Headers in Part 1

Part 2

September 7, 1998
Dana Scully's bedroom
12:37 AM

After the second time, she found herself listening to new sounds. His 
sounds.  Deep and heavy breathing in her ear as she lay on top of him. 
Spent. Satiated. The thudding in his chest matching hers, then calming 
with each passing moment. A moan as she moved herself off his body and 
curled to his side.
A soft sigh escaping his lips as he placed his forearm across his eyes.

Had they really done this? Was it the right thing to do?

Earlier, they had stood outside in the afternoon sun.  He was firmly 
advising her to do everything he had begged her not to do that fateful 
evening in his hallway. Everything she had been halfway prepared to do 
before their world had literally been turned around by a bite from a 
tiny insect. Her refusal now was solid and she used his own words to 
back up her argument. He had been right. There was no quitting. Not 
only because *they* would win but because the commitment Mulder and 
Scully had was full and complete. There was no turning back. When she 
took his hand, she told him with the soft press of flesh against flesh 
everything that was in her heart. Everything he had tried telling her 
then with an unwavering gaze and lowering lips. Soft, inviting lips 
that were just a hair's breath away from hers when they had been 
'interrupted.'

She prayed he would get her message--her full message--without the 
words. Words seemed trivial and inadequate. As they began walking, he 
once again grasped her hand and she invited him to her apartment for an 
early dinner. 

He *had* received her message. Before she could put on a pot of water 
to boil, he stood before her with the same look he had that afternoon 
in his hallway. Sans flying insects. Dinner was not only never 
consumed, it was never prepared.
 
She listened to the sounds of rustling bedclothes before she felt him 
tuck the blanket around her.

"Do you feel cold?" he asked.

She snuggled closer to him and pressed her mouth against the lips 
recently warmed by hundreds of kisses.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she said. And, for once, she meant it.

XXXXX

Blue Shores Motel, South Carolina Avenue
Atlantic City, New Jersey
January 16, 1999
4:45 PM

Scully walked into Mulder's room as he was putting his clothes into the 
old dresser on the far end of the room. His room seemed to have the 
same inadvertent sepia tone as hers.

"You didn't lock your door," she said.

"Actually, I did. The lock is broken."

"Mulder, you need to have that fixed. Our rooms face the street. Anyone 
can walk right in."

"Someone's on the way."

"There's mold in my bathtub," she stated conversationally. The 
discovery was not one that had pleased her. It was a cold, gray day and 
a nice hot bath before bed would have felt wonderful. Now, even if they 
cleaned it, the memory of the mold would keep her from the indulgence.

"He can fix that, too. Or you can use mine. I didn't think it was 
especially dirty when I looked at it before."

"Great. There are thousands of rooms in this town and we end up in the 
most disgusting ones. Disgusting, yet expensive. How did you find this 
place, Mulder?"

He walked over to the window and pulled back the heavy drapes. A puff 
of dust accompanied the movement. Scully walked over and looked through 
the dingy windows at an ugly structure which had originally been 
painted in Pepto-Bismol pink.

"See that nifty residential hotel across the street?" he asked.

"The one with the balcony that looks like it's going to crash-land on 
the sidewalk? With the peeling  paint?"

"Hotel Andres. Home of none other than Madame Miranda and her faithful 
dog, Max."

"I don't get it."

"You don't get what?"

"How someone gives up a fairly lucrative career to live in relative 
squalor." 

"Spartan lifestyles, Scully. Remember?"

< Men with spartan lives, simple in their creature comforts if only to 
allow for the complexity of their passions.>

She remembered. Once again, he had created a Kodak moment out of the 
words she had once used to describe both his and Max Fenig's living 
quarters. She smiled at the memory and wondered about Miranda's 
'passions.'

XXXXX

Madame Miranda's Love Connection
5:15 PM

Miranda put the 'Back in Five Minutes' sign on her front door and 
walked to the back room. She smiled softly at the sight before her. 
Kevin and Max were asleep on the couch, the dog lying behind the fully- 
uniformed officer's knees, his head on his thigh.

