I immediately figured he had a fever.
It wasn't a scream, it was a low moan. I waited to hear him head
for the bathroom. But no, I heard the headboard hit the wall like
he was tossing and turning in his sleep.

The moans got progressively louder and there were some sobs
mixed in there somewhere and I just couldn't take it anymore.
So I threw off the covers, knocked everything off the nightstand
looking for the key because I refused to turn on the light, and
headed over to his room.

Sure enough, he was having a nightmare. A doozy, too. He
was throwing himself on the bed and, well, it was bad. I
remembered all that stuff about not startling a person in a
nightmare, *after* I sat on the bed and he jolted straight up.

He stared at me for a long time. Later, after we turned on the
lights, I figured out real quick why he probably didn't recognize
me. My hair was standing straight on end because I fell asleep
with it wet. I mean *straight* on end, complete with right
angles. And what make up I'd had on earlier had pretty much
run down my face during the rain. I had been too tired to really
do much more than swipe at my face with a face cloth--it
showed. I looked like a racoon. Mom keeps telling me that I
really need to get a new bathrobe. I had a nice one, but it got
lost on a case and last I heard it was sighted in Denver,
Colorado, on a bag lady. It seems appropriate, since the one I
am using now is from my college days and *looks* like I got it
off a bag lady in Denver, CO.

I was a vision.

But it was all right. Mulder woke up, figured out that I
wasn't going to kill him for waking me, and we started talking. I
asked him about the dreams. He doesn't remember the dreams
themselves, which isn't that unusual, I mean, with his brain he has
to forget *something* just to have room on that hard drive
between his ears. But he gave me the Jungian explanation (I can
tell right now we won't be private eyes--he's going to run out and
get a teaching position somewhere) of dreams and
housecleaning. And how badly he wants to find the girls.

I think, up until that moment, I had been so tied up in
worrying about him that I sort of forgot why he was worried.
Rebecca and Darcy. It all boiled down to the girls.

And I felt like a jerk because between Mulder and my own
problems, I had sort of lost sight of that one simple fact. We
were there to help find those girls. `Whose side are you on?'
Tom Colton had once asked me. `The victim's' was my quick
reply. That was a good one. Too bad I didn't remember it this
time. Well, I remember it now.

That wasn't all we talked about. It was one of those neurotic,
tearful (at least for one of us and I ain't saying who), laugh until
your sides hurt kind of nights that usually occur right between
Thanksgiving break and finals when you finally realize that
Mommy and Daddy are not going to get you through Calc 202,
no matter how much they love you, and you are, for the first time
in your existence, truly on your own. But for us, we discovered
something different.

We discovered that we are not alone. We have each other.

I know, not much of a discovery. Well, not so much in the
fact that it wasn't really a new discovery at all. It was a
reaffirmation. And in that respect, it was awe-inspiring in its
impact. I had been worried about him. He had been worried
about me. Neither one of us wanted to admit that we were
scared, either for or to the other person. And so we were like
two ships in a big ocean who can't see each other for the fog.
But last night, the fog lifted.

Part of the problem, what I think of now as 'fog', is that
Mulder had decided somewhere that I was not a permanent
fixture in his life. That I was here for a while and would be gone
soon, whether he wanted me to leave or not. I'm not sure where
he got this very strange notion that I had anywhere else to go or
anything better to do with my time, but it was there. I think it
has to do with the fact that permanence is not a reality for him.
All the personal relationships of his life have been transient in
some way. His sister was taken from him, his parents' marriage
dissolved before his eyes, his affair with Phoebe Green (the only
example of a truly evil witch I can name) ended bitterly, at least
for him. Even the partners that he had before me were short
term stints. And, to add insult to injury, he is constantly buying
new tropical fish to replace the ones that go belly-up on him.
Nothing stays around Fox Mulder long enough for him to get
used to it, much less for him to learn how to get through those
rough spots everybody has.

I had no idea how much this has been bothering him. And, to
some extent, how much it has been bothering me.

So, I told him that what I really want, more than anything
else in the world, is my name on the door. His door. No,
scratch that, *our* door. The one in the basement. My office
upstairs has become the moral equivalant of a junk drawer for
me. It's where I store things that we don't have room for in the
basement. It's where I keep his birthday present because I know
what a horrible snoop he is. It is not, in any way, shape, or form,
my *office*. That's the little corner desk of serenity in that
chaotic sea of disarray we call the X-Files office. And damn it
all, I want my name on that door!

He seemed stunned. Not bad stunned, happy stunned. He
asked me about career advancement. I giggled hysterically and
told him that my secret affair with Cancer Man had that under
control. I got a pillow in the face for that one. Then he shot me
the `Are you sleeping your way to the top?' line from the movie
_Head Office_ and I had to reply `What kind of executive would I
be if I slept my way to the *bottom*?' Dr. Quinn, if only Sully
knew of your past! Shame, shame.

As I said, we alternated between despair and jubilation for
about three hours and finally, while I wasn't looking, we both fell
asleep, him on the bed and me on the two little arm chairs in the
corner of the room, sprawled on one, feet on the other. With all
the lights on, by the way. And all our clothes on, or at least all
of the clothes we started out in.

I have tried soooo hard to ignore all the little looks we always
get. I am perfectly aware that Fox Mulder is male, good looking,
heterosexual, extremely well built, single and just a couple of
years older than I am. I wouldn't be much of an FBI agent if I
hadn't figured that out quite a while ago. But I got over the
`schoolgirl crush' phase about two seconds after he accused me
of spying on him the first day I walked into his office. So, when
people assume that I have fallen `under his spell', as it were, I just
brush it off. They can think what they want; that isn't what we
have. I don't know what we have-- it's not brother/sister, but it's
sort of like that. It's not just best friends, it goes beyond that
sometimes. It's sort of like soulmate, but that's too metaphysical,
and yet maybe not metaphysical enough. It defies description.

But I am fairly certain that our relationship is being described
in any manner of ways in the coffee shops and grocery store lines
of Warmington, Ohio today. And probably will be discussed back
home for a couple of weeks to come, courtesy of my mother.

I don't even know why Mom decided to call me at 7:20 am on
a Sunday morning. She usually goes to 8 o'clock Mass at St.
Anne's, so she was probably getting ready for church. Anyway,
when she couldn't reach me on the cell phone (which I didn't
remember to bring into Mulder's room at 2 am in the morning),
she called the front desk of our hotel. And got the nice desk
clerk to go check my room. Which, of course, was vacant. And,
apparently, this extremely helpful desk clerk decided to enlighten
my mother with the knowledge that Mulder had requested a second
key for his room. Apparently, the desk clerk on duty at that time
had made a point of telling the other hotel staff of that little
incident. Down to the fact that Mulder calmly handed the key to
me and I slipped it into my pocket.

I can hear the conversation at this point. 'So you see, Mrs.
Scully, I'm sure there's nothing wrong. Your daughter is
probably just spending the night in her partner's room. I'll
leave a message that you called and have her call you back.'

Anyway, that's what it sounded like he'd told her when I
finally woke up and got the message. I hightailed it back to my
room to return my mother's call.

I'm not real sure which has me more worried: the quirky little
sigh of contentment my Mom gave when I tried to explain what
had happened and she obviously did not believe a word I was
saying-- or the little dig she gave me that led me to think she was
a little perturbed at me for 'two-timing' Frohike. Either way, I'm
hoping there's a case on our desks the minute we get back from
this one because I *do not* want to spend any time with my
mother until all this blows over.

Mulder, of course, considers it the high point of our visit to
Warmington, to date. Running (literally) a close second is the
nice little cold we both seem to have acquired during our ill-fated
rendezvous in the rain last night.

We went to the drug store (I still think the pharmacist was
giggling behind our backs) and stocked up on tissues, Vicks,
(cream and cough syrup), and Gatorade (I can't taste the stuff at
the moment anyway and it was on sale) and settled in for a little
brainstorming after lunch.

That was when Mulder came up with the plan that will either
get us some sort of commendation, or land our asses in the
unemployment line.

And I for one am hopeful that we can continue our employed
status for a long time.

Make no mistake; I am now quite certain that whatever
Mulder has been experiencing this past week, he was not
contempating suicide--at least in a personal sense. However,
what he considered this afternoon was definitely suicide in a
career sense. And in that sense, Mulder is the Jack Kevorkian of
FBI agents. He has committed more 'assisted suicides' on himself
than any other member of the Bureau. He has absolutely no idea
what career self-preservation is... or he does and just plain
doesn't give a damn.

But I do.

So, I sort of shot a hole in his plan and was fairly surprised
that he went along with my revised version.

First, he suggested that we go to the press. My stomach
dropped to the floor for a moment (like on the Big Bad Wolf at
Busch Gardens, Williamsburg) and I closed me eyes and agreed.
But then, we sat down and wrote the press release and I think I
was about ready to throw up when I finally figured out what was
wrong.

It was the right idea, the wrong way to do it. I've seen what
happens to agents who put out press releases without
authorization. No, I've attended their farewell parties, is a more
accurate description. Oh, they may say that they're leaving to
spend more time with their families, or to pursue their academic
careers or to take a nice, sane, 9 to 5 job, but the real reason is
they don't think wire tap surveillance for the rest of their work
lives sounds like a lot of fun. And that is exactly what the
sentence usually is. Wire tap--in Alaska. Listening to polar
bears plot to take over the country. Not a great prospect for
anyone, and my experience in Alaska for the one month I was
there has taught me that I don't want to consider it my
permanently in my future.

No, a direct press release from the agents of record was a
long walk off a short pier, in my opinion. However, I thought
about it for a moment and came up with a better idea.

A leak. Something simple, just enough to get 'their' attention.
Not a mention of the 'network' of trains. Just the thought that
we had evidence leading us to surmise that the girls might have
left town on one of the freight trains. Maybe even mention the
route the 'suspected' train took--through Indiana, Illinois,
*Iowa*. And that we are asking all railroad employees of that
route to report any 'suspicious' acitivity that might have taken
place on the night the girls disappeared. Just looking around,
folks. No big deal.

But it's liable to raise a reaction. At least, I *hope* it
raises a reaction.

Mulder came up with the idea to elicit help from Sheriff Falk.
I was a bit hesitant. I'm still not comfortable with letting too
many people in on our 'hunches', but he seems like a really good
man and since he has a history in this area, Mulder convinced me
he was the best man for the job. He'll talk with him in the
morning.

We settled down, Mulder suggested the pizza we ended up
ordering, and we ate it while watching a PBS documentary on
Satanic cults. It was very nice to have one of our `we're stuck in
the middle of nowhere and the case has us in wait mode' kind of
nights. No dramatics, no tears, no hysterical laughter. Just us.
Taking opposite sides of a question just for the hell of it, not
because our entire notion of the universe depended on it.

He's promised to help me find a hypnotherapist once we're
back in DC. I should have talked to him about it weeks ago.
Hindsight is always 20/20, Ahab used to say.

I left his room at a very proper 10:00, fully clothed.
Unfortunately, there was no one in the hall to verify that I left to
go to my own room. So, I ordered tea that I really didn't want
just to let the front desk know where I was and that I'm sleeping
*alone* tonight, thank you.

It doesn't bother me what total strangers think, but I might
need a corroborating witness when I get home and see Mom.

end part 12
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Part 13: Fielding a Grounder

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Mon. 27 June

Falk agreed to send out the press advisory. We
faxed it to half a dozen papers early this morning. Now
comes the hard part.

Now we wait.

The release is a statement from Sheriff Falk
explaining the circumstances of the girls' disappearance
and requesting that train conductors and officials keep
their eyes open for two runaway teenagers. It included
Darcy and Rebecca's pictures and descriptions, and
referred to "evidence uncovered by federal investigators."
We agreed to stonewall anyone who asked about our
evidence by telling them the information was being
kept confidential at the request of the family. Scully
cleared that with the Colts, as well as making sure
they were okay with the idea of the press release in
the first place.

Scully and I hoped something short and simple
that sounds like a human interest story would get
picked up by the papers in Cleveland and Cincinnati.
I picked up enough PR from my stint in Violent Crimes
to know that if you make anything sound poignant and/or
unusual enough, Associated Press plucks it off the wire
and sends it out to their subscribers. That's a _lot_
of press, even if it's buried in the back pages.

At first I thought Sheriff Falk wasn't going
to go for it. He scanned the copy and flicked his eyes
up to me. "I didn't say these things," he pointed out.

"We were hoping that you'd be willing to let
those sentiments go out under your name," I answered.

He looked it over again. "You really think
this will help? What makes you think they took the
train?"

We needed his help. I played it straight
with him. "I'm not sure. I can't explain it to you,
Sheriff Falk, but my partner and I both suspect that
Rebecca and Darcy are on that train." That's what
passes for straight in this situation, anyway.

"You called the Colts and asked 'em about this
yet?"

