Title: Rongbuk
Author: Ravenscion
E-mail: ravenscion@hotmail.com
Rating: R (language, violence, sex)
Category: XR
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, some angst
Spoilers: possible for seasons 1-5 and the movie.
Date of First Posting: 29 August 1998
Author's website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/6767/
Archiving: Please archive at Gossamer.  Others, please email for
permission.

Summary and notes: see chapter 1.

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, and all of the other characters
and situations related to the X-Files, belong to Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and the FOX network.  I am using them without permission
but intend no copyright infringement.

[begin part 4 of 11]
************************************************************************

Kowloon District, Hong Kong
Friday, 18 September, 8:00 p.m.

Alex Krycek sat in a room full of blue smoke and nursed a black mood.
Yesterday, he had been annoyed.  Now he was coldly furious.

He could feel the opportunity of a lifetime slipping away from him.

He sipped from a cup of tea and idly nudged a bit of Ch'ao-Chou roast
goose, a specialty of the restaurant in Kowloon that he had settled into
for the evening.  His appetite had declined to join him, seemingly, and
so he had nothing to do but chase his worries in circles through his
mind.

He pushed the tea away.  Fuck this, I need a beer, he thought.

Florescu had reported that Mulder had come to the 'Lone Gunman' looking
for fingerprints, but that he had made no mention of finding John
Leslie.  And Radu had had nothing to report about Scully, either.

Meanwhile, Wu Tseng-Li had, in his ever-so-polite and inscrutable Asian
way, lowered the boom on him.  Krycek cursed himself for underestimating
the triad leader.  He had assumed that he could purchase his services
and get the help he needed to get to Rongbuk.  He hadn't counted on Wu
taking an interest in what might be up there.

But Wu had done just that, realizing that if Krycek wanted to get into
Tibet, then there must be a profit in it somewhere.  He had insisted on
knowing the objective and reserving for himself a share of any potential
acquisitions.

Wu had also noted that arranging the necessary 'accommodations' would
most likely require at least a week's time.  Krycek would understand
that, naturally.

Arrogant fucker -- Krycek gestured angrily for a waitress, ordered the
beer, and sat staring after her until she brought it to him.  He did not
give her time to pour it, snatching it from her and swigging from the
bottle.  He ignored her expression of distaste.

He had had two choices: get out of Hong Kong, or bring Wu Tseng-Li in on
the deal.  He hadn't liked it, but he had chosen the latter.  Of course,
Krycek had not told Wu anything even approximating the truth.  Instead,
he had spun an impromptu yarn about lost gold.

Krycek had not been able to tell whether Wu had believed him.

Well, he hadn't shot him, at least.

Once he got to Rongbuk, he would still have a chance to retake control
of the operation.  And if the expedition proved as profitable as he
hoped, he would have control of information that would significantly
enhance his status in the Organization -- maybe high enough that he
could begin satisfying a few long-standing urges.

The smoking bastard -- he would be the first Krycek would take care of.

And then Mulder would be next.  He had a few scores to settle with him,
and he planned to take his time and enjoy the process.

And then there was Scully.  Krycek sighed to himself, an array of dark,
erotic images forming in his mind.  He swigged his beer again, indulging
himself in a long drink.  At the moment, he had nothing to do but kill
time.  The operation could not go forward until Florescu came up with
something, and he would not be reporting for a day or so.  Krycek had
time to kick back with a fantasy or two and then head down to Wanchai
and hire a woman for the evening.

He pulled again on his beer, then began peeling away the corner of the
label on the bottle.  It's always like this, he thought.  Hurry up and
wait.

Maybe he would hire two women.  That was an idea.

************************************************************************

Kathmandu, Nepal
18 September, 11:30 p.m.

Jill Whittaker closed the last file and sighed to herself.  It had been
a long day.

