Title: Golden Chances Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com) Category: X, MSR Rating: R (I'm not a violent writer so ... draw your own conclusions) Spoilers: Fight the Future and small ones for early season six. Archive: Sure. Summary: Mulder. Scully. Atlantic City. Gambling. Disorganized crime. Psychics. Spirits. Soul mates. Take your pick. It's all in there. Disclaimer: CC and Co. own it. Thank you: To Sybil. I know how busy you've been and I appreciate your taking a crack at this longish story. You cheer me on and make me laugh. What more could one ask for in a beta? Golden Chances XXXXX Dana Scully's apartment September 7, 1998 After their third time, she watched his desperate struggle against sleep become futile. His eyelids closed and his breathing slowed and steadied. He suddenly startled just as she was ready to join him in slumber. She responded as she had all evening, drawing his naked body closer to her than it had been before. Over his shoulder, she could see the alarm clock, its LCD screen glowing '4:45' in a bright shade of green. In less than two hours their first night together would be over: a night of skin against skin--soft and silky; heated and damp; cool and sticky. She wondered if, in the nights to follow, he would always battle slumber so valiantly; if he would always attempt to absorb her in each cell of his body. She wondered if each subsequent joining would always have the transcendent feel of a near religious experience. "They can never take this away from us," he mumbled into her shoulder. At the time, she thought it an odd thing for him to say. Later, she thought it ironic. *They* didn't even have to make an attempt. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were perfectly capable of screwing up their relationship without any outside help whatsoever. XXXXX Madame Miranda's Love Connection Atlantic City, New Jersey January 4, 1999 9 P.M. It was closing time. Time for her nightly ritual. Miranda locked the front door to her shop, stood on her toes and reached up and grabbed the bottom of the security gate. Once she pulled down the garage-door-like contraption, and secured the lock, she hesitated before standing up. Max's breathing pattern had changed. It was quicker and louder. She could now feel someone standing behind her. It took all of five seconds to realize that the breaths the Golden Retriever was taking were excited, not fearful. He knew the person standing behind his mistress. Not that it counted for much. Once Max 'met' someone, they were automatically added to his buddy list. Still, Miranda hoped he would at least give off a disgruntled whimper if someone were about to knife her in the back. She stood up and turned around quickly. Kevin. "Some psychic you are," he said with a smile, "I had you going there for a while, didn't I?" "I told you--I'm not that kind of a psychic. Besides, I have no need to worry. I've got protection," she nodded at the dog. Kevin's laugh was more of a snort. "Max? The only thing he'd ever bite is a fly off his own ass." "Now what kind of a talk is that?" Miranda asked. "Sweet talk, me darlin'" He was pulling out the big guns: his charming Irish-cop-on-the-beat routine. He did an admirable job considering the fact that the only Irish in him originated from a great-great grandmother he never knew. "Well, it's not very sweet to hear you refer to my dog in such vulgar terms. Say what you will about me, but I take great pride in my puppy. He has no flies anywhere near his ass." "Yes, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat to her in a highly old-fashioned sign of respect. This was also becoming quite the routine. In the four months since Kevin joined the Atlantic City police department, he had given her more police 'protection' than she had had in the previous two years since she had opened Madame Miranda's. She had never felt particularly threatened while locking up her place of business. After all, gambling occurred at all hours of the day and night and there was always someone walking on the old boardwalk searching for a *luckier* casino. And she did have her four year old 'pup' as her constant companion. Still, with Kevin around, she felt downright carefree. The sometimes overly polite, solicitous man had obviously watched way too many Car 54 reruns in his youth, but she appreciated the teasing banter and genuine concern that seemed to stem from his idea of who the perfect police officer should be. She decided to stay on the boardwalk until she reached South Carolina Avenue. This way, Kevin could walk with her without any difficulties. He always took his break at this time of the night so, technically, his time was his own. While his new partner went for coffee, he chose to spend a few minutes making sure Miranda got home safely. Still, he was walking her home while in uniform and she didn't want anyone thinking he was shirking his duties in any way. His beat was the boardwalk and there was no crime in having someone walk with him. "So," he asked as they began to walk, "how many love connections did you make today, Miranda?" "Three." "And how many people did you see?" "Twenty." "And you were able to see all of their soul mates?" Miranda smiled. "For lack of a better term, yes." "But only three were actually with the people they were supposed to be with?" "At this time, yes." "That's frightfully sad," he said, a