"My partner did."

Falk lowered the page and said, "Sir, I'm not
going to have a lie sent out to the papers."

For one terrible moment, I felt the hard knot
of sickness that I'd finally shaken over the weekend
settling inside again, like it was comfortable there,
and glad to be home.

The sheriff then nodded at me and proceeded
to read all the quotes we had attributed to him.

"Now I've said it," he told me solemnly.

I could have wrung his neck if I hadn't been
so busy thanking him. He gave me the benefit of his
appraisal and said, "Sir, I am sixty-two years old.
I have three times been asked to step down from this
position, and three times the men of my force have
convinced me to remain. But I recognize my day is
just about through. Now, I got nothing to lose by
doing this for you. And if you think it will bring
back those young women, that's enough for me."

I asked him to please, please consider running
for public office. I told him I wished there were people
like him in DC. He laughed at me. I don't blame him.

Met Scully for breakfast, then back to the hotel.
To wait. And wait. And wait.

The guy from the Cleveland paper called; he
wanted to confirm that we were the federal investigators
mentioned in the story. Scully and I struggled with this
but eventually decided that, since Falk was releasing
the statement, we won't be too damaged by giving our
names as the agents of record. So we confirmed it. The
guy tried to get Scully to meet him to discuss a possible
feature article on the search for the girls... over
dinner. She told me later that his end of the conversation
(which I didn't hear, natch) had been supremely creepy,
as good as promising a favorable story in return for
unspecified, but doubtless libidinous, demands. The part
that seemed to annoy her most was that the guy's never
even met her. I told her he must love her for her mind,
and got a well-deserved pillow thrown at me.

Oh, and in the midst of all the serious stuff
I committed to text last night, I forgot to mention a
hilarious side note: Scully's mom tried to call her
early Sunday morning and apparently found out Scully
spent Saturday night in my room. Poor Dana Katherine
is fretting that her mom has already picked out china
patterns.

Now, I've met Mrs. Scully and I think I know
her fairly well. Certainly well enough to see where
Scully gets so many of her admirable qualities, not
to mention the family's trademark clear blue eyes.
So I'm going to venture a guess here and assume that
Mrs. Scully is messing with her daughter's head, BIG
TIME. Face it. She's a bright lady. She knows the kind
of partnership Scully and I have, and she knows we're
not about to blow that for anything. She's taking the
opportunity to have a little fun with her occasionally
too-serious daughter. If Scully gets too distraught,
her mom will pull the plug. In the meantime, well, no
one knows better than me what fun it is to tease Scully
just a little.

I mean, I'm not stupid. I know Dana Scully's
an insanely beautiful, attractive, intelligent woman.
And I know (only too well) that it's been about... let
me see... okay, not counting an ill-fated night in Los
Angeles and an almost ill-fated night in Boston, it's
been about, uhm, three and half years since I actually
went out on a date, and that night ended with me watching
_Glen or Glenda_ on a late-night cable channel, alone.

I was pissed at the time, but in retrospect, it
was a damned good thing Scully cropped up to scuttle
the almost-night in Boston. I was in serious peril of
falling down Phoebe's throat again (ouch, now that's
an unfortunate image... are you sure you're not a
Freudian, Dr. Mulder?) and while, knowing Phoebe--
and Phoebe unfortunately knowing me-- it would certainly
have been a hell of a night, there would also have
been hell to pay. So, basically, for three and a half
years it's been me and cable and Miss October.

Anyway. I'm aware that I get to monopolize the
time and attention of a mind-bogglingly amazing woman.
Even Byers, straightlaced as he is, once told me that
I should encourage Scully to contribute to the gene
pool. Frohike had a few ideas about that. She thinks
he's bad when she's _there_... she should hear him
when she's not! It's all the more odd that when she's
not around his comments drift from lecherous to
lovelorn. I think he really does love her for her
mind, among other things. Well... who wouldn't?

The thing that bothers me about the inevitable
assumptions and innuendo that we both get from other
people is what it implies about Scully. She's worked
very, very hard to go a long way in the Bureau before
stalling her career in the X-Files. I've seen how
difficult it is for her sometimes to deal with people
who refuse to take her seriously because she _is_ a
beautiful woman, and therefore incapable of decisive
action and constructive thought. Even I, paragon that
I am, doubted her for a moment when I saw that she
was not just young, but petite and pretty. Surely
she couldn't be _serious_.

Yeah, that notion disappeared in about two
seconds flat.

So, when people speculate or assume that
we're sleeping together, it makes it that much
tougher for Scully. Love that double standard,
though; I get all kinds of respect until I make
it CLEAR that no, in fact, Dana Scully is not
a member of the vast harem of women at my back
and command.

Boy, am I glad no one's going to see these
journals.

Time for late lunch. I haven't heard anymore
press calls. We may have to dream up another angle
on this case. Well, I can always try a parachute
this time...

Nighttime now. Cleveland and Cincinnati are
running the story tomorrow. Scully's as antsy as I
am. We risked dinner out, kept the conversation on
such neutral topics as what airlines we prefer. Ended
up exchanging worst-luggage-loss stories. I've flown
more, so I had more horror tales, but Scully's adventure
in Denver International (which occurred when we travelled
separately once, and she had forgotten that she hadn't
told me-- this sort of thing happens to us a lot, forgetting
we haven't told each other things... where the hell
was I...) anyway, her story about DIA was by far the
worst. There was talk going on behind menus and so forth,
which we both politely but firmly ignored.

Both too wound up to turn in right away so we took
a walk around town. It was late when we finally returned
to the hotel and ostensibly went to sleep. I don't
anticipate big problems in that direction tonight,
but conversely, I have trouble sleeping occasionally
at the best of times. At this point, nervous sleeplessness
would be reasonably close to normal. Within shouting
distance of normal, anyway.

That's not such a bad place to be.

* Tues. 28 June

AP picked up the story!

Thank you, thank you, Associated Press.

DAYTON, OHIO - Two missing teenagers from
a small town in Ohio may have stowed away on a train
car, say law enforcement officials.
Rebecca Colt, 15, and cousin Darcy Waitland,
16, disappeared from the small community of Warmington,
Ohio on May 8th. Family and friends have heard nothing
from the two girls since that date.
"I realize children go missing every day all
across the nation," said Sheriff Falk of the Embree
County police force, who has handled the missing persons
case from the beginning. "But not here, not in our
town. We just want to find them."
Sheriff Falk stated that federal investigators
uncovered evidence that the two teenagers boarded a
Burlington Northern train as it stopped at a railway
station a few miles from Warmington. According to the
FBI, the train car has passed state borders throughout
the Midwest, running through Illinois, Iowa, and
Missouri.
"We want to ask people involved in running
the train systems in this area to keep their eyes
open for Darcy and Rebecca," Sheriff Falk requested.
"Please check the baggage compartments and unmarked
cars for any sign of them. These young girls have been
missing for a while now, and they may be afraid to
come home. But their families just want them back.
We all just want them to come home again."

Short but sweet and all the important points
are in there. AP scooped it out of the Cleveland paper.
Scully's amatory journalist didn't spring for the
feature, since she didn't spring for dinner, and he
seems to have deliberately excised our names. No doubt
he thinks we publicity-hungry feds are incensed, but
we couldn't be happier.

Phase one accomplished.

Come on, you bastards. I know you're out
there. I'm sure you're watching.

Fold, damn it. Fold.

end part thirteen
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Part 14: In the Ivy

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Monday, June 27

I hate waiting. It's like all those times that Ahab's ship would
be late getting into port and Mom would put us to bed, telling us
that he'd be there when we got up in the morning. Missy used to
tell me to shut up and go to sleep, because if we were asleep we
wouldn't notice the time passing. I could never do that. I always
wanted to hear the front door open and hear his footsteps.

I suppose it's different for other kids. Their dads came home
every night. But when Ahab came home, it was so special. It
was something that I treasured. I didn't want to miss it, even
once. Maybe, in the back of my young mind, I considered the
possiblity that each time might be the last time I would hear that
sound. I wasn't stupid. I had seen the families at the base when
a ship had trouble, when somebody's daddy wouldn't be coming
home ever again. It never ruled my life, I don't let fear do that.
But the reality of the situation was there. And it made me
treasure the times we had.

But waiting for the key in the door was the hardest part.

I feel like that now. Like I'm waiting for Ahab. I know, in
my mind, that there is a very strong likelihood that we will never
find the girls. That they are dead and their bodies are not going
to be found. Or that they are like Samantha, who Mulder knows
is alive, but unreachable, un-findable, at least for now. I know
those are both very strong possiblities. But in my heart, I feel
that won't be the case.

I know, I'm being Pollyanna. But damn it, we've worked so
hard here. We've gone through so much *hurt* here on this one
case. And none of it was physical (with the possible exception of
this damn head cold and the crick in my neck from sleeping on
the chair in Mulder's room). We weren't shot at, stabbed, run
over, bombed--none of the action-figure kind of stuff that I've
come to accept occasionally. This case was painful *mentally*.
So, in my heart, I feel we have paid the price. We have handed
over our pound of 'grey matter'--we deserve to have a happy
ending. And so does this town.

All day today, people have been stopping us. It's funny.
In a lot of places, we are the *FBI*--capital letters mandatory.
People, townspeople, are afraid we'll look too closely at them
and the IRS will come audit the hell out of them. Or they'll
suddenly find themselves on 'American Justice' or one of those
programs. But here, in Warmington, it's like we're Cousin Dana
and Cousin Fox, come home from the big city to help search for
Darcy and Becky. People come up to us and ask if there's
anyplace else to look, anything else they can do. It's wonderful
and heartbreaking at the same time. But it drives home an
important point.

No matter where you are, you aren't safe anymore.

Of course, there is a flip side to this coin. When we find these
girls (OK, call me Agent Pollyana), this town will the perfect
place for them. Because if we're right, they are going to need all
the loving, caring people they can find to be around them. God,
I hope I'm wrong on this. I hope that maybe . . . I don't know.
Would it be worse to know what was done to them, or never to
know?

Here we go again. I know *I* want to find out what
happened to me. I know that I can handle whatever was done
(please God, let that be so), but I'm thinking of the girls here.
They're children, really. Just kids. Maybe it would be better if
they had no recollection of what happened. If these 5 weeks just
sort of got lost, like happens during summer when the days run
together and you can't remember what you did on June 29
because it was simply not that memorable. I don't know.
I just know that they'll really need a lot of love.

Sheriff Falk gave Mulder quite a scare today. I had to laugh.
It sounded like something Mulder would have done to me, so I
guess there is divine retribution after all. At first Falk made it
seem that he wasn't going to go through with the press advisory.
He mentioned that he hadn't said any of the statements we had
attributed to him. I guess Mulder must have been a sight--that
hooded-eye look he gets when he's sure we are in deep trouble.
But then the Sheriff took the paper, read the whole thing out
loud and handed it back to Mulder saying something to the effect
that now, he'd said it, and now, he'd send it out. I forgot to ask
Mulder if he had to come back and change his boxers after that
one.

Divine retribution strikes everyone, I've learned. Right after
I got done laughing my butt off at Mulder's expense, Darryl
Marks, 'ace' reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer called and
wanted to ask some questions. Guess he was standing by the fax
machine when the press advisory came through. His first
question was pertaining to the case, the next 4 pertained to my
marital status, my eating habits, what genre of the theatre I
prefer, etc. (I remember him from the other night. I had to be
rather forceful in my "no comment" with the man. Wouldn't take
"no comment" for an answer kind of thing.) I don't usually
threaten reporters. Today, I made an exception. I asked for his
social security number. When he refused to give it, I told him
that was all right, I only asked for expediency's sake. He then
asked if I was threatening him. I told him that *everybody*--
even the press, has to pay taxes. Teach the little bastard to call
me 'Babe'.

Of course, Mulder was listening the entire time, and between
laughing snorts of cola out his nose, gave me a proper 'dressing
down' for not playing well with the press (as required by his
supervisory status). He then turned around and praised my
ingenuity at mentioning the IRS in the conversation. Then he
took me out to a 'nice' dinner and what pleased me even more,
polished off his plate then ate half my chicken and the majority of
my apple pie. We were both in pretty good moods, just a little
on edge. Waiting for that shoe to drop.

We walked around town after dinner. It's such a pretty town.
Lots of old trees. Window boxes on every house. Salmon
colored petunias must have been on sale this spring, because
every house was sporting at least a pot of them. Saw some fair
sized backyard gardens, the wet spring sure seemed to help the
tomato crop. And even watched an inning of a little league
baseball game, with Mulder doing a fairly nice impersonation of
Bob Ueker doing a play by play.

This will be a nice, soft, place for the girls to come home to.
They will need it. Every flower, every little old lady, every
ounce of love.