That morning, when she had arrived at the office after the usual chaotic
ride through Kathmandu's insanely crowded streets, a stack of materials
had been waiting on her desk.  An innocuous label, just an address and
authentication code, had alerted her to the identity of the sender, and
she had known she would have to spend her day getting through the
numerous files and papers.

It had not been her preferred way to begin her day.  Usually, after
driving to work, she liked to spend a few minutes on something simple,
giving herself a chance to recover from the stress that resulted from
Kathmandu's traffic.  That morning had been typical, and as she had
driven, she had been forced to dodge the usual assortment of cars,
trucks, motorcycles, and other vehicles, along with the dogs, ducks,
chickens, pigs, goats, cows, macaques, and people that turned the city's
streets into raw mayhem, arriving at the office with her nerves
stretched taut.

She had been hoping for a cup of coffee and a few minutes of quiet.

No such luck -- the smoking man would expect her to master the files he
had sent at once.  He had that sort of reputation.

And so she had plunged in, familiarizing herself with everything that
the Consortium knew about Rongbuk, Leslie, Sales, and also Fox Mulder
and his partner, and, Jill had noted with interest, lover, Dana Scully.

Now, after finishing the last of the documents -- a file on the re-
opening and current status of the X-Files -- Jill lit a cigarette and
prepared to leave her office, pondering Mulder's relationship with his
partner.  He had made himself something of a player, but he had acquired
a dangerous weakness in the process.

And if she couldn't exploit it, she wasn't half the woman she thought
she was.

Jill headed for home, knowing she needed to sleep before the next
morning.  She had been instructed to prepare to travel to Lhasa.  That
would mean some fancy paperwork and more than a few bribes, as the
Chinese could be touchy about westerners traveling in Tibet.

She was not worried, though; the Consortium had resources.

She had to be ready to go to Lhasa, because Mulder would be going there.
The smoking man had been clear about that.

September was shaping up to be an interesting month.

************************************************************************

Arlington, Virginia
18 September, 12:14 p.m.

Radu Florescu paused in the middle of his mid-day walk, the few minutes
of outdoor exercise he had been allowing himself to keep his mind sharp,
and then began striding again as though nothing were amiss.

He had noticed something, though, a vehicle that had not been in the
neighborhood the previous week.  The van seemed innocuous enough, but
that was precisely what disturbed him about it.  It seemed just a little
too innocuous, and he did not care for new elements in any situation he
wanted to control.

It might be nothing of course, but he knew better than to take chances.
Until convinced otherwise, he would assume that he had come under
surveillance.

Half-consciously, he touched the place where he had his pistol
concealed.  He did not know who would be watching him, but he sensed
that it was not any legitimate law enforcement effort.  He had done
nothing to attract the attention of the local authorities, and though
his targets had become suspicious of him and the books he had given
them, as far as he knew, they were wholly unaware of his current
proximity.  It was fortunate that Byers and his cohorts were such
recluses.  Otherwise, Florescu would not have dared to leave his
observation post just to take a stroll.

And if he had not been out and about, he would likely have not picked up
on the surveillance.

His hand stroked his weapon once again.  Chances were that he would
need it.  His walk was not interrupted, but it was with a renewed sense
of caution that he mounted the stairs to return to his temporary
quarters.

************************************************************************

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
1:00 p.m.

"Certainly, Agent Mulder.  Anything you need, come to me and I'll take
care of you."  The data analyst in records division, a young and, Scully
admitted to herself, very attractive blonde, gave Mulder what could only
be described as a blatantly 'come-hither' look.

To his credit, Mulder gave her nothing back, nothing more than a polite
smile, and of course Scully knew she had no reason to feel threatened.
But a small part of her, the part that looked in the mirror each morning
and, seeing the reflection of a woman well on her way to 40, layered on
just a bit more make-up than she would have done five years earlier, the
part of her that had at last accepted the fact that, no matter how far
fertility treatments progressed, she would never bear a man's --
Mulder's? -- children, that part hurt, deep within the core of her
being.