She cleared her throat.

"Officer Simmons, are you sleeping on the job again?"

He jumped up and Max leapt off the couch in response.

"Wasn't sleeping, 'Randa. Just closed my eyes for a minute."

"Please, you two were sawing more wood than a pack of lumberjacks in 
Seattle."

"Seattle has lumberjacks?"

"More than Atlantic City, I'm sure."

"Safe bet. Anyway, I wasn't sawing anything. Max and I were on guard at 
all times."

"I was joking. God, you must be exhausted. I would have let you sleep 
but your lunch hour is almost over. . ."

"No, I'm glad you didn't." He got up and adjusted his uniform. "I'll be 
back during my break."

"Kevin. . ."

"I'll *be* back."

"You don't have to."

"I know what I saw and I'm not leaving you alone here for long. I 
should see about arranging for some leave."

"Don't you dare. Kevin--my uncle called in the FBI, for heaven's sake. 
I think we have more than enough manpower on something that's probably 
just some stupidity. If it wouldn't have been for Max getting sick, I 
never would have mentioned it to my mother. I just got scared."

She couldn't figure out which set of puppydog eyes were more 
expressive. The canine's or Kevin's.

"You were right to be scared. But, it would be nice if these FBI agents 
actually showed up. Just when are they planning to drop in, anyway?"

"According to Uncle Paul, they've already arrived. I believe they are 
doing some investigating on their own first and then will come by 
before closing time tonight. So, there's nothing to worry about. We'll 
be fine."

"How do you know?"

"Just a feeling. I don't get any bad vibrations from any of this."

"You're not that type of psychic, remember?"

"I remember. Go to work."

He picked up his jacket then dropped it again as he turned to hug 
Miranda. It was warm and all encompassing and very, very comforting.

"See you later. Max, keep an eye on her. Come and get me if there's 
trouble."

"He's not Lassie."

"No, but he loves you just the same. That's got to count for something, 
no?"

"It counts for a lot." She said, and led him through the door.

XXXXX

McGee's Restaurant
Boardwalk
7:05 PM

Scully had left Mulder to supervise the locksmith's work on his door 
and they planned to meet for dinner before their evening meeting with 
Miranda Jenkins. They each wanted to casually interview the other 
psychics who had their storefronts marred with the etched writing. 
Mulder felt comfortable enough playing the role of a disgruntled, 
unlucky gambler willing to blow his last few bucks on a psychic. Scully 
did not feel the same. She approached her two interviewees as a 
reporter from a Philadelphia paper doing a story on the 'other' 
Atlantic City: a piece which was to focus on the myriad of lesser-known 
tourist attractions a visitor might find interesting during a jaunt to 
the gambling town.

Two hours later, she had arrived at the pre-arranged meeting place 
first. The restaurant was warm and cozy and atypical of the bustling, 
quick service eateries that categorized the type of dining fare in the 
rest of the city. Surprisingly, Madame Miranda's shop was located 
nearby. Both were somewhat off the beaten path. They were on the 
boardwalk but nestled between the last two casinos in town. Prime real 
estate, Scully imagined, would be further up where there was casino 
after casino, broken up only by the 99 cent stores, the psychic booths 
like the ones she had visited earlier, and salt water taffy places. 
Business here would not be as brisk, she was sure. They would probably 
only get the crowd that was seriously interested in walking long 
distances.

Scully looked out the window as she sipped her coffee. A few people 
walked by, looked at the restaurant's menu displayed in a plastic case 
on the outside wall, and walked away. A few brave seagulls could be 
heard even from inside the restaurant and the Atlantic ocean was 
nothing short of angry--it's waves reaching a dangerous height and 
crashing to the shore. It was a cold and bleak picture and once again 
she wondered at the type of woman who would leave behind a fairly 
comfortable life in order to read fortunes for a tiny amount of money, 
in a town where even borderline loneliness would be amplified a 
hundred-fold.

"Hey--no daydreaming on the job, unless it's about me," She nearly 
jumped as Mulder slid into his seat with a smile on his face.