Tuesday June 28

I love fishing. Especially when they take the bait. That's
exactly how I felt this morning as we rummaged through every
paper we could get our hands on, looking to see if our story got
picked up. Sure enough, it did. And a very nice write up, too.
Darryl the telephone octapus did an excellent article in the
Cleveland paper. Guess I misjudged the little weasle. No, he
was still a creep. Just a creep who also happens to write well.

In some ways, I guess it was sort of a let down. I mean, I
was hoping the girls would be on the Colt's doorstep 15 minutes
after the papers hit the stand. Not the case. So the wait
continues. It's starting to drive me crazy...

end part 14
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

Part 15: Rounding the Bases

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Wed. 29 June

It's over. They're back.

If only it was really that simple.

Yesterday evening, a fax came in. Sheriff Falk,
waiting anxiously with us in the office, sent coffee
splashing as he threw his cup down and ripped the page
off the machine. He frowned at it, baffled, and turned
it to show me and Scully.

She jumped up, took it, and looked at me, wide-
eyed.

KETTERING 378-1200

"What's that?" Falk asked.

"Where's Kettering?"

"Close to Dayton. Think it's a phone number?"

Scully and I looked at each other and raced for
the phone book to find the area code.

She beat me there and was already searching when
Sheriff Falk motioned me back. "Because what I started
to say," he told me, with a bemused look at Scully's
frantic page-turning, "is that I got a niece lives
in Kettering, and that's not the right prefix."

We called it anyway. "The number you have dialled
is not presently working..." Then we left off the area
code. Then dialled it with the area code but reversed
the seven digits.

Scully started to make a list of numeral
anagrams of the seven digits, then abruptly picked
up the phone again, turned it so I could see what
she was doing, and dialled K-E-T-T-E-R-I-N-G. I
grinned; I was sure that was it.

"The number you have dialled is not presently
working..."

We were both so disappointed. Scully put her
head in her hands and stared at the page. "Why a fax?"
she asked herself.

"So we couldn't identify a voice," I answered.

"Which means this isn't a phone number for the
same reason. Why did we get the fax here?"

"It's the only fax available to us right now.
If we'd been in Washington, we would have gotten it
through email."

She picked up the paper and her shoulders
straightened. "But what's the disadvantage of sending
us a fax here?"

"Anyone could see it."

"So it has to be--"

"Subtle."

"Twelve o'clock, Mulder. Midnight tonight."

"In Kettering... and 378 must be--"

"The number of the train."

"Passenger cars are identified by names or
times. But they use numbers for freight trains."

"Which means at midnight tonight..."

"They're letting them go." I closed my eyes.

But when I opened them, Scully's face was
still tight with anxiety. "Or they want us to think
so."

"You think it's a trap?"

"Remember your Wicker Man theory."

"What choice do we have?"

"None." Her eyes fixed on the page again.
"That's what scares me. We don't have a choice. None
at all."

Sheriff Falk and Barney Five gave us detailed
directions to Kettering, a three-hour drive. Scully
glanced at me, pained, and asked them for additional
directions. To the nearest hospital. I nodded. We
might need it.

Falk kept his deputy from asking questions.
He showed us where to go and then he got out of our
way.

We hied it for the hotel, grabbed the already-
packed emergency bags we've learned to take with us
everywhere we go, and I drove to Kettering. Scully
called in to the Cincinnati field office and let
the Bureau outpost know we might have to call for
emergency backup. They asked if this had anything
to do with the story about the `kidnapping' that had
appeared in the papers. We're either in trouble or
famous. Probably both. Then she phoned the Montgomery
County Hospital, confirmed our directions, and told
them to be prepared to admit two patients that night.

With a sly humor I wouldn't quite have
expected from her, Scully slid her eyes over to me
and said into the phone, "Maybe you should make that
_three_ patients..."

"I'm fine," I said loudly.

"For now," she muttered.

"O ye of little faith."

"O ye of no remaining sick leave."

"You did hang up before you said that, right?"

"Maybe..."

If it weren't for Scully, I'd be a wreck.

Okay, I'm probably a wreck anyway. But without
Scully I'd be a miserable wreck teetering on the edge
of insanity. ...I'd better stop there.

She looked up Kettering on the map of Ohio and
found there are no railway stops there. Just one lone
intersection where the rail crosses the highway leading
to the town. "That must be the place," she said, and
then she put the map away and got out her gun and checked
it over thoroughly. Once she'd finished I handed her my
gun and she broke it down and checked it, too.

It was eleven o'clock when we finally arrived
at the intersection, pulled the rental car off the road
into the underbrush, and swept the area. It was eleven-
thirty when we regrouped and crouched near the bulk of
the car, weapons ready, waiting.

No words for twenty minutes. We waited in silence.

And then we heard it, far off in the distance.

A train's full-throated whistle, resounding and
coming closer and opening up into an all-consuming roar.
That sound holds so much promise and romance, mystery and
adventure for other people. That sound makes me sick. It
hits Scully the same way.

It was still a long way off when we heard the
brakes lock in, the squeal of the protesting tracks.
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing away from one
another to keep every angle covered. We both kept
looking at the empty rail. Watching. Waiting. Then
the racket flooded my ears and it was there.

The train thundered past, loud and shrieking
as it slowed. The cars lumbered over the hump of the
intersection, ratcheting fast, then slower. Finally
it crept past us and the din lowered enough that I
could hear my labored breathing, hear Scully's gasps.
We'd be killed. They'd never let us go after we'd
gone to the press, even obtusely. A fleet of men would
roll off the goddamn train and shoot us both without
thinking twice. I wanted to tell Scully to take the car
and run, get out of range, hang back 'til we were sure.
But I couldn't. This was her stand to make as much as
mine. And I couldn't. Because god help me, I needed
her there at my side.

Suddenly the train bucked, almost halting. We
heard a door sliding open, a moment passing, the door
sliding closed. And the train began to pick up speed.

Scully and I exchanged looks, swept the area
again, found nothing. I jerked my head to indicate the
other side of the tracks. She nodded.

We couldn't wait any more. We ran past the
quickening train cars, through gravel and weeds, saw
the red caboose flash past and made an end run around
it, crossing the hot rail and running around the other
side. I think we cried out at the same time when we
saw them. Saw them shoved hastily into the clothes they'd
been wearing the night they disappeared, lying in the
high grass near the intersection. Saw them discarded
by the side of the road, pale and thin and slumped
unconcious, certainly sedated, probably drugged with
substances beyond even Scully's expertise. Saw them.

Alive.

I dropped down and seized a slender wrist,
felt for a pulse at her neck, brushing past blond
hair falling in a spiral of curls over my hand. "I've
got a heartbeat," I called out, kneeling over her
and passing a palm over her lips. "She's breathing.
I think she's all right."

Turned to Scully on the verge of elation and
saw her grim, clenched mouth. "Help me," she said,
starting CPR. I positioned my hands over Darcy's
diaphragm; Scully clutched my arm and said, "Careful.
The baby."

We worked together to revive her. I pushed
carefully on my folded fists and Scully breathed life
into Darcy's whitening mouth, murmuring, "Come on,
come on, come on..."

I think I was talking. I think I told Darcy
it was safe. She could come out now. We were here.
No one could hurt her now.

Suddenly, almost involuntarily, her chest
spasmed and she drew in air. Scully put her face
down over Darcy's and listened. "She's breathing.
Her pulse is getting stronger." Then, "It's steady.
She's back."

It would have been nice to collapse then,
but the girls weren't out of danger. I picked up
Darcy's limp form and said, "Maybe you could bring
the car--" but Scully had already lifted Rebecca
in her arms, Scully who is only two inches taller
than Rebecca Colt, carrying the girl over the
embankment and back to the car.

Belted them in the backseat, wilting against
each other, slack and unresponsive. Scully slammed
into the driver's seat and we ripped across a half
hour of Ohio road in ten minutes. I reclined the
bucket seat back and kept the girls from being tossed
around too much every time we made a turn.

Someone at Montgomery County Hospital had
taken Scully's call seriously. A pair of stretchers
were parked near the doors of the emergency entrance.
She stormed in yelling medical orders and the staff,
shocked, scurried to obey. At this point, all I could
do was stay out of the way.

It wasn't long before Scully emerged from
the ER, drawn and pale as the girls themselves. She
slumped against the wall beside me and said, "Coma."

"Both?"

She nodded and put her hand over her face.

"We should call back to Warmington," I said
numbly, thinking, at least it's something to do.

I called the Sheriff. Scully called the family.
We coordinated our half-truths easily, on the spot. It's
so easy to lie.

Neither of us spoke once we put away our phones.
A woman came out of the ER shedding her scrubs and we
rose together and waited.

"You brought in these two teenagers?" She
pulled off her gloves and didn't wait for an answer.
"They're stabilized. They've come out of the comas.
I don't want to get your hopes up-- they're not out
of the woods yet-- but it looks like they're going
to be okay." She paused. "...Are these the two young
women who disappeared from that little town?"

I told her they were. She looked from me to
Scully solemnly. "Then you're the federal agents."
Another yes. She was scoring well tonight on double
jeopardy. "I guess you're probably aware that the
older girl's had a D&C within the past couple of
days."

I didn't have to look. I could feel Scully's
reaction, visceral and immediate. I answered, "Yes."

The doctor nodded, gave us her name, and
returned to the ER. A moment went by, then Scully
said, "Say it."

Turned to face her, saw her downcast eyes,
and said, "They were waiting for the fetus to
become viable."

She put her hand over her mouth, knuckles
whitening, and shuddered. I looked behind us to see
a worn bench stationed near the ER and tugged her
sleeve and we collapsed together on the seat. How
could I possibly explain the horror of what happened
to anyone? Who could comprehend it, who could know?
No one could understand the gravity of the moment
unless they had been there. Only one other person
has been there. Only my partner. Only Scully.

I felt her fighting to stave off sobs and
shook my head, told her to let go. Don't try to be
strong and pretend it's for me, so that I won't
worry. Don't try to be invulnerable to protect my
feelings or your pride. Let it go.

I'm not sure which of us was the first to
take my advice. Just that it took a long time for
the two of us to climb out of the abyss of grief
we'd willing ventured into, for the sake of the
truth. And that we made it out together.

The last time we leaned on each other like
that, in the hospital after Melissa passed away, it
wasn't each other we really fell against; it was the
beginnings of a wall rising between us. I tucked away
everything I felt because I didn't want to add to her
pain. Scully did the same for me. Somewhere along the
way, we forgot to stop hiding from each other. Somewhere
along the way, we both got lost.

Maybe we both had to be shaken to our foundations
to bring down that wall. I don't know. But I think we found
each other at last.

I know that when eventually we let go of each
other, Scully smoothing the rumpled lapel of my suit
jacket (like it mattered), she didn't try to deny the
tears that bled into her mascara to make blue bruises
smudging her face. She seemed almost surprised when I
had to use my sleeve to wipe my eyes. I guess I've never
let her see that before. I always wanted to be sarcastic,
unflappable Mulder for her-- inhuman and relentless. It
made things easier for both of us. But now easy is going
out the window for reality. And the truth is that I am
human and it does hurt. Hurts to see what they do to us.
What we let them do to us because we're afraid to ask
questions, afraid of the answers we might find.

I was afraid to give my sister's abductors a
human face. I didn't want that face to be my father's.
I was afraid that face could just as easily be my own.

It hurts, but it's the pain of bones mending,
muscles knitting, skin healing. Releasing the death
grip on my tenuous memories of what happened the night
Samantha disappeared means relinquishing one of the few
things in my life that I thought was solid. But it also
opens the way for other explanations, other possibilities.
It means surrendering some of my faith in exchange for
something else. Hope.

And now, that's what I need more than anything.
Hope. I can surrender a little faith now because I don't
have to regard those scattered memories as bedrock. I
can do without that crutch. I finally learned that even
when things are at their worst, I have a partner. A
constant in the chaos of this craziness. I have Scully
for support, for skepticism, for sanity. For good.

We checked in on Darcy and Rebecca once more;
color was slowly returning to their faces, filling the
hollows under their eyes. Scully pulled the covers up
to their chins. "I was cold in the hospital" was all
she said.

"When are the Colts coming?" I asked her.

"Tomorrow. I told them not to try to hurry,
that they're okay now. I'm sure tonight'll be the
first full eight hours of rest they've had in weeks."

"We'd better find rooms."

Scully nodded, flagged down a nurse and got
directions to the nearest motel (just around the
corner) and gave both our business cards to the
lady at the desk, writing the name of the hotel on
the backs. We somnabulistically stumbled to the
car, drove to the motel, got a pair of adjoining
rooms, and went to bed.

That lasted.