It was just as well that children did not seem to be one of Mulder's
priorities.  The image of a nice house in the suburbs, with kids running
around a well-manicured lawn, just didn't fit into their lives.  Even
now, though they were not even officially investigating a case, the
X-Files remained Mulder's first concern, and by extension, hers as well.
The small part within her resented that as well.

Scully shook her head slightly.  She really wasn't being fair; Mulder
could not be faulted for his treatment of her.  It was just that at
times the perennial absence of...normalcy...became wearing.

Mulder had not returned to the office the day before, and she had not
even heard from him until he had called, jubilant, at 11:45 that night,
to tell her he had found a print.

Not hers, not his, and not Byers', Langly's, or Frohike's -- that did
not make it Florescu's of course, but it gave them a place to start,
which was fortunate, as her name-search that afternoon had drawn a
blank.  If Radu Florescu had visited the United States before, he had
not used that name.

To her disappointment, Mulder had decided not to drive in to her
apartment after his long day at 'The Gunman.'  He had told her not to
wait up for him, that he would just crash in his own place and meet her
at the office the next day.

That was it.  She was just cranky from not having slept well.

And now she was leaning in a doorway, arms folded across her chest,
while some bimbo who had managed to unbutton her blouse into a workplace
variation on a decolletage made eyes at her partner, who thankfully had
just concluded the business of registering the print and made his way to
her side.

"Ready to get some lunch?" Mulder asked.

"Sure, I'm starving.  Clyde's?"

"You bet."

Scully enjoyed the light touch of his fingers on her elbow as he guided
her into the hallway.

************************************************************************

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
5:00 p.m.

The smoking man took a long pull on his cigarette as the C-141
Starlifter, one of the US military's fleet of jet transport aircraft,
taxied in from the runway where it had landed minutes before.

The plane had made a long flight, all the way from the Persian Gulf,
with very little cargo, but the waste of fuel and man-hours did not
concern the smoker.  The passenger the plane brought was sufficiently
important to warrant the expenditure.

He waited while the plane came to a halt and a team of heavily armed
troopers, dressed in unadorned black battle-dress utilities, escorted
a forlorn, tired looking figure in his direction.  That figure was the
reason he had decided to meet the transport plane personally.

The soldiers half-dragged the man close.  "Mr. Leslie," the smoking man
said, "is it really you, after all these years?"

The man did not respond, just looked at him crazily.

"He's been like this the whole way over, sir," said one of the soldiers,
the team leader, a square-jawed youth with peach-fuzz blonde hair.
"Practically drooling."

"Very well," said the smoking man.  "Did you get his gear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good.  Have all written materials copied, then send it on with him.
Put him on the road for Arkham today, or tomorrow at the latest."

The troopers nodded in unison.

"Dismissed."

"Yes sir."  The team leader did not salute -- the Consortium did not
bother with such formalities -- but simply nodded and hurried off, his
men hustling Leslie along after him.

The smoking man watched them hurry away with satisfaction.  Most of the
pieces were in place now, with one to be removed.  Tonight he would
give Mulder a push, send him diving into the snare that awaited him.

He tossed the cigarette butt to the tarmac and lit another.  He really
should cut down a bit, but not today.  He owed himself the pleasure.

************************************************************************

Annapolis, MD
10:30 p.m.

The pub was quiet and dimly lit, a forgotten below-street oasis of
hardwood floors and old, smallish tables below a more frequented
restaurant at the edge of the town's historic district.  Mulder settled
into his chair, enjoying the atmosphere, and let his eyes drift across
the elegant contours of Scully's visage.  In the half-light and smoke,
she reminded him of a siren from an old black-and-white film, the
dangerous beauty, met over whiskey and jazz piano, who snares you in a
seductive web and then puts a bullet in your partner.

Just as well that *she* was his partner.  He certainly would not have
wanted someone so deadly with a pistol for an adversary.

His shoulder ached momentarily, the ghost of an old injury.  He did not
quite indulge in a rueful head shake.  The ways we find to show our
affection, Scully....