hint of great-grandma's brogue slipping between his Jersey accent. She stopped strolling. "Sad?" "All those people--not with the true loves of their lives. You'd think, if there is such a thing as Destiny, she'd be more organized and make sure that everyone ended up with their heart's desire." She laughed. "It's much more complicated than that." He stopped walking and stared at her. "Read me," he said. She felt her whole body slow down, as a heavy weight seemed to take over her being. She didn't want to do this. Not at all. Not with him. What was wrong with living in a fool's paradise, anyway? It didn't hurt a soul. And it gave her hope. "Miranda? Do I have to stop by during business hours? Do you need your crystal ball?" He knew, full well, she didn't have a crystal ball. She hadn't said a word since he asked her to read him and the silence was not comfortable. She was being ridiculous. There was no reason in the world why she couldn't grant his request. She led him to the railing dividing the boardwalk from the sand. How many nights had she stood there--a moony teenager on family vacations in Atlantic City's pre-gambling days? When it was just a beach resort for the working middle class. The main attraction was the Steel Pier with its rides and amusement park games. She never cared for any of those things. She just liked walking on the boardwalk at night. The wind whipping her hair around while the strong waves crashed to the shore. It was a Harlequin Romance in the making. The only thing missing was the romantic hero. And now he stood before her, tall, sandy blond hair and laughing blue eyes. Perhaps not a pirate, or a rich millionaire looking for a marriage of convenience but a good, decent man. The man destined for her? She put her hand out and laid it flat against his chest. Everything faded away and she told him what she saw--feature by feature. Dark green eyes; light blond hair--long and curly. High cheekbones. Perfect white teeth. "And a beauty mark on the right side of her neck--about half way down. That's it. That's all I see." Kevin's smile became tight. Disappointed. "Sounds like my ex-wife," he said flatly. "It could be. Do you have a picture of her? I could confirm it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped through a few photos and showed Miranda his wedding picture. It was her. The woman who, when all was said and done, was meant to be the great love of his life. She nodded. He sadly tucked the wallet back in his pocket. "Well, I asked for it," he said. She smiled. "Again, it's complicated. We can talk about it in more detail some other time. I really should be heading home. Max is probably hungry." The Golden Retriever did what he always did when he heard the "h" word: he wagged his tail as if it was battery-operated and someone had just changed the Duracells. "Good night, Miranda. Get home safely." "I will. Good night, Kevin." And she slowly slipped into a side street, with her dog by her side. XXXXX Hoover Building January 16, 1999 9:23 AM Scully was still checking email and wondering about the whereabouts of her partner. He was late. For him, very late. Dana Scully liked stability. Her working life seemed to contradict that preference but, nonetheless, it was true. She had found that stability in a basement office shared by someone who felt very much at home in the cave-like atmosphere. And she had felt very much at home with him. The artificially bright bullpen with its artificially cheery life forms was not to her liking at all. And obviously, Mulder felt the same way. She didn't like her new role as early bird, especially since there was no longer any kind of worm to be caught. At the end of the day, their fertilizer and background check detail left them both dissatisfied. She continued to spend time on her email. Just a few more moments of relative silence before going through endless files and placing phone calls she was beginning to despise. She looked up just in time to see her partner sauntering over to her desk, unsuccessfully holding back a smile. She stifled her first thought. There was not a glimmer of a suggestion that he and Diana had resumed their long dormant relationship. None at all. But the thought consistently plagued her at the most inopportune moments--especially moments when he seemed to be happy. He rolled a chair over to her side of the desk and reached over to grab a stack of files that lay to her left. "Which poor sucker should get these? Anyone pissed you off today, Scully?" He asked in a stage whisper. Scully quickly looked around to see if this uncharacteristic jauntiness--and public proximity--was being noticed by any of their 'pen' mates. "Mulder?" He dropped the files, grabbed her right hand and rested it on her lap. He ran his index finger down a line in the middle of her palm. "Well, what do you know? I see travel in your immediate future. I see a beach and slot machines and…whoa--I see an x-file!" This last bit he nearly hissed--in the most cheerful voice she had heard coming from his mouth in months. "We're not on the x-files, Mulder." "No. Not officially. But if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck. . ." She pulled her hand away, once again glancing around the room to see if anyone noticed their behavior. He leaned in quickly, "You are *such* a good girl," he said in a whisper, "but I take absolute pride in being a very