Pretty soon I'd turned the television on
and discovered that this motel did indeed have
cable. Flipped through channels for a while only
to discover that even with cable, there was STILL
nothing on. Tried to sleep and failed. Heard Scully
milling around in her room-- the blessing and curse
of thin walls-- as she tried to rearrange furniture
to make herself more comfortable, one of her last-
ditch efforts to put herself to sleep when unconciousness
eludes her.

Suddenly I couldn't stand the idea of the
two of us on either side of that ridiculous wall
trying and failing to rest when neither of us wanted
to be alone. Flipped off the television decisively,
pulled into sweats and a flannel and slipped out of
my room just as the telephone started to ring. Hesitated
then decided to hell with it and knocked on Scully's
door.

She unlocked and opened, eyebrows raised, with
the telephone in her hand. When she saw it was me she
almost smiled and put the receiver back on the hook.
The phone in my room stopped in mid-ring.

"I heard you shut off your TV," she shrugged,
"so I knew you were awake."

"Heard you redecorating," I returned. "I love
what you've done with the place."

"Me and Martha Stewart." The riposte was wan
and absent-minded; she backed into the room again and
sank to sit on the edge of the bed. I followed, locking
the door, and sat on the floor, waiting.

"What will we tell them?" she asked, finally.

"The truth."

"That we think their daughter and niece were
conscripted for genetic testing aboard a secret train
network run by ex-Axis scientists? That we believe
these tests may involve totally foreign strains of
DNA? That we deduced that these tests may have been
conducted on several members of their family? That
we suspect Darcy was pregnant when the girls went
missing, that the baby--"

I gave her time. Then asked, "What else can
we do?"

"I don't know, Mulder. I was hoping you'd
produce some of your famous brilliance for this one."
Scully wrapped her worn dressing gown tighter around
her and looked at me pensively and I realized she
wasn't kidding. My famous brilliance.

"I think... if either Darcy or Rebecca remembers
anything at all about what happened to them, then we have
a responsibility to tell them the truth as we know it."

She nodded. "And if they don't?"

"I don't know, Scully. You tell me."

"I'm an adult. I can deal with what happened
to me. But they're just kids, Mulder. If they've forgotten,
I think we should let them forget." Scully gazed at me
dead-on and said, "I know we could ask to hypnotize them
and find out more, but I don't want to put them through
it. I just don't."

I had to sift through a hundred levels of
judgement and bias and the need to know before I
could say, "Okay. If they remember, we tell them. If
they don't, we give them the Cliff Notes version. An
anonymous tip resulting from the press story. But I
want to leave our names and numbers with them. If
either of them ever wants to know, I want us to be
there for them."

Scully nodded wearily. A few minutes ticked
by. When we spoke again, it was at the same time.

"When I came back--" "When you came back--"

I deferred to her. "Go ahead."

"I know I was comatose and I shouldn't be
able to recall that time," she said, eyes fixed on
the striped bedspread. "But Missy told me that the
night before I woke up, the doctors thought it was
over. She said you were so wild to find out what
had happened..."

I had never told Scully outright about the
choice I made that night. One of my last secrets.
I surrendered it willingly enough. I'd had a chance
that night to kill the men who took her; I was
waiting for them when her sister came to tell me
that Scully needed me. Melissa spelled it out for
me ruthlessly... the question was, do I love my
friend more than I hate my enemies? She made me see
that the answer was yes. Always.

Scully listened, then told me quietly, "I
miss her so much. We didn't get along for so many
years... wasted so much time." She smiled a little.
"But we had a year, we had our reconciliation. Thank
god for that." She picked at the bedspread, slid down
to prop herself on one elbow, putting us at the same
level. "I remember what you said to me that night...
`I think you believe you're not ready to go yet. And
you've always had the strength of your beliefs.'" I
nodded; Scully looked at me. "`I don't know if my
being here will help bring you back...'"

I said it with her: "`But I'm here.'"

Then she repeated, "I'm here, Mulder. And
I'm not going anywhere."

We clasped hands.

She faded away to sleep soon after that. I'm
still here now, writing by the dim light of the lamp
she left on. She looks so peaceful now. Without her
usual dusting of makeup, I can see the faint freckles
on her fair skin. Her hair tumbles across her face
and her breathing is slow and steady and even.

I think the floor in here would probably be
more comfortable than the hammock they've got for a
mattress in my room. I'll just roll up my flannel
and use that for a pillow. It's temperate tonight,
I don't need more than a t-shirt anyway. And I'm
pretty sure I can trust Scully not to step on me
when she wakes up tomorrow morning.

Of course.

Of course I can trust her.

Always.

end part fifteen.

Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Part 16: Sacrifice Fly

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Wednesday, June 29

I had a dream last night.

I dreamed that we woke up and went over to see Sheriff
Falk at his office. He was talking on the phone and he had a big
grin on his face. He hung up and told us that Darcy and
Rebecca had just walked in the Colt's door. They had been
hitch-hiking to California when they saw the headline that had
been picked up by the AP from the Cleveland paper. Darcy had
been contrite, Rebecca justifiably apologetic for scaring her
family that way. They were safe, sound and sorry. And they
vowed never to do something like this ever, ever again.

Then I woke up and it wasn't true.

I cried in the bathroom all the way through my shower.
That way, Mulder will never know. I learned this trick about 3
years ago. I think it was after Mulder took off to find that
downed 'UFO', and we had that run in with *dear* Col.
Henderson of the Air Force Retrieval Unit. After I spent the
night trying to make dead men breathe again. Men that were no
more than charred tissue and pain. Men that should never have
had to die like that. When I got back to the hotel and Mulder
tried to get me to go look at Max Fenig, I had to get away. I
told him I was taking a shower. But I just stood in the shower
stall and cried my heart out. He was never the wiser. He's
never figured it out. It's the one thing I doubted I would
ever be able to tell him.

Mulder's always accusing me of being psychic. I don't think
he knows how much that bothers me. I'm not psychic. I can't
buy into that ouija board mumbo jumbo. But there have been
times that I've *known*. I've felt things. The other day, in the
Colt's house, in the girls' room, that was just a glimmer. That
was a connection of a different kind. This morning, when I
woke up, I cried for those girls. Because I knew we'd find
them. But that everything would not be fine.

I've always liked puzzles, except when someone's life
depends on it. I hate them then. They only slow me down. So
when we got the fax at the Sheriff's office, I was not amused.
Kettering 378-1200. That was all that was on the page. No
return phone, a blind call. A clue. I had a pretty good idea of
the ethnic origin of the person sending us the message. At least
this time he didn't meet me in the hallway and shove a gun in my
face like last time. I wonder if he does that to Mulder. Funny,
we never compare notes on this mutual `acquaintance' of ours. I
don't think Mulder's aware of the times I've met him. I know I
don't know of all the times he has. I don't think I want to know.

Kettering is a small town outside of Dayton. The number
sure looked like a phone number. We tried. We tried the
number several different ways. Always the same, it wasn't
connected. I was about ready to try the old numbers code from
the back of corn flake boxes when I was a kid. I did spell out
Kettering. Too many letters for a phone number.

And then, the last four numbers just sort of reached out and
socked me in the jaw. 1200. Military time would have been
noon. But to most of the world, 1200, when you're dropping
off a load of missing children, in the dark of night--it's midnight.
1200 equals 12:00 which equals midnight. And as quick as
that, Mulder knew what 378 was. The number of the train.

Right about then, I remembered something about my
partner. He may be paranoid. Or maybe, he's right and
everyone *is* out to get us. He had mentioned a Wicker Man
scenario a few nights ago. It was a setup. Maybe this whole case
was a set up. Elaborate, yes, but no more so than abducting a
federal agent from her home, keeping her for three months and
returning her more dead than alive. I could see it in his eyes
that he was not too pleased at this turn of events. I could also
tell that regardless of how displeased he might be, he was sure
as hell going to Kettering for the midnight 378 coming from
Indiana. And I was going with him, regardless of if he wanted
me to, or there would be one *hell* of a fight. For the record,
I was fairly sure I would win.

Sheriff Falk supplied us with the name of the nearest
hospital, Montgomery County Hospital. I called the Cincinnati
field office to get back up, but it would be a while coming. We
were pretty much on our own--big surprise there.

On the way there, a nice three hour drive through the 'wilds'
of Ohio, I called the hospital to double check the directions and
alert them to a possible emergency situation. I told them to be
ready for two patients. Then, I looked over at my favorite
'casuality waiting to happen' and amended that to *three*
patients. Other little towns, like Farmington, New Mexico,
Dead Horse, Alaska, Raleigh, North Carolina, have all taught
me not to take Mulder's propensity for injury for granted.
Fortunately, I overestimated the boy this time. God, do you
think he's learned his lesson? Yeah, right, I didn't think so.
We were just lucky, for once.

We got there, in the very middle of nowhere, a little early.
It was eleven o'clock and a cool night for June, but at least it
wasn't raining. We reconned the area for about 30 minutes,
then hunkered down to wait by the car. It's funny. I'm not a
chatty person. I like to talk, but with Mulder, sometimes quiet is
more important than words. We needed this time. It was nerve
wracking, but we needed the quiet. I know I did.

Mulder heard the train first. I swear, sometimes I think he's
part beagle. He tensed and gripped his gun tighter, if that was
even possible. Then, a split second later, I heard it. My throat
went dry. A million thoughts rushed through me head. This
was a set up--we were about to be killed. They had killed the
girls and were only dropping the bodies (Oh, God, I prayed
against that one). Or the girls would be like I had been--in a
coma, just barely hanging onto life. Not once did I think that
they would jump off the train and tell us all about how
wonderfully romantic it is to 'ride the rails' for five weeks.
I might be a Pollyana, but I'm not the village idiot.

The train squealed to a stop but it was still a ways away.
Then it thundered past and I wondered if we had just screwed
up big time and the clue was actually something else all
together. But by this time, Mulder was running off down the
tracks, opposite the train. I had nothing better to do, so I
ran after him.

On the opposite side of the tracks (they had seen us, I was
certain) we found them. Looked like they had been playing that
game we used to play at slumber parties where you have 1
minute to get dressed in all the clothes in the birthday girl's
closet. They were dressed by someone else and in hurry. Both
were unconscious, Darcy without a pulse. I started CPR,
Mulder helped and then, when we got her back, we carried
them to the car.

I didn't think I could carry a girl almost my size, well, maybe
a little taller. But I did. I've carried Mulder before, but he
doesn't remember it. He was unconscious at the time. And
drugged to the gills. And a bullet from my gun had just ripped
up his shoulder. Ahab used to talk about the strength we have
within, that we can call upon to do wondrous things when
necessary. All I could think last night was that I hoped it
was enough.

We got them to the hospital and then others took over. I
hate that. I don't like standing around. I hate watching while
other people work, spending the entire time second-guessing what
they should or shouldn't be doing. I pulled one of the doctors
aside and warned him about Darcy's baby. He nodded and
hustled me out of the ER. Joined Mulder in the hall and we
just sat there. And waited.

It was a moot point, apparently. When the ER doctor came
out, she informed us that the girls were stable but had not
regained consciousness. She also informed us that Darcy had
recently had a D&C.

I hate being a *professional*. There are times, like last
night, when something happens and I just can't take it anymore
and I just want to scream and cry and kick and hurt somebody
and maybe even hurt myself because I am so damned mad and
in so much pain that it doesn't even matter. And I can't. I
couldn't. I just stood there. I don't know how he did it, but
Mulder managed to cover. He told the doctor that we were
aware of that. And then he got me over to a bench in the
waiting room, away from everyone.

Personal note to Samantha Mulder. When we find you,
Sam, I want to tell you that you have the most caring,
compassionate brother in the world. I know. I have two
brothers and they don't hold a candle to yours. My brothers
have been there for me, but even at the time of our father's
death, they were more wrapped up in their own pain than aware
of mine. And so I bore that pain alone. But your brother
has *always* been there for me. Even back then, when we still
didn't really know each other that well, he was there for me.
He was there for me when I was returned and really would have
shucked it all rather than face the pain. And when my sister
died, my Missy, he was there. He is always there. Thanks for
letting me borrow him all these years.

I don't like crying on Mulder's shoulders. Not because I'm
embarrassed by it. But because it would be a damned easy habit
to get into. I would spend the better part of our time on cases
wrinkling his suits and using his collar for a kleenex. His
shoulder (the one I shot--is that ironic or what?) fits perfectly;
it's the ideal place to bury my face and bawl my eyes out.

Not that I was the only one crying. He was crying, too.
It just hurt so damned much. I couldn't close my eyes without
seeing those girls lying in that field. What if we hadn't been
there? What if we had never put that bug in the press's ear?
What if we had stayed home on this one? And even so, what
had they already endured?

We managed to talk the Colts into waiting til morning. It
was only a couple of hours off by this point, anyway. The girls
were safe, and Mr. Colt was grilling the doctor in charge of the
girls before he hung up. I just wanted a bed. I would have laid
down on the floor if need be.