Since their encounter that afternoon with the blonde in the records
division -- Mulder had made a point of not learning her name -- Scully
had been acting territorial.  Little touches that came more often than
usual, that lasted just a bit longer than expected, intimated that she
would later be staking her claim to him in a most fundamental, and
welcome, of ways.

He grinned inwardly.  In the years that he and Scully had been
together, they had grown to know each other better than many a married
couple.  Nearly every aspect of their lives, from professional methods
to restaurant preferences to the smallest of gestures, had become a
shared habit.  But Scully -- Dana -- as his lover was someone new,
someone who, he had discovered to his surprised delight, revealed
herself in intriguing stages, at times passionate, at times playful.
Mulder had thoroughly enjoyed the process.

That afternoon, though, her mood had been subdued as well as possessive,
and when evening had come, when another day's futile investigation into
the fate of John Leslie had wound down, she had called a halt to the
work to allow an evening of normalcy.  Mulder had been impatient, at
first, preferring to work on into the evening, but Scully had insisted,
and after a half-hearted protest, he had given in.  Deep down, he had
been glad for the interruption.  The case had not progressed smoothly,
to date.

So what else is new? he thought.  He sipped at his beer, savoring the
heavy, dark red brew, the unaccustomed intake of alcohol easing into
his system, relaxing the week's accumulated tension in his muscles.

Screw it, he thought.  We're off tonight.

They had left the office fairly late and thus were spared the worst of
the capital's evening traffic.  An hours' drive had seen them in
Annapolis, where they had parked and walked along the old town's tree-
lined, brick-paved sidewalks, enjoying the architecture and the warm
evening air.  They spoke little, content to walk close together, with
just the outer fingers of their adjacent hands woven together.  Dinner
had been in a small restaurant near the harbor, crab soup laced with
sherry for her, a deep-fried, clam-laden monstrosity of a sandwich for
him.  Afterwards, they had walked again, their way lit with the light of
street lamps, through the cooling night air, eventually settling into
the pub's tranquility.

They had passed the time there, fingertips touching across the table,
speaking of ordinary things and enjoying the respite from their lives.
Scully sipped a glass of wine, burgundy moistening lips already full and
blood rose red, giving a silent promise of intimacy.

Mulder had known Scully to be a passionate woman beneath her controlled
exterior, but he had still been pleasantly surprised at the torrid
intensity of her lovemaking.

He took her hand fully into his, no longer giving a damn who might be
watching, letting the contact replace their quieting conversation.  He
felt a sense of security in the connection, a reassurance that she would
always be with him.

In the midst of the Blackwood case, he had come dangerously close to
losing her, not once but twice.  He had been shocked at the revelation,
by the knowledge that Scully had seen herself as an impediment to his
investigations, a hindrance to his quest.

And then she had been taken from him again.  Unconsciously, his hand
tightened on hers as he recalled the hellish flight to Antarctica, the
long drive across the wastes of Wilkes Land, the gnawing fear that he
would be too late, or that there would be nothing there when he reached
the coordinates given to him.

When he had at last found her, injecting the vaccine and watching the
alien release its grip on her, his heart had almost burst under the
combined pressure of fear and hope.  At the moment Scully had begun to
breath, coughing phlegm and God-knows-what alien fluid into his face,
he had known himself to be the happiest man alive.

He could not remember much before the flight back to North America.
Exhausted by his efforts, he had collapsed on the rim of the crater left
by the UFO.  Somehow, Scully had found the strength to get him moving,
back to the snow crawler where they could radio for help.  He remembered
the plane ride, though.  They had huddled together for the duration of
the flight, neither willing to let go of the other.  They had spoken
little.  Though much between them remained to be discussed, somehow,
there had been no need for speech. 

And much later, after days of hearings and testimony, they had at last
had time alone with each other.  They dined together, and then mutual,
unspoken agreement had led them to his apartment, where he had ridden
the whirlwind of his emotions and considered his partner, his best
friend.  'I want to be more than that for you,' he had told her.  Will
you have me, after all that has been?