"How did it go, Mulder?"

"Let me order something first--do a quick pit stop at that highly 
inviting men's room back there and then we'll talk."

The meal was served before he got back. He came into the dining room 
looking refreshed. His hair had been tamed and he smelled of generic 
liquid soap. But the color in his cheeks was still high. He had walked 
a long way in the wind and the cold and it suited him. Between the 
nature-induced glow, and his enthusiasm over a hot meal, Scully had 
every bit of her old partner back. She never fully realized how much 
she had missed him.
 
"Did you get lucky?" She asked between bites.

"Well, since you brought it up--almost."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, psychic number one--all the way over by the Taj Mahal--told me a 
dark haired vixen would soon be entering my life and that I was greatly 
affected by someone with a J or a G name. You know, a John, or a Joe, 
or a Josephine, or a Georgia, or a Georgette or a Giovanni. . ."

"I get the picture," she said, trying to hide the infinitesimal scowl 
that seemed stuck to her face over the mention of the dark haired 
vixen.
 
"As I was leaving, I casually noticed the message etched in the glass. 
The word 'warn'--clear as day. Etched from the inside. I joked about it 
and asked what she was warning us about and she must have thought I was 
flirting because her answer was. . .off-topic."

"Uh, huh."

"Anyway, psychic number two--"Epey" didn't tell me my future at all. 
Instead, she offered. . .other services at a greatly reduced rate. I 
declined, of course, and then did the 'my, what is that," routine over 
the world 'she' etched in the glass. She had tons to say on the 
subject. She considers it malicious mischief. Surprisingly, I don't 
think the paranormal has even occurred to her."

"Was she a dark haired vixen?" Scully asked.

"Perhaps, " he said, moving the green beans to the side of his plate, 
"to the farsighted, anyway. A bit on the skanky side."

Scully winced.

"How about you?" he asked and leaned forward. "Did *you* get lucky?"

"Well, I didn't go up and down the boardwalk collecting propositions, 
like some people I know. Actually, the first woman was very publicity 
shy. She was very careful about the amount of information she doled out 
and was quite belligerent over the idea of discussing the 'MM' engraved 
in her window. Everything she said seemed to be preceded by the word 
'fucking." The second couldn't be more anxious for her fifteen minutes 
of fame. She threw in a free, unasked for, reading. Told me I'd marry a 
doctor and have twins."

It was Mulder's turn to wince.

"But, she appears to have been the most creative in dealing with her 
message. She has two handwritten signs. Above the etched word 'now', 
she wrote "the time is ... " and below it "for a reading by Giselle."

He let out a brief laugh.

"Enterprising."

"And now, what about Miranda?" she asked.

"What about her? We listen to her story and take it from there. And, of 
course, while we're helping her, I'm sure she could let us know who the 
loves of our lives are or whatever it is she is supposed to be good at 
finding."

"I wouldn't know. You are the one with the looooove psychic 
information."

"Good job, Scully. I'm impressed." She watched his smile fade a bit. 
"Actually, who knows what information she imparts. I suppose it's a 
service of sorts."

A dozen different thoughts entered Scully's mind. He looked way too 
pensive for what had been a light moment before. She wondered whose 
name he expected to hear in a reading and just how often he thought of 
Melissa Ephesian or Diana, for that matter, as potential candidates. 
One had proclaimed herself his eternal soul mate while conjuring up 
images so vivid he could still see the smoke from bloody battles fought 
long ago. The other held up a mirror to his beliefs whenever it suited 
her purposes.
 
Smoke and mirrors. 

Illusions for a man who was desperate to believe.

This case was just what they needed all right. Another ticket for the 
soul mate lottery. 

She stopped her internal wanderings only to find him looking back at 
her. Whatever he had been thinking of seemed to have resolved itself. 
He was smiling as he reached over and dipped a finger in the caramel 
sauce from her apple dumpling dessert.

"Hurry up and finish, Scully. Destiny awaits."


End of Part 2


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