One of the nurses told Mulder there was a motel around the
corner from the hospital. Funny, we had driven right past it and
neither of us noticed. We got two adjoining rooms.

I was so tired, but when I lay down, I couldn't sleep. I kept
seeing the girls and thinking about Darcy's baby. Mulder and I
both know why they waited so long to return the girls. They
were waiting on the fetus. And now they have viable material
to work with. And we didn't stop them. We never manage to
stop them from doing this.

I couldn't punch through the wall like I wanted to, so I
rearranged the furniture. Moved the desk, the two chairs,
would have moved the bed, but the headboard was bolted to the
wall. I was calling Mulder to ask him if he had the screwdriver
set I got him for Christmas in his suitcase when he knocked on
the door.

He looked like a little boy lost standing there in a flannel
shirt, tee shirt showing, and jeans. Probably added the jeans
and flannel before knocking--always the modest one, that man.
He came in, and sat down. We talked about what we could
possibly tell the Colts, tell the girls.

Missy, I know that you wanted me to get in touch with
those memories. To remember that time. And I do, too, now.
I know that I need that. But God help me Missy, I can't do
that to those little girls unless they already remember part of
it. I want so much for them to not remember anything at all--to
never remember any of it. It would be far better for them. For
them, the truth will hold no comfort, only intense pain. They
don't deserve that. No more than Lucy Householder did. They
don't deserve to watch the rest of their lives fall in ruins.

And for once in his life, my personal truth seeker felt the
same way. Or at least, he bowed to my greater experience in
this area. He agreed that we would only tell them the `Cliff
Notes' version. Unless they want more. Unless they remember.
But we will give them our numbers so that they can get in touch
with us if ever there is a need.

We talked for a long time. We talked ourselves to sleep,
basically. I didn't mind that he came in here, and I couldn't
have cared less who might have been watching. If the pictures
of Mulder crashing on my floor end up in the employee's
newsletter next month, so be it. I sure wasn't up to moving
him, that was for sure. I just wish I could have convinced him
to take the other half of the double bed. I trust him with my
life. I'm pretty sure I can trust him when we're both dead asleep.

It's going to be morning soon. It's 4:15 am right now. He's
asleep, drooling on my shoe at the moment. I'd move it, but
he'd wake up and probably crawl back to his own room. I don't
want him to go. I need to hear him, hear his breathing. It's
so much better than the silence that would smother me if he
weren't here.

So, I wonder. How come Mulder is a basketcase when
things are quiet and so rock solid and steady when things are at
their worst? His own special rebellion against the `system' of
society? My private anchor in incredibly rough seas? The
strangest excuse for a guardian angel I've *ever* heard of?
I don't know.

Something broke tonight. Maybe I just noticed it, but we
haven't talked as much in the last few months combined as we
have in the last 36 hours. It feels like the air after a big storm.
Clean and fresh and new. I look around and can see the storm's
destruction, but I'm glad. We lived through it. And the sun is
shining.

Mulder's right. I need to sleep. Too bad he took the only
good spot on the floor.

end part 16
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem With Vickie Moseley

Part 17: The Home Stretch

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Thurs. 30 June

Scully and I have concluded a lot of cases with
varying results. Sometimes the family is grateful. Some-
times they refuse to speak with us again. Sometimes we're
the only ones left standing and all we can do is report
it and go on.

But we've never concluded a case quite like this.

I don't know whether to laugh or wince or wither,
but we're now considered to be heroes in Warmington, Ohio.

Apparently the tiny Warmington paper had a
photographer take a few covert shots of us while we
were around the police station; there was a blurry
shot of the two of us descending the steps, under
a banner headline reading FBI AGENTS BRING HOME
MISSING TEENS.

Doesn't mention that one FBI agent had his
head up his ass for the first half of the case, that
the girls have hardly come through unscathed, that
bringing them home has been heartache and it isn't
over yet. No, it's a cheerful article about how we
`resourceful' federal employees descended from Mount
Washington and deigned to take note of the disappearance
of Rebecca Colt and Darcy Waitland, our capes billowing
dramatically in the winds of truth, justice, and the
American way. There are a few complimentary quotes from
Sheriff Falk in there. I wonder if the reporter put the
sentiments in his mouth, if Falk read the quotes out
loud to avoid lying about their attribution.

You know what I feel like? It's weird, but I
feel kind of like Boo Radley at the end of _To Kill
a Mockingbird_. The bit where the police chief says
that Atticus shouldn't put Boo in the spotlight, that
it'd just make him miserable. I'd rather have a
quiet victory, to be honest. You never know when
approbation could make way for condemnation. I'd
prefer to avoid the attention, all in all.

Scully seems comfortable accepting thanks
from people, telling them that it's up to them now
to take care of Darcy and Rebecca and make sure they
come through it all okay, telling them that she knows
everyone will give the girls the love they need to
recover.

I just keep waiting for someone to come up
to me and demand to know why we weren't here sooner,
why I wasted so much time with my own stupid problems,
how come I couldn't find them in time to prevent the
procedure that took away Darcy's child.

We have no definite proof that there was a
child. Darcy had anamolous test results possibly
indicating pregnancy. When we found her, she had
recently been subjected to dilation and cutterage.
That's not necessarily an abortion. It could be
used to take samples of uterine lining. There didn't
have to be a baby.

But there was. We both know that there was.

Is it such a bad thing that Darcy's no
longer pregnant? Maybe not, terrible as that may
sound. She's only sixteen. Hardly old enough to
become a mother. But damn it, that was her choice
to make. And god only knows what will happen to
that child now. Because Scully and I have no way
to know how far along Darcy was when the girls
were abducted. A month? Two months? If she'd
gotten pregnant while she lived in Tennessee...
and that seems like a reasonable assumption to
make... then she was probably three months along
when the procedure was performed just a few days
ago.

It could have been viable.

Could still be alive, somewhere.

Sometimes I just don't know how we
endure it. But we got through today and we'll
get through tomorrow.

This morning I woke up to feel a small
foot poking my side. Scully was sitting on the
edge of the bed, prodding me awake, though she
still looked half-asleep herself. "The Colts
called, they wanna move the girls," she said.

"Huh?" was my cogent response.

They wanted to move the girls to the
Embree County Hospital just outside of Warmington.
Scully blinked at me blearily and added, "The
doctors here told them that it was okay, they're
probably going to take them by ambulance. Under
the circumstances, everyone seems to think it's
the best thing to do."

I was having trouble following. "So?"

"So they called and wanted to know if
we have any objections. Any reason why they
shouldn't move them?"

"No. Make sure they get X-rayed, though."

"Already did," she yawned. Scully squinted
at the light filtering into the room through a gap
in the curtains. "It's so _bright_," she noticed.
Yep, we were both in top form this morning.

I started to get myself together to go
back to my own room. Scully frowned at me. "It's
only five-thirty, Mulder; you're not getting up
already, are you?"

"It's fun camping out on the floor in
here and all, but..." I shrugged. Scully was still
frowning. Saw her laptop was sitting beside her
on the bed, so I reached past her and pulled it
over. "What's this?"

She grabbed for it, saying, "Nothing!"

"Field report?"

"No. Give it back." We tussled over it
for a minute-- I have to admit, it's fun to be
bratty with Scully just to get that flaring reaction--
but I eventually gave it back to her and asked
seriously what she'd been writing.

"It's my personal log."

"Yeah? What Stardate?" I asked, and got a
pillow in the face. We've been throwing things at
each other a lot lately: pillows, papers, ideas,
confessions...

It's strange how easy it was to end up
slumped on the bed, fall back against the pillows
and face each other that way. I don't think I'd
ever seen Scully when we were both horizontal.
Take that back, we've been in quarantine together,
and I'd look over from my cot to see her lying
there staring restlessly up at the ceiling.

Now, though, we looked at each other. She
told me it was her diary. She just called it a log
because that's what her father called his diary.
I conceded that I've been keeping this journal.

"I thought you always kept a journal,"
she pointed out.

"Haphazardly." I told her about how I'm
trying to make entries on a more routine basis now.
She nodded solemnly and closed her eyes.

I didn't want to leave. So I didn't. And
before long I was asleep too.

Woke up at ten. Scully was at the door,
talking to someone, and for a second I thought
we were back in Warmington and she was going to
kill me for dropping off in her room and spurring
another wave of gossip. Then she turned around
and saw I was awake and smiled. Shut the door
behind her and sat beside me, and it turned out
that she'd ordered breakfast from the catering
place that serves the hospital, and paid extra
so they'd deliver it. "You get to explain that on
the expense report when _you_ do the next budget,"
she joked.

"In your dreams, Scully. Stock up on
batteries for your calculator. I'm going to
tack all kinds of expenditures onto the next bill
just so you can try to explain them all..."

"I knew you did that on purpose!"

"They never question _your_ budget accounts,"
I pointed out. "If I claim so much as a broken shoe-
string I have to have fifteen forms of verification,
but they believe you."

She looked thoughtful about that one, but
I didn't wait for her to comment-- breakfast smelled
fantastic.

We left the motel just before noon and went
to the hospital for the X-Files. I mean, the X-rays.
Funny how often I make that typo. Not to mention
turning every word that starts with a capital S into
Scully. Anyway, we asked Dr. Ganza, the woman who
spoke to us when we brought the girls to the ER,
about the X-rays.

Nothing. Scully repeated, "Nothing? No
unidentified metal objects found in the neck or
head area?"

Dr. Ganza gave Scully the kind of look that
I'm more used to getting aimed at _me_, and reiterated,
nothing unusual on the X-rays.

Scully stomped off and I followed; she whirled
and said to me tightly, "I looked at them, Mulder. I
checked in the ER. There were marks, little cuts on
the backs of their necks. I know there were implants."

Talk about preaching to the choir. But it
occured to me: "They knew it was us, Scully. They
must have pulled the implants out so we wouldn't
have any hard evidence."

She squeezed her eyes shut and made a tiny
sound like someone had punched her in the throat.

I reminded her that Darcy and Rebecca were
back, safe, on their way home. Even if we didn't
get justice, we garnered a victory.

"I'm tired of these Pyhrric victories,
Mulder. I want proof."

"I want exactly what you want. Look, I'm
not happy about it either, but I can't see any
other way we could have handled this without
putting those girls' lives at unnecessary risk.
I don't want you to drive yourself crazy over
this, Scully. That's my job."

She hiccuped an infinitesimal laugh
and a thousand expressions mingled on her face,
regret and pride and pain and relief and rage.

"C'mon. We need to go back to Warmington
and wrap this up, okay? We won this time, Scully.
As soon as we see Darcy and Rebecca with their
family, you'll know we did the right thing."

Scully nodded wearily and looked up at
me with bemusement. "I don't know how you do it,"
she said. "After all we've gone through, to come
through with so little... I just wonder sometimes
how you go on."

"I couldn't do it without you, Scully."

I've never said that to her before. I'd
told her that I counted on her, but that's almost
the same as taking her for granted. I'd told her
she's the only one I trust, but I never let her
know that I needed to trust someone. It was like
the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Her shoulders straightened and I got that dazzling
smile she shows so rarely, bright and intense as
the dawn.

"Let's go back to Warmington," she said.

The drive back saw us squabbling amicably
over the radio station settings, pointing out odd
clouds in the blue sky overhead, reading aloud weird
road signs ("Did that say eighty miles to the _Gomer_
_Pyle_ museum?!") and generally keeping ourselves
occupied for three hours. She spent some of that time
typing into her laptop... her "personal log", maybe?
I tried to sneak a look at it, but I couldn't see a
thing from my angle. So I just hummed along with the
Led Zeppelin fest on some local classic rock station.
At one point I got goofy and serenaded Scully with--
I'm not sure I ever knew the name of the song, but
it goes, "Oh-oh-oh oh, oh, oh, you don't have to go"
and so forth. I can't sing worth shit, so she got to
have a laugh at my expense. I figure she deserves
that much and a whole lot more.

Got back to Warmington and like I said, we
had trouble walking down the street; people kept
stopping us. Finally we got to the hospital and
found the room.

It's always bizarre to meet the subject
of a missing persons case. You've looked for them
so long and so hard, and in the process you feel
you've come to know them. I honestly wanted to go
out and buy Rebecca a set of charcoals and some
sketch paper to bring to her. I wanted to give
Darcy tickets to a Reba McEntire concert, Scully
having noticed that Reba is Darcy's favorite
musician. I wanted them to know that we weren't
just a pair of cops who'd made a few phone calls.
I wanted them to know that we cared about them.

Scully calls this my `empathy' for the
people involved in a case. Could be. I resisted
the urge to do these things for the girls because
although searching for them gave us the illusion
that we knew them, the truth is that no, I don't
know if Rebecca still likes to draw, and maybe
Darcy really hates country music. I don't know
them. And while I do care, there's no way to
express it. So I'll tell Scully about it and
leave it at that.