Yes, her eyes had replied.

And she had kissed him again, an almost chaste, butterfly caress of
mouth on mouth, yet a solar flare within him, that left pale and empty
his memories of wild nights with the Phoebe Greens and other strangers
in his life, shadows of ghosts.

He had slept, then, exhausted by days of stress, not waking until well
after midnight.  He had found Scully nearby, dozing in a chair from
which she had watched over his sleep.  Rubbing the fog from his eyes,
Mulder had considered her then, her slumber having lifted the protective
mask she normally wore.

He had been shocked at how fragile she looked.

Mulder had long viewed Scully as the stronger half of their partnership,
but time and illness and loss had worn her down, leaving her once robust
figure slim and delicate.  Beneath her make-up, hints of lines at the
corners of her eyes and around her mouth traced patterns of grief on a
once flawless visage.  She bore the years well, but they weighed heavily
on her all the same.  Her outer form reflected the wounded spirit
within.

And her most recent ordeal had taken its toll as well.

Mulder had realized, then, that when he had declared himself to her, he
had made certain promises as well.

I will be there for you, Scully.  I will let you lean on me as I have
leaned on you for so long.

I won't see you die.  I won't let you be crucified on the truth I have
sought.

I will love you as you deserve to be loved.

"You've gotten awfully quiet, Mulder."  Scully's voice eased into his
awareness, a delicate aural caress.

He smiled at her, shrugged.  "Just thinking," he said.

She gave him a familiar, questioning look.

"I'm thinking about us," he admitted.

"About...?"

He shrugged again.  "About how...what we have now changes things, what
it means for our work."

A hint of a frown crinkled her brow.  "Mulder, do you think that our
work...the way we work...has to change?"

"I hope not.  I don't want to lose what we've had."  But it will change,
in some ways, he added silently.  I have to adapt.  "I guess I just
sense that things are fundamentally different, somehow.  I mean, we put
this off for so long...we became accustomed...."  He trailed off, not
sure precisely what he wanted to say.

Scully looked thoughtful.  "I think things have changed," she said, "but
not for the worse.  Is something bothering you?  Something specific?"
Her look asked him, have I let you down in some way?

Do you think this was a mistake?

"No, Scully," he said hastily.  "Nothing like that."  He locked his eyes
on hers, willing her to understand, not to doubt herself.  "I meant
everything I told you.  No one means more to me.  No one."

Her expression eased as she recognized the sincerity of his words.

"Scully, I just mean that I have to make some adjustments.  I have to
learn to separate how I feel about you on the job and how I feel about
you...in real life."  Scully laughed gently at that, and he joined her
in it, enjoying the irony.

"Mulder, it'll be okay," she said.  "I'm still me.  I'm still the same
partner you've had all along."

You're so much more than that, he thought.  "I know," he said.  "I just
have to get used to...us."

She accepted that, not probing further, content merely with his
companionship.  How well she knows me, he thought.  Other women, less
certain of themselves, would have pushed at him, seeking reassurance, or
just a certain sign of connection.  Phoebe would have perceived a
challenge, begun poking about in his brain with verbal icepicks until
satisfied, unconcerned with the collateral damage she might have done.
He shuddered inwardly, then discarded the thought of her.

Mulder turned his chair and leaned against the wall, pleased with the
peaceful ambience of the pub, the absence of the frantic weekend mating
rituals of the young.  Well past the midpoint of his fourth decade, he
had begun to feel his age creeping up on him, as the years mounted and
doors closed, opportunities slipping away.  Scully had changed that for
him as well, making the world around him more vital, more tangible,
somehow.  Even so, maturity had brought to him a preference for a
measure of tranquility.  He closed his eyes, letting himself slip into
reverie, his mind supplying the memory of their first night together in
perfect detail.