naughty boy." He grabbed the stack of files and placed it on the desk of an agent nearby. "We have to go out in the field, Agent Winters. AD Kersh doesn't want this to wait, since the date of our return is undetermined at this point. Sorry to dump this on you." The tall blonde looked up at Mulder with vaguely disguised annoyance. The shit-eating grin he gave her seemed to temper her reaction. She smiled in return. Scully knew she'd do the work. It was probably a step up from the type of work she normally did. Scarily, the fertilizer duty and background checks happened to be one of the cushier jobs in AD Kersh's department. XXXXX On the road to Atlantic City 1 P.M. Scully watched as Mulder playfully tapped the steering wheel in time to a song he was humming. She could swear it was "On the Road Again." She only allowed herself a quick smile. "A psychic?" she asked, looking up from the thin file on her lap. He nodded. "Possibly many psychics, but that would be a stretch. More than likely, it's just the looove psychic," he said, taking great pleasure drawing out the word as if he were auditioning for a remake of 'The Love Boat.' "What the hell is a love psychic?" "A psychic who can look at you and see your true love." She didn't respond. She didn't have to. The slight scowl on her face said it all. On the road again, indeed. "You going for a reading, Scully?" He teased. "Exactly what is this love psychic's problem and how did we get involved?" "Subtle change of subject," he said, glancing her way with a smile. "Okay. At first, this seemed like a simple case of not so malicious mischief. You remember those small psychic shops on the boardwalk, Scully? Read your fortune for a couple of bucks? Well, four of these places had words scratched on their windows sometime during the night. Actually, one word on each window which, when put together made up a simple sentence: 'She warn MM now.' Not the greatest sentence but effective. Then, the messages appeared on only one window--the one belonging to our loooove psychic, Madame Miranda." "That's very irritating, Mulder. Please stop." "Stop what?" "The stretched out love business. It's annoying." "I thought it was sexy." "Think again. You sound deranged." "Well, Miranda didn't pay all that much attention to the messages--even though they had been written after hours--from the inside of her shop, without visible signs of breaking and entering. She did, however, pay a lot of attention when her dog was accidentally poisoned after scarfing down a sandwich she had made for her own lunch." "Perhaps the food had been spoiled when she bought it." "She had made three of these sandwiches that week from the same packet of ham. Nothing was wrong with the meat. The funny thing is--the dog had a bellyache--but there wasn't enough poison to do him any real harm. So, if Miranda had actually eaten her own sandwich--it would have done her even less harm. Just made her slightly ill. I think it was meant to be another warning." "And this was the most recent incident, or is there more?" "Yesterday, there was blood splattered on her windows. Again--nothing was out of place. And she has one of those metal security gates--so her windows are not exposed when she's not in the shop." "And what have they determined about the blood?" "Human. They are doing some preliminary DNA testing on it." "Well, that's all very interesting, Mulder. But this barely qualifies as an x-file. Yes, there are some odd things involved but nothing so out of the ordinary that the local police shouldn't be getting first crack at it." He shook his head. "Madame Miranda, aka Miranda Jenkins, is the niece of Deputy Director Michaels. His only niece. First, he doesn't want anything to happen to her on a personal level. And from what I've heard, his sister is giving him shit that her only child may be in grave danger. It may not seem a big deal to anyone else but I guess the warnings, poison and blood are freaking her out on some sort of maternal level. Secondly--and this is what Kersh stressed--if something should happen to her, there might be negative publicity. Finding out a store-front psychic was related to a very high official in the FBI who couldn't manage to keep her out of harm's way. . ." "Oh, brother," Scully said, "and you were happy about this case? Mulder--this is no better than fertilizer duty." "Were you not listening? There's a good possibility that --no matter how small--this is an x-file. That's good thing number 1. We're out of the office for a while. Good thing number 2. Atlantic City smells a hell of a lot better than fertilizer detail. Very good thing number 3. And--most importantly--solving this thing for Madame Miranda will put us in the good graces of someone slightly higher than our beloved Alvin Kersh. To quote Martha Stewart, *that's* a very good thing." He glanced over at her. "I've never seen that jacket before." She stopped for a moment, wondering if he actually made the verbal U- turn she thought she heard. When she confirmed it by looking at the expectant expression on his face, she answered. "I don't wear it to work. You said to only bring casual clothes." "Yes. We need to blend into the crowd. G-woman wear is not standard on the boardwalk. Still, you'd think I would have seen that jacket." She stared at him as he frowned while looking out at the road. Fox Mulder was a very puzzling man. End of Part 1