We went into the room. Mr. and Mrs. Colt,
Mr. and Mrs. Waitland, and the older Mrs. Colt,
Rebecca's grandmother, were all sitting around
talking to the girls and to each other. We'd
arrived long past the time for the joyful reunion.
As soon as we walked in, Mr. Colt accosted us and
took us back to the hall.

He said, "The doctors here have asked them
what happened and they just don't know. What happened
to my daughter? How did you find them?"

Scully and I exchanged looks and she managed
to convince him to let us speak to Darcy and Rebecca.

The family cleared out. Two young women
looked at us with fearful curiosity: Rebecca, blond
and slight and timid; Darcy, smaller, rounder, more
outspoken, with light brown hair and a sullen expression.

I knew Scully wouldn't want to interview them
together-- too much risk that they'd influence one
another-- so we drew the thin curtain between them
and each of us conducted a quiet session, a few
brief questions. I asked Rebecca if she remembered
the night she vanished.

They went to see a movie, she remembered,
naming the film, and cut out halfway through to
talk. She colored when she admitted that her mom
had already asked her about the condoms in her
purse. Rebecca said, "They told me I had to tell
you everything..."

"It's okay not to talk to me, if it
makes you uncomfortable. I can ask your mom
if you'd rather I found out from her."

"It's just that my boyfriend and I
have been-- it's not anything to do with _Darcy_,"
she blurted. "We've been... you know... for a while.
I finally told Darcy about it that night and she
said she thought she might be pregnant from her
boyfriend back home. Darcy said I had to protect
myself and she gave me those condoms. She was just
trying to keep me from ending up pregnant too."

I nodded. Rebecca said blithely, "But I
guess she wasn't pregnant after all. The doctors
said she isn't. False alarm." She sighed. "Anyway,
they've asked me and asked me, but I just don't
remember anything after that. We were walking
home and then next thing I knew I was here and
my mom and dad said I'd been gone for weeks."

"And you aren't aware of anything that
happened to you during that time?" I asked. She
shook her head. I probed further: did she recall
the ambulance drive from Kettering? The ER there?
Us finding her by the train? Did she remember being
on the train? Rebecca screwed up her face and tried
to remember, but nothing came through.

I honestly don't know if I'm disappointed
or relieved. Both, of course. I need to know what
happened during those five weeks. But I want the
two of them to be safe and whole even more.

Scully came around and inclined her head.
Nothing from Darcy, either. We told them both how
glad we were to see them okay and home again.

Out in the hall, the entire clan had
amassed to thank us. I hung back and let Scully
receive their gratitude. I tried really, really
hard not to imagine how it might have been if
the same thing had happened for my family,
twenty-two years ago. I almost succeeded.

The Sheriff called asking if we'd be
willing to dine with the Mayor. The paper called
asking for interviews. The Mayor called to extend
his thanks and the dinner invitation again. By this
point I was so shell shocked I begged Scully not
to answer her phone and to order in. She nodded, but
there's no place in town that delivers except the
pizza joint that we patronized a few nights ago,
and while they were good, neither of us wanted
that again. But I wanted to venture out into
town even less. We ended up driving to another
small town about 25 miles from Warmington and
finding a takeout place there. So Scully and I
got to break out the chopsticks again tonight.
Pretty good food and we had a chopstick fencing
match, which Scully won rather handily.

Now I'm back in the room. DS9 was a
truly abysmal episode so I passed on TV. We
were on the eleven o'clock news, though; I
saw a commercial for it. A long shot of the
two of us leaving the hospital. Zoomed in
just as we got into our trusty rental car
and drove off into the sunset.

For them, the story is over. And us?
We go on. We pack up our unanswered questions
and our unfulfilled expectations and we go to
the next inexplicable case. The plane leaves
tomorrow morning.

It's time to move on.

end part seventeen.
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Part 18: Bottom of the Ninth, Runner on Base

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Thurs. June 30

The sun really is shining. It's a beautiful summer day.
June 30. Summer is really slipping by. Got to work on my tan.
Yeah, right. Ha. Ha.

Crawled out of bed and almost stepped on my partner.
He's asleep on the floor, halfway under the bed. Sometime
during the night he must have pulled the extra pillow down
there. I have to say it, here, where he'll never see it...
He is so damned cute when he's asleep!

I know, I know, that is patronizing and sexist and just like
all the women at the office who covertly drool over him in the
bathroom (usually when they don't know I'm in one of the
stalls and listening to their every word). But damn it all, it's
true. When he's asleep, all the intensity is turned down. The
frown is gone, the worry lines erase, the pout is a faint
memory. The smartass, wisecracking, `I am God's great gift to
the human race, treat me as such' bullshit that he shovels so
well gets tossed in a drawer. When he's asleep I get to see
what his mother must have seen when she tucked him in at
night. If she ever tucked him in. I hope she tucked him in
I hope he had at least *that* much of a childhood.

But getting back to the Fox Mulder asleep on my floor.
He's been a real pain for the last three weeks. No, scratch
that. I can't remember when he hasn't been a real pain. But he
has more than redeemed himself in the last 48 hours. He was
brilliant on this case, even as screwed up as he felt. He was a
Godsend last night to me at the hospital. He is an incredible
man and I count myself very, very lucky to have made his
acquaintance, much less be his friend.

The phone woke me up, or I'd still be sawing logs like the
`boy wonder' down there. (Side note: Mulder slept through
the phone ringing--mark this down on the calendar. I took his
pulse to make sure his heart was still beating.) The Colts were
at the hospital at the crack of dawn. They want to take the
girls home, back to Warmington.

I spoke briefly with the doctor and asked that a full set of
X-rays be taken before the girls are released. He gave me some
backtalk that it wasn't necessary, there were no indications of
broken bones, but I pulled my "I'm from the Federal
Government, do you REALLY want to anger ME?" attitude
and he saw the error of his ways. OK, maybe I wasn't that
rough. But it was fun to throw the weight around and get
results. It happens far too infrequently.

I want to check with Mulder before I give the go-ahead on
the move. I know the Colts are anxious, but the X-rays will
take a few minutes.

Now, how do I wake up a totally dead-to-the-world
Mulder?

Wow. My lucky day. I woke up to Mulder's sleeping mug
*twice*. I would venture to guess that I may be the first
woman since Phoebe Green to experience this rare
phenomenon. Better cross myself after mentioning that
vampire.

I woke him up by kicking him. Admittedly not my most
imaginative wake up method. I would have prefer the
lukewarm-water-in-a-handy-ice-bucket trick that I've pulled on
Charlie ('little brother' sleeps like the dead most times), but I
didn't want to walk around a puddle on the floor (and I feared
I might *be* that puddle), so I went easy on him.

Mulder agreed that it would be all right to move the girls
back to Warmington. After X-rays had been taken, of course.
Great minds think alike. Oh, now that is a scary thought--I'm
thinking like Mulder. Or maybe he's thinking like me. Either
way, I don't think the world is quite ready for that, yet.

The dweeb had the nerve to try and read my log. I can't
believe how much like a kid he can be. Yes, I do believe it.
Mostly because it happens ALL THE TIME in the office. Just
like the expense reports. Finally got him to admit that he does
stuff when I have to account for it. Said it was because they
*believe* me when I come up with some cockamamie reason
for ordering 'Debbie Does Dallas'-- like *research*. (Good
thing they showed a gratuitous location shot in that one. And
how was I to know, I never watched the damn thing! I was
just guessing.)

Anyway, the tug of war over my computer wore the little
guy out. This time he actually crashed on the bed. Well,
okay, so did I.

Sometimes it's nice to wake up to a face instead of a pillow.

Even if the face is in desperate need of a shave and the hair
on the head looks like Vidal Sassoon's latest reject.

He was really beat. But then, it was probably the most
sleep he'd had since we started this case. So I took pity on
him (don't I always) and let him be. Took my shower, ordered
*room service* (or what approximates for it in beautiful
downtown Kettering), even got the *heart failure special* for
him-- 3 eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns, toast with butter
and jelly--I had to close my eyes and try not to remember
doing CPR on Agent Frank Burst all the while he was inhaling
it. Of course, considering his eating habits the last week, it
almost made for a balanced diet.

By noon, we were just barely moving at a normal pace. It's
like the inertia that sets in after Christmas. Putting on my suit
felt like a monumental task. Putting on make-up required
more concentration than my tired mind was ready for.

The ride back was very different from the ride there. We
turned on the radio and played *your musical tastes suck* for
a while. He tried his best to stump me on rock trivia (I'm only
*4* years younger--not 14) and then serenaded me. Or he was
having incredible gas pains from all the grease at brunch. It
would have been impossible to detect the difference.

I really wasn't prepared for the `ticker tape parade' we got
on our arrival at the Sheriff's office in Warmington. It's
Thursday afternoon. It was 3:00. It's a work day, for cripes'
sakes. Where did all those people come from? They must
have let the local factory out because there were people 9 and
10 deep outside the office. And every single one of them had
to reach out, grab my hand or Mulder's and thank us profusely
for `bringing our girls home'. I glanced over and could see
how much that hurt him in Mulder's eyes. He was too busy
reminding himself of all the times he screwed up. Of the fact
that this was not `his girl' he was bringing home. I know he
does it. I can see the little hamsters running around on the
wheels and gears of his mind.

After a brief visit with the good Sheriff, we went over to
the hospital. Apparently one good thing came from all of this.
Darcy's parents have had a change of heart and are going to
give their marriage a second chance. It might work, it might
not; I'm no expert on marriages. Sometimes it takes a near
tragedy to make us grateful for what we have.

The girls looked just liked their pictures. It was a little
weird for me. All I could think about was laying in a bed
exactly like the one they were laying in. Having the room
filled with all the flowers and balloons, just like theirs was.
Then, Mulder coming in, just for a minute, really, with that *I
got lost, can you show me the way home* look on his face and
a stupid football video. It wasn't the only visit he made to my
hospital room after I came out of the coma, but it's the one I
always remember.

I have no doubt that those girls will receive plenty of
love. Their grandmother was the doting type, in the middle of
crocheting an afghan that was the color of Rebecca's room. I
bet Darcy has one coming as well. And Mr. Colt seemed as
happy to see his niece as to see his daughter. Everyone was so
relieved, so joyful, like the Prodigal Son. As I watched their
faces, my stomach was so tight that I thought I was going to
lose the bagel and melon I had for brunch.

I hate being the one to know that the carousel horse is
made of sawdust and sealing wax and paint. I want to believe
that it's real gold and jewels, just like everyone else. But that
isn't my job. That isn't my life. Still, it doesn't give me the
right to take their dreams away from them.

Mulder shooed everyone out, `official FBI-type business'--
God, the look on his face is so funny when he pulls that--so
serious, the FBI's poster boy! I suppose I get that look, too,
but after the view of him I got this morning, it just made the
juxtaposition that much more unreal.

He drew the curtain between the beds and started talking to
Rebecca. I sat down on the edge of the bed and talked to
Darcy.

She's a good kid. She was still a little dopey from the meds
they were giving her. I recognized the feeling and knew better
than to push her. If she had anything worthwhile, I knew she
would tell me.

I think I was relieved when she told me that she couldn't
remember a thing. I searched her eyes for any sign that she
might be hiding something, any clue that she was
uncomfortable in that blanket statement. There was none.
She was telling me the truth. It was a complete and total blank
for her.

I asked her about the night of the disappearance. I hated to
bring it up, but it didn't seem to be unpleasant for her. She
remembered going to the movies and cutting out early. She
and Rebecca wanted to talk. Alone, outside of the house and
`all those ears' as Darcy put it. I asked her what they needed to
talk about.

"It's sort of silly, now, I guess. See, I'd been feeling
crummy for a while, since I got here, really, and I thought . . .
well, my boyfriend and I, back home . . . I thought I was, you
know . . ." She smiled at me, and the blush on her cheeks told
me all I needed to know. "But that's not the case. Close call,
ya know. I told Becca `Don't ever, EVER let them tell you that
just this once won't hurt.' I told her no matter how much they
fuss about it, you gotta *make* them use a condom. Boys
don't have to like it. They just have to do it."

Such sage advice from a 16-year-old.

I nodded in complete agreement and stopped myself from
charging in on my high horse and proclaiming the virtues of
waiting until you're old enough to handle sexual relations. Not
my place. And somewhere, deep in my heart, I let out a breath
of relief that for Darcy, *nothing* had happened. She didn't
know what I knew.

Then it hit me. Out there, somewhere, there is somebody
who knows something that *I* don't. I made them look. God
knows, my primary care physician thinks I'm loony for all the
tests I've made him sign off on. But I had to know. Yet, I still
don't know. I didn't have a D&C, that I'm sure of. But they
could have harvested an egg . . .