She had stirred as he watched her sleep, sensing his gaze upon her, and
as she came to full wakefulness, meeting his eyes, the commitment he had
accepted had collapsed on him, as though gravity had been somehow turned
up a few notches.

The feeling froze him for a moment, old, defensive habits too long
established to yield their place all at once rising up in a last bid to
maintain their hold on him.  He had a vague urge to leave, to flee her
presence, then realized the absurdity of running out of his own
apartment, of running out on her once more.

Irresolute, he compromised and retreated toward the kitchen, beginning
to offer her water, likely the only refreshment he had, in an old juice
bottle in the refrigerator, but his words trailed off half-spoken.
Don't be an ass, urged a braver voice in his head.

"Mulder..."  Scully's mellifluent alto stopped him in his tracks.

He turned, the intense blue of her gaze arresting him.  He felt his
chest tighten, adrenalin coursing through his limbs as she crossed the
room to stand before him, alabaster beauty in the half-light of the
room.  His breath caught as she set her left hand on his chest, then
stood on tip-toe and gently placed her right hand on his cheek, sliding
it slowly upward and behind his neck.  Mulder let his gaze drift
downward along the perfect contours of her face, settling on her lush,
full lips, roses wet with dew.  He found his voice at last.

"Scully?"

"Dana," she corrected, raising her mouth to his.  Mulder felt the
tension in him crest, and then relaxed slightly, returning her kiss and
sliding his hands around her waist, pressing into the softness of her
breasts and abdomen.  Holding her close, he leaned back against the
wall, narrowing the difference in their heights and allowing her to
settle down into a more comfortable posture.  He felt her hands drift
lightly to his shoulders, then down along his upper arms.  At last, she
broke the kiss and spoke again.  "Call me Dana," she breathed.

"Dana," he said, tasting the name.  He had almost forgotten how it
sounded, so long had it been since he had last spoken it himself, when
he had used it to explore the limits of their intimacy.  It had a
secret, exciting quality that enticed him.

She eased back from their embrace and took his hand, stepping away and
drawing him after her.  He surrendered to her will, letting her lead him
to the bedroom, then stood apart, passive, as she shed her clothes.
Enthralled, his eyes followed the graceful cascade of fabric.

Long moments later, nude, she settled backward on the bed, her eyes
never leaving his.  Mulder felt the quiescence rise from him like a
curtain being raised and clawed his way out of his shirt and trousers,
flinging aside his boxers without thought.  Then, as his knee touched
the edge of the mattress, he mastered himself again, settling slowly
next to her and touching her gently, kissing her once more.  His hands
explored her body, tracing her curves and gliding to secret places.  She
returned his caresses, her breathing thick and heavy, small sounds of
passion forming an intimate discourse.  His heart pounded, as though it
would burst from emotion long pent up and now demanding to be released.

Months before, as she had lain with death looming over her, he had
rushed to her bedside, with no thought but that she might leave him
before he could get there.  'I'm only half dead,' he had said, referring
to her, but only now, his life welling in him in response to her desire,
did he know the full truth of his words.

He luxuriated in vitality, content with the unhurried rhythm of their
loving.  For a time, she returned his caresses in a leisurely tempo.

"Mulder...."  Her voice caressed his name.

Her hands moved on him with sudden urgency, impatiently guiding him into
position between her legs, unwilling to delay the moment any longer.
Their joining jolted through him, nearly overcame him.  He held still,
staring into the limpid wells of her eyes, then began to move again.
She waited, then moved with him, hot and liquid, his match in this as in
all things.

The tide lifted them together.

He felt her climax, joined her in it.  He stared into her radiance,
melting in it, as the passion coursed through them and then flowed away
into stillness.  He kissed her once more and tasted salt.  Unbidden,
half-forgotten words formed in his mind.

She sheds tears.  She gives water to the dead.

And for the first time in years, Mulder felt whole and alive.