Bad train of thought! Derail that sucker RIGHT NOW!

I don't really remember much of what we talked about after
that little realization hit me. Mostly just reassurances that the
girls were not in trouble with the law and that their families
wouldn't have to pay for *our* time and the resources it took
to bring them home. Apparently the government's budget
woes have hit the high school civics classes. Finally, Darcy
yawned big and her eyes were closing fast, so I told her
goodbye and went out in the hall to join Mulder.

Mr. Colt had him cornered, demanding more information.
Mulder was doing a fair job of keeping his cool, but it sure
wasn't going to last long. Finally, Grandma came over and
socked Mr. Colt in the arm and told him to `Settle down--
they're back and that's all the matters'! He seemed to take this
rather well, considering it was his mother-in-law talking, and
went to join the rest of the family.

Mulder stood there, watching them for a long while. I was
talking to Mrs. Colt and Mrs. Waitland, Darcy's mom. I
looked over and saw the look on his face. God, seeing that
family reunion hurt him more than the welcoming committee at
the Sheriff's office. I knew what he was thinking. `Why not
me?'

I wonder what it was like for him. He was just a kid when
he went through this. I know he was unconscious when his
parents came home the night Sam disappeared. He woke up in
the hospital with all those people asking stupid questions. His
parents took him home after about a week of tests. How hard
it must have been for him. Then, when he was finally home,
things must have been so strange. I can picture him, going to
bed each night hoping that in the morning his bratty kid sister
would be stealing the last of the Corn Pops and making his life
miserable again. No wonder he's uncomfortable around
religion. I bet he prayed a lot when he was younger. And he
figured he never got heard. He doesn't know what I know.
God always answers prayers. Sometimes the answer is No, and
we just have to accept that.

I grabbed his arm and got him out of there as fast as I
could.

Sheriff Falk caught up with us in the parking lot. The
Mayor and his wife had invited us for dinner tonight at their
home--a real treat in these parts, apparently. I begged off,
pointing out that we hadn't had much sleep recently and Agent
Mulder's colds tend to turn nasty after a couple of days. I
wanted him rested before spending any time on an airplane
with him.

It was a pretty lame excuse and the Sheriff knew it.
Mulder, for his part, dutifully blew his nose a couple of times
and coughed to prove my point. He looks half dead on the
best of days, and after the week we've had, looking like a man
on the brink of pneumonia wasn't even a stretch for him.
Finally, the Sheriff accepted that we weren't up for any major
social engagements and let us off the hook. He did mention to
me that the Mayor's wife had been talking about nothing else
for the entire day and she didn't take `no' lightly. He suggested
we might want to make ourselves scarce to save us the
embarrassment of turning her down on the phone.

I refused to eat pizza again. Sometimes I just can't face
another soggy crusted glob of bread dough and tomato sauce,
riddled with 'fake sausage' and lightly sprinkled with soy
cheese. So we drove to Canada and back (it felt like it--it was
only 25 miles really) to find that Ohio *does* have a few
Chinese restaurants. We took our oriental gourmet fare back
to the hotel.

We ate in Mulder's room because his bathroom works. He
offered to come over and 'tinker' with my toilet (God, where
does he get those leers?), but I informed him that I had it
under control. Like I really wanted to have to call the
paramedics to have his hand removed from my toilet when he
got it stuck--the local newspaper would have had a field day
with that one.

Paperwork and a long ride home. I'm going to bed. I
think I may sleep for week. Maybe two.

end part 18
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@rhf.bradley.edu)
In Tandem With Vickie Moseley

Part 19: Safe

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Fri. 1 July

The first day of a new month and we're twenty
thousand miles above the earth.

I like flying. I used to hate it, used to be
mildly phobic about it. Since going through regression
therapy, I enjoy it. I could try to figure that out,
but why bother? It's just nice to look out the little
window and see the clouds from the other side.

Scully informed me when we drove out to the
airport today that she intended to make up for every
smidgen of lost sleep that this case has cost her.
True to her word, she's crashed against the wall
again, just like she did on the way out here. The
more things change...

...I can't believe it. That's the same
flight attendant. Same woman with the same generously
cut blouse that affords the same spectacular view.

I think she recognizes me. Yeah, just got
a big smile from her. I'd better put on my reading
glasses and look like I'm doing something boring.
Scully'd never let me forget it if I ended up
flirting with the stewardess.

I'm not up to talking to anyone now, at
any rate. Retreat mode. I'd like to hibernate until
it's time for the next investigation. No, not really.
Just feeling nebulous. I don't know what I want.

Well, that'll pass. I've probably got a
deskful of work waiting at the office, cases to
review, files to sort and place. Maybe I'll finally
give Scully a Rosetta Stone to decipher my filing
system. The cabinets are arranged by a pretty
simple reference, cross-reference order, but the
ancillary sources... Byzantine. I didn't do it
on purpose, it's just the easiest way for me to
process the connections. I tried to explain it
to Byers once and his eyes glazed over.

The glasses aren't working. Suzie Silicone's
still glancing this way. Maybe she's one of those
women who think glasses are cute. Like Marilyn
Monroe in _Some Like It Hot_. "It makes 'em look
so vulnerable and helpless..." and this is a turn-
on? I don't get it. Goodbye, glasses.

...Look, lady, I'm not out for a quick
fuck in the baggage compartment. If I want meaningless
sex I'll watch the goddamn Playboy channel. So I
really hope there's some stud behind me you're
eyeing. It's not going to happen.

There, she got called to first class. Bye,
Suzie. There's a ten percent chance those implants
will rupture in the next decade. Have a nice day.

Got caught in luggage HELL today at the airport.
My emergency overnight bag got separated from the rest
of our stuff and went careening around Dulles like a
psychotic Tazmanian devil made of Samsonite. Scully
glared at me as we embarked on a two-hour journey to
find and reclaim the lost ark. Finally found it, but
we didn't make it in to the office today.

Oh, and Scully added a provision to our bet.
She wanted to be there when I ask Kimberly out to make
sure I don't invite her to watch for lights in the
sky or some other tactic that'll be guaranteed to
crash and burn. So I insisted on the same terms for
Agent Pendrell. I told her I knew she'd ask him out
properly, but I want to see the guy's face right
before he passes out and dies of exultation.

So Scully reversed herself and agreed that
we'll ask our prospects out separately. But she
warned me that if I get turned down she's going
to interrogate Kimberly to make sure I didn't
throw the bet. Like I'll need to. Pendrell's
gonna jump for Scully; Kim's going to have other
plans. And I'm free of the demon budget for two
quarters.

* Sat. 2 July

Decided to take a page from Scully's book
and slept from midnight to noon. Went to the gym
for a few hours and now I'm pleasantly exhausted.
Called an office supply shop and asked them to make
up a nameplate for the X-Files office: Agent Dana Scully.
And I think I've even finally shaken the cold I picked
up a few days back for good. New copy of TLG arrived
today, so I've got some relaxing bedtime reading.
May even chance the futon tonight. It's gotta be
more comfortable than those motel beds.

* Sun. 3 July

My cable's back! Wonder how it got fixed
while I was gone. The super never lets anyone into
rooms without permission from the tenant.

Maybe someone broke in to update the bugs
on my phone and fixed the cable while they were at
it. It's about time I got something out of this.

Chatted with the Gunmen via a secured
computer line for a while. They took their normal
phone offline to revamp their voice mail system.
I gave them all the info we got from this case...
the train schedules, names dates times and ideas...
which they added to their verified information
database. Langley also has a dozen smoke-and-ether
databases compiled with various subsets of rumors
and speculations. He's read _Foucault's Pendelum_
a few too many times.

Got the nameplate from the office supply
shop. Looks good.

Tomorrow's the Fourth. I'll ask Scully if
she's got plans. Maybe we can go to the reflecting
pool and watch the fireworks.

* Mon. 4 July

Holy shit, she said yes.

Kimberly lit up like a sparkler when I asked her
if she was busy this Friday! I don't get it. She's pretty,
she's smart, she seems like a wonderful person. What the
hell does she want with me? Be real, the women I've been
involved with have all been Phoebe or similarly inclined,
or else seriously in need of therapy. Kind of like me.
Birds of a feather, or more accurately, birds of a broken
wing flock together-- or fall together. Something like that.

It seems so improbable that with my "reputation"
in the Bureau (according to Scully, I've been the subject
of much office gossip, though I don't know why they'd care)
and with my crazy occupation, Kimberly's even contemplating
a date with me, let alone accepting and even seeming
_happy_ about it.

I can't believe this. I'm thirty-four years old and
I'm dating? I'm thirty-four and I'm _nervous_ about

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

...Why, no, Scully, I don't mind if you read
over my shoulder. Not a bit.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

About ninety words a minute. Why?

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Not _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_! It's from
_The Shining_! Get with it, Scully.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Right, Jack Nicholson. Right actor, wrong film.

You've never _seen_ it? Heathen.

Well, we're going to be working on the budget together
anyway. I'd like to see it again. Great movie.

Sure.

If you want me to _talk_ to you, stop looking at the
screen. As long as you're staring at the computer I just assume
you want to communicate this way.

So what's your point?

But you mean that in a _nice_ way, right?

Hey, lay off the ties.

Yo mama.

Ouch.

I know, but you don't have to _kick_ me.

No, I meant it literally. Your mom gave me this tie.
Look close, you can see Mickey Mouse in it.

Yeah, strangely enough, I don't particularly want you
to stand behind me and read what I'm writing.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Because.

It's my journal, that's all.

No.

Just, no.

You wouldn't let me read your diary.

Well, then.

I don't know. It's not meant for human consumption.
It's just my way of sorting things out for myself.

No, no big secrets. Just putting my thoughts where
I can see them.

Lunch sounds great. Italian? Let's go.

...back from lunch. Scully walked over to get
something from a file cabinet while I was writing earlier
and then turned to ask me a question, so I spaced down
and started typing "All work and no play" etc. so she
wouldn't see that I'm geeking out over this date thing.
She knows, of course, but whining about it in this journal
is so, I don't know, so _sad_. So why do I do it, hm? Part
of me kind of likes being pathetic, sick as that sounds.
I need to get over that, and fast.

What am I going to _do_ on this date? Am I
still capable of carrying on a normal conversation? I'm
not sure I ever _was_. Once I overheard a woman I'd been
seeing while she talked on the phone to her mom, and she
said, "Fox Mulder is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't
want to live there." That's very cute, very glib... what
the fuck does it mean? True, I'd probably be hell to live
with. And I haven't dated since I went through therapy and
realized how screwed up I am, because I thought that
if I couldn't offer a woman my full attention, why the
hell would she bother? Now I'm not so sure. Kimberly
knows I'm wrapped up in my work. According to Scully,
that's part of the appeal. (The APPEAL? Now I have
appeal? Give me a break.) She can't be looking for a
fling, because we see each other all the time and it'd
be awkward. She can't be looking for a steady relationship
because she knows that's beyond my purview.

Hell.

One BIG, BIG solace in the midst of stressing
out: Scully lost the bet too! I could do cartwheels.
We'd agreed to execute (perfect word) the terms of
the wager simultaneously and separately, and we both
had to ask the same way by asking if they were busy
Friday night. After receiving the mindboggling reply
detailed above, I raced back and stuck my face in a
file, crossing my fingers that Scully got a yes too.
She came back to the office looking slightly broiled.
And she tried to play it cool, but she looked too
flustered/pleased/baffled to disguise it.

"So when will you post the banns?" I asked.

She gave up and said to me, stunned, "Mulder,
he kissed my _hand_."

"I'm just surprised he didn't kiss your feet."

"I don't believe it." She glared my way. "So
how'd you fare, Valentino?"

Well, that punctured my victory a little. I
had to admit, "Looks like we'll both be doing the next
two budgets."

That made her grin. And we ended up comparing
notes about our prospects' reactions. One thing I did
omit: Kimberly asked me, "What about your partner?"

And instead of saying something like `It's got
nothing to do with my partner', I asserted confidently
and automatically: "Scully won't mind."

Which begs the question: would I go through
with it if Scully _did_ mind? Well, no date is worth
clouding our partnership. But I _know_ Scully wouldn't
say anything about said date without a damn good
reason. She's the one who's always telling me to
get a life, after all.

Scully noticed the new nameplate on the door
this morning and if I'm not mistaken, she got a little
misty. But when she came in I got one of those big
smiles again. Two in one week. That's a new record,
I think. I was damned proud to put her name on the
office. It's belonged there for a long, long time.

Oh, and I called Danny today to tell him what
a big help his research had been on our last case. He
had a minute, so I kept him talking, trying to fish
for something we could do for him in return. As a time-
buying tactic I brought up the great Next Gen. vs. DS9
debate and asked his opinion and got an EARFUL. Danny
informed me curtly that they BOTH suck, because _no_
Star Trek could _ever_ equal the greatness of the
original show. Danny's a huge Trekkie! Who knew? No
wonder he doesn't seem to mind hunting up ungodly
amounts of information on the weirdest and most
esoteric topics.

This is great, because when I first started
checking out the X-Files and reading up on UFOs, the
guys in Violent Crimes dumped all kinds of sci-fi shit
on me, which I've kept around out of cussedness. I have
a _bundle_ of Star Trek paraphernalia from around that
time. An original-series lunchbox and a Kirk doll (he's
dressed in a replica of one of my suits, but Danny should
appreciate that) and a Mr. Spock coloring book (I almost
gave that to Scully when we first started working together,
but thankfully, decided that was too obnoxious even for
me) and a model of the first Enterprise, with a matching
UFO made out of glued pie plates. I think the guys in VC
had too much time on their hands.

So I packed all that stuff up around noon and
messengered it to Danny with a note thanking him for
`boldly researching where no one has researched before'.
He called just after lunch in _ecstacy_. I thought he
might hyperventilate. I told him that giving him an
asthma attack was just my way of saying Thanks.

Now that I've wasted time asking Kim out (she
prefers Kim... told me I'd have to call her Kim or else
she gets to call me Fox, which apparently everyone knows
I hate, by now... so, Kim it is) and discussing it with
Scully and then this business with Danny's thank-you
present, it's time to save to disk (writing this on
computer, no more cramping my hands on the teeny keys
on the organizer) and get down to _work_.

Right after I ask Scully what her plans are
for the Fourth.

We met at the reflecting pool and watched the
fireworks together. She brought enough to feed a small
army... of rabbits. Salad! On the _Fourth_ of _July_!
I made a few plaintive remarks about hot dogs but the
salad was actually really good. And it did go better
with the wine I brought than hot dogs would have.

Scully gave me some advice as to appropriate
restaurants for Friday night. Someplace nice, but casual,
but not TOO casual. But not TOO formal, and not TOO
expensive, because then she'd think I expected (Scully
just rolled her eyes here) but also someplace reasonably
nice or she'd think I wasn't interested after all.

So I came back with my own advice. Don't wear
anything lacy. He'll start thinking in terms of lingerie
and he'll be a drooling idiot all night. Don't put your
hair up in one of those fancy twists, too intimidating;
he already thinks you're a goddess, so something different
and more approachable would probably work best. Tell him
about how you used to climb trees and race go-carts with
your brothers, tell him about Ahab and how he used to
read Moby Dick to you every night, tell him about the
snake you once killed with your brother's BB gun, and
how guilty you felt. Tell him the things I know about
you that make me see that you're not a goddess, but
someone much more amazing and rare. Let him see Dana
Scully.

Maybe I didn't say _all_ that. But it's what
I was thinking. I want her to be happy.

The fireworks were beautiful tonight.

I'm glad we watched the skies together.

end part nineteen.
Disclaimer part 1

Open Book
An X-Files Thing
by Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net)
In Tandem with Summer

Part 20: Retiring the Side

Dana Scully's Personal Log

Friday, July 1

I slept like a baby on the flight home. I think I might have
drooled on the window, but Mulder was too busy undressing the
flight attendent with his eyes to notice. He is such a twerp
sometimes. Loveable and necessary to my existance, it seems,
but a twerp, none the less. NOTE: I must consider attaching his
carry-on to his body in the future.

I guess since he managed to keep hold of his gun, his cell
phone *and* avoided any personal involvement with anyone
from the health care profession, I should have expected that he
would lose his luggage. But please, did we have to spend 2
*hours* searching every crevice at Dulles Field (they really need
to change cleaning companies) just so he could finish reading the
article from Celebrity Skin that he never got around to at the
motel? I was ready to 'skin' him-- and celebrities would have
nothing to do with it!

Got home to discover that the toilet was running the entire
time I was gone. I cannot escape this! It's haunting me! Argh!

Saturday July 2

Made my required phone calls. First, to the super to inform
him of the toilet situation. He vowed to have it fixed before the
weekend was out. Yeah, right. Went to the hardware store and
got a 'flapper'. I know it must have a better name but that's what
Ahab always asked for and he got what I got, so I'm not going to
worry about it. Installed it in 5 minutes, voila, no more running
sound. When the super gets here, he can fix the latch on the
cabinet above the sink.

Next, called Mom. I knew I had to face the music sometime.
She was very happy to hear from me (no doubt) and immediately
asked 'How's Fox?' I have told her a thousand times not to call
him that. At least he seems to take it gracefully. Sometimes I
think she does it just because she knows I can't. Anyway, I told
her that he had been running a temp the night she had called at 7
in the morning (OK, it was a lie, but geez, not that much of one!)
and that I had stayed in his room to make sure his cold didn't
turn into something worse and so I could check on him. Mom
knows how horrible Mulder is about taking care of himself.
From what she's hinted, she almost had to force feed him when I
was gone. So she sort of let it go and didn't mention it again. I
felt sort of bad for lying to her, but I couldn't tell her I crashed in
his room after sitting up the night crying on his shoulder (and
letting him cry on mine). She worries about me too much as it is.

Bill Jr. got a promotion at work--more money. He's already
planning on putting in a pool for the kids. Mom made sure to
point out that at least *one* of her children seemed to be settled
down. What am I, chopped liver? I'm `settled'--maybe not in the
way she would like, but as `settled' as I intend to get for quite a
while.

After all that fun, I decided to indulge myself. Sat down and
watch `The Fugitive', `Frantic', and all three Indiana Jones movies,
right in a row. Ate an entire half gallon of Ben and Jerry's for
dinner (I can NEVER let Mulder read this thing) and I am going
to take a long bubble bath and crawl into bed a happy camper.

Sunday July 3

Woke up with the worst cramps in the universe. I should
have suspected as much when ice cream was the cuisine of
choice for dinner. These things just sneak up on me all of a
sudden sometimes. I don't have time for this.

Did go out for a while. I wanted soup for lunch (even as hot
as it is, it just sounded good), but noticed that my larder is a little
sparce. I love grocery shopping--it's right up there with root
canals and keeping Mulder off his feet when he's gotten out of
the hospital. At least the place was dead. Surprisingly so,
considering the fact that it's a holiday weekend. Guess everyone
shopped yesterday.

I got to thinking about this whole 'date' thing Mulder has
cooked up. I mean, Agent Pendrell is nice and all, but I just
don't think I'm up for a real `date' date. And I haven't asked a
guy out since the summer before med school.

I don't know what I'm worried about. I mean, he's not going
to say yes, so why waste time thinking how bad it will be. Guys
don't like it when women ask them out. Guys like to be in
control of the situation.

And then again, Pendrell strikes me as the shy type. I mean, I
really don't want to get into something that isn't going where he
might think it would go. I have no intention of finding 'love' on a
bet. This is just to ensure that my erstwhile partner has to ante
up and do two budget reports. Of course, that also guarantees
that there will be no 'Debbie Does Denver' or 'Return to the
House of L*O*V*E*' (I don't even want to know!) for at least
six months. Now, why does that thought make me smile? So as
long as I play it straight with Pendrell, everything will be fine.
I hope.

Monday July 4

Mom called early to wish me a happy 4th and tell me she's
spending the day at Annapolis Harbor with some friends of hers.
I told her I was spending it in the office. She didn't sound real
pleased at that, but I think she realizes that holidays like the 4th
just don't merit taking the time off. Besides, I figure Mulder will
probably want to go watch the fireworks down on the Mall again
this year, so I'm not completely ignoring our nation's birthday.

Then I got a 4th of July present at the office. My name was
on the door! I almost cried, it meant so much to me that he
would remember our talk and then actually go out and do
something like this. Yeah, sure, it's the same black plastic over
white plastic that is Mulder's nameplate, but he went out and got
it and he had to have put it up himself because maintenance could
never have gotten it done that quickly. And it was even level--
will wonders never cease?

And it seems that I have a date on Friday.

I went up to the lab and found Agent Pendrell right off. Or
Dennis. I guess I should call him by his first name. I mean, not
everyone hates their first name like Mulder does.

Anyway, he was working on something and when he saw me
he sort of jumped up out of his seat and his lab stool tipped over.
After we picked up the mess, I just asked him if he would like to
do something on Friday night. I was afraid I was going to have
to use CPR on the guy! He went white! And then he sort of
shook himself out of it and kept saying "Yeah, sure, that would
be great" over and over again. Then, he got a really strange look
on his face, sort of like he just found out his uncle was in the
Mafia or something and he says in a whisper "Does Agent Mulder
know about this?"

I assured him that Agent Mulder does not need to be apprised
of every aspect of my life. He gave me a raised eyebrow look
and so I added that yes, Agent Mulder was aware that I was
asking him to spend the evening with me and that he was very
supportive.

Then he grabbed my hand and kissed it.

I have never had that happen! OK, once, when I was in sixth
grade, Timmy Perkins grabbed my hand in line to get my pencil
sharpened and he *tried* to kiss it, but Sr. Mary Xavier came
back into the room and yelled at him and he dropped my hand
like a rock. But I have never had it happen since I reached
puberty!

I was a little shaky when I got back to the basement, one,
because I was sure I had just lost the bet, or tied it at the least
and two, because I think I may have gotten in over my head with
Dennis, but the fun was just starting.

What a riot! Mulder is a basketcase over asking Kim out!
Mind you, this is *after* she said YES! (Which I knew she
would-- big surprise there.) You'd think the guy never went
through high school. My God, the man *lived* with a woman
(OK, maybe that's stretching the definition of womanhood a bit--
he lived with Phoebe) and he's scared to take a woman out on a
date who is falling all over herself whenever he gets near her?

I was slightly miffed that we're doing the next two budgets
together (this could get VERY scary) so I wasn't exactly in a
'Dear Abby' mood. When I told him to grow a spine, he
clammed up and started hammering on his computer. He was
much too intense to be working on his report for Skinner. He
never stares off into space when he's 'filling in the blanks' for
a standard report. So I decided to wander over and see what he
was doing. I just happened to have a few stray files on my desk
and since his desk is so close to the filing cabinets . . .

He was writing in his journal. I could tell, because the minute
he figured out I was reading over his shoulder, he started typing
'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy' or something
equally juvenile. So I couldn't just go sit down like nothing had
happened. I intended to stand there and make him squirm. God,
he's so much fun when he's trying to hide something!

He types pretty fast when he's squirming. Like a little rabbit.
A 'jack' rabbit. Hee hee. I asked him who Jack was. Was it Jack
from _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_? He informed me that
it was a quote from _The Shining_ and it was *Jack* Nicholson
who played in both movies. I've never seen _The Shining_. I'm
sure he has it on tape. No, wait, probably not enough gratuitous
T&A shots. He probably rents it.

I am convinced that at the end of the world, it will be Stephen
King and Mulder, standing side by side, alone. Facing about ten
gazillion cockroaches.

I made a comment about his tie. He gave me some lip (how
was I to know my Mom got it for him) and I had to kick him.
Sometimes I feel I went to bed and woke up a day care worker.
He finally told me all about asking Kim out. I have this sneaking
suspicion that he will be sporting a leather *something* come
Monday--I can only wonder if it will be visible outside of his suit.

Of course, he wanted to know all about Dennis' reaction. Or
overreaction might be a better term. Finally, he asked if I
wanted to take a picnic supper down to the Reflecting Pool and
watch the fireworks. As usual, I'm bringing supper, he's
supplying the wine (discretely disguised in a thermos--can't get
caught with it on the Mall).

The supper was fun. I made a Greek salad and he actually
seemed to enjoy it, after commenting that it was pretty
underhanded of me to bring only bunny food and nothing for him
to eat. He brought a nice red wine and we got to talking about
these upcoming social events in our lives.

I can't imagine what it would be like if I didn't have Mulder
around to bounce ideas off. I can't imagine how he'd survive
without my constant tutelage, either. I practically told him
exactly what to wear, where to take her, and what not to talk
about at dinner. I think he'll do OK. The problem with Mulder
is that he just forgets sometimes. Oh, I know, that should be
impossible with that Memorex memory of his, but sometimes he
forgets that not everyone is out to get him, that not everyone is
interested in crop circles, satanic possession, guys who eat
human livers, genetics experiments and UFOs. When you get
him off those subjects, he's a charming, fascinating, wonderful,
caring human being. I sincerely hope he doesn't screw up on
Friday. It would be a shame, since Kim is a nice person.

And I'd never get a heads-up on another 302 for as long as
she works with Skinner.

After all the `dating advice', we had a nice evening. The
display was pretty wonderful this year. It was warm and for
once the mosquitoes didn't swarm the place. The city is kind of
awe-inspiring on nights like tonight. A great place to live.
Good company. I have a pretty terrific life.

Now, if I could just convince my Mom.

the end