Later, he had stared at the ceiling, absently stroking Scully's hair as
she dozed, head pillowed on his chest.  Though his body had relaxed into
a rich languor, Mulder's mind hummed with an intense awareness of his
partner, the delicate touch of her hair on his chest, the slight
dampness where their skin touched, the dew at her apex.  Her breathing
massaged him in a contented largo.  Outside, a warm, moist breeze had
risen, making sails of the bedroom drapes and bringing a gentle rain
that hissed on the streets below the window.

He inhaled her scent, spice and smoke and something uniquely her,
liberated by passion and the warm night air.  He pondered the gift she
had given him, her love and her trust in his.  Self-reproach, an old
comrade, nagged at him.  She deserves better than you, Mulder, someone
she can rely on for more than heartache.

He felt her stir against him, coming awake.  "Hmmmm, Mulder," she
sighed, not raising her head.

"Dana," he said, his voice ghost-like.  The name was an unfamiliar, yet
intimate flavor.  My Dana, he thought, and desire coursed through him
once more, briefly quieting his self-recrimination.

"I love you, Mulder," there was a slight catch in her voice.  "I have
for so long."

His heart leapt at that.  "I love you too," he said, tightening his arms
around her.  She settled into him, already drifting towards sleep once
more.  He realized, then, how completely she had let down her guard, the
armor of emotional distance that had shielded her, at least in part,
from so much pain.

For him, she had cast aside the last of her defenses.

Amid his happiness, he felt like a leper.

Mulder knew that, for her sake, he had to be more than he had once been.
He had no idea whether he had it in him.

Scully's touch on his palm brought him back into the present.  "Get the
bill," she said.  "I want to show you something."

A few moments later, they left the bar and returned to their car.
Mulder acquiesced to her demand to drive, and sat without questioning as
she had followed the roads out of town and across the westernmost of the
two bridges spanning the Severn River, turning east on the far side and
heading back toward the town.  Just prior to the turn-off for the other
bridge, she spoke, something indefinable in her voice.

"Almost there.  It's just ahead."

They traveled a bit further and then Scully turned the car into a small
parking area between the lanes of the highway.  A sign informed visitors
that the memorial overlook, a short walk from where Scully had stopped
their vehicle, had closed for the evening.

"Say, Scully," he said, "you aren't going to get us busted, are you?"

She ignored his teasing.  "Close your eyes," she instructed him.

He complied, following her lead toward the overlook.  She giggled
slightly as he stumbled over an irregularity in the pavement, falling
into her.  Soon, though, she stopped him and, quietly, said "okay,
look."

The sight before him surprised him with its loveliness.  Before him, the
bridge arched over the river, bathed in red-gold light from its lamps,
light that danced and shimmered on the wavelets below, and beyond that
stood the graceful domes and steeples of the town's skyline.  The wind
from the bay, vaguely scented by the brackish marshes of the Eastern
Shore, wafted in over the river's mouth, teasing their hair.

"It's lovely," he said, easing her in front of him and slipping his arms
about her waist.

"I come here, sometimes."  Scully leaned back against him.  "My father
taught at the Academy for a couple of years.  We didn't live here long,
but it feels like home, somehow."

He waited in silence.

"When I was ill, if there was time, I would drive out here and just
think.  Not many people come here, so I could be alone, and just be in
the past, before..." her voice trailed off.

"Before...everything?" Mulder prompted.

She nodded slightly.  "I was afraid of the future...I thought I had no
future.  It felt good to remember my life before I got sick, before
Melissa...."  She paused again, then continued, the hint of tears in
her tone.  "And after Emily died, I would come here then, too."

Mulder felt a dark shadow of unease stir at the edge of his awareness.
As difficult as Emily's death had been, he knew she would get through
it.  What bothered him more was the thought that it could all happen
again.

It probably already had, perhaps more than once.

He had never discussed that possibility with Scully, and in truth, he
hoped he would never have to.  He feared that it would prove the final
burden, the one that could break her.

He told himself that some truths really were best left hidden.

Mulder held her, vexed by wrongs he could never right, no matter how
much he loved her.  She felt small and delicate in his arms.  "Scully,"
he began, "why...?"  He did not complete the question.

She did not respond at first.  He felt her inhale deeply, not allowing
herself to weep, but neither did she raise the brittle walls behind
which she once would have retreated.  "This isn't an unhappy place,
Mulder.  I found comfort here.  I wanted you to see it, that's all."

There was a silence.  "Thank you," he said, after a moment.

She was quiet a while, then spoke once more.  "You must have such a
place...."

All of the empty houses that had never been home ghosted past him.
"Not really," he said.  "I just sit with the fish."

Her response was a melancholy laugh.

"No, really," he said.  "They're great listeners."

"I'm sure."  She placed her hands over his, pressing them into her
abdomen.  So soft -- he could hardly believe she was barren.

My beautiful, broken love, he thought.

Mulder stood, bearing her weight, watching the languid movement of the
water below.  We know so much about each other, he thought, but it is
these little things that we have left to discover, to reveal about
ourselves.  One more leftover gap had been closed -- not many left now.
An amalgam of love and remorse burned in him.

"I don't deserve you," he said.

She understood him at once.  "No, Mulder, that's not true."

"I've cost you so much."  His words were rust in his mouth.  Scully's
ghosts had joined his in tormenting him.

She turned in his arms, facing him, placing her palms on his chest.
"I've walked after you of my own free will."  She shook her head.  "What
has happened to us hasn't been your choice.  You don't own the blame for
it."

He stared down at her.  Lost time, lost sister, lost child, and yet she
did not accuse him.  But he did not hesitate to blame himself, for these
and for the bondage imposed by the implant, cybernetic chains made
necessary by the specter of her cancer.  The thought made him ill.  "I
used to feel sorry for myself," he said.

"It was my choice too."  Scully passed a hand across his cheek.  "Years
ago, your informant -- they killed him right in front of me.  I knew the
stakes."

Deep Throat, Mulder thought -- Scully had seldom been able to bring
herself to use that sobriquet -- he had been one of the first to die.
"There's a lot I would change."

Scully hugged him tighter, laying her head against his chest.  "Mulder,
I once told you I wouldn't change a day.  And then, for a while, I
wanted to change everything.  I wanted to break loose and start over."
She was quiet a moment, then went on.  "But I've realized that you can't
just choose the good and not the bad.  Maybe I had to lose something to
gain something else."

Mulder shook his head.  "No, Scully, no.  It's not like that."

"I don't know, Mulder.  I think sometimes it has to be."

He shook his head again, in wordless denial.

Her voice fell to a near whisper.  "Mulder, I'm in this as deep as you
are, now.  I have to believe that it's for the best...in the end."

He did not answer, just held her as she clung to him.  Renewed faith had
indeed proven a source of strength for her, but he realized as he held
her just how much she needed it, how little of her own reserves were
left.

She needs you, Mulder, he told himself.  She needs you in a way that
she's never let herself need anyone.  You have to be there.

He was worried.  He knew himself too well.

For a while, they remained locked in their embrace, not speaking, and
then at last, chilled by the rising breeze, he led her to the car.  The
drive back to Mulder's apartment in Alexandria was made in silence, the
light touch of her small hand on his all the discourse they needed.

Their lovemaking that night was gentle and profound, the tranquil caress
of souls expressed through the physical form, and afterwards they lay
long awake, in a contented, healing embrace, a soft breeze cooling them
as the city grew quiet in the deepening night.

* * *

In a car on the street outside, the smoking man lit up once again and
started his car.  His push would have to wait.  Agent Mulder would
likely not be receptive to a knock on the door at this hour.

Never mind, it could wait a day.

As he drove homeward through Washington's emptying streets, another
thought struck him, an idea for a new angle, one more manipulation.  He
considered, decided it wouldn't hurt to try it.  He opened his cell
phone and dialed.
 
************************************************************************
[end part 4 of 11]