Headers in Part 1 Part 5 January 17, 1999 2:30 PM Scully woke up earlier than she had wanted but it was still not early enough to catch up with Mulder. He was off and running. Before they left each other that morning, they divided up the day's work. She was to interview Miranda again, and he was to hit the Atlantic City police department looking for possible connections with their latest cases. She wondered how far he'd get. Somehow, this hardly x-file hardly seemed to warrant FBI intrusion in local police matters. Still, Mulder could be persuasive when he decided to charm the right people. She ordered a quick served-all-day breakfast and wandered over to the young psychic's shop before 4 PM. Miranda was in the middle of a reading and Scully sat in the outer office trying to look inconspicuous. Miranda gave her a big smile as she said goodbye to her customer and put up an 'out to lunch' sign. She ushered Scully in the reading room where she was, once again, greeted by an enthusiastic Max. "Sit, sit, Agent Scully. You look tired. Didn't you get any rest?" "I did. A few hours worth. It's difficult to sleep during the day." "Well, I would imagine the Blue Moon would have paper thin walls, anyway," she smiled. "It's not that bad," she said, scratching Max behind his ears, and then turning her attention to Miranda. The dog slinked back to his spot on the floor and was asleep within minutes. "I would like to discuss your background, what you've done before and how you got into this line of work. Actually, I could use a more detailed description of the actual work itself. We might find patterns or clues in what you tell us that you might not be able to see. *I* might find ... " she corrected herself with a smile, "You were in the financial field originally?" "Yes. Wall Street. I was going through a practical phase in college. I can't say my heart was ever in it. But I was damned good at what I did. After a while, though, the stress got to me. I didn't have any great commitment to what I was doing and couldn't imagine doing it for the rest of my life. And I always knew I had this gift-- for lack of a better term." "How?" "Well, it actually began with my parents. I would catch my mother's reflection in my father's face--even when she was not in the house. Kind of like a superimposed image. I don't remember what I originally thought of it. Probably nothing much. Kids see things sometimes and just don't know enough to question them. I did not see my dad's face when I looked at my mother. From time to time, I got flashes of another man. One I did not know. Anyway, as I said, it didn't concern me or even make me terribly curious. I had always been told I had an active imagination and I just thought it was a outgrowth of that One day, a few years after my father died, we moved and I found a box of pictures--and one of them was of that man. It turns out he was my mother's high school sweetheart and when I asked her about him--her whole face lit up as it never had for my father. And her face will always light up for him--until the day she dies. I'm convinced of it." Scully tried to keep her face as emotionless as possible. "You're thinking it's not much to base a life's work on, aren't you?" Miranda said. "You read minds, too?" "No, but I can read your expression. You don't understand. It wasn't just my parents. It happened with other people as well. When I was younger, it was random. When I was a teen, I tried to harness that energy. To actively "read" people. And I got to a point where I could pretty much read almost anyone I wanted. But it was always something that was in the background of my life. Few people knew about it. One day, there was a woman at work who was pretty much in the same boat I was--single, lonely, successful with more money and less time than any single person should have. She was miserable. She was over thirty and desperately wanted a husband and children but was so far beyond the dating scene that she hadn't dated in years. She felt unloved. And unlovable. I read her. I could clearly see someone out there for her. And I told her. She thought I was completely nuts but within six months--she found him. I went to their wedding. It was the same guy I saw in my reading." "And this convinced you to give up your career?" "I gave it up to save myself, first and foremost. I had money before I began my career. I had much more money afterwards. But I was not happy. The job demanded all of my time and then some. I chucked it. And then I looked at options. I liked giving that woman hope. Even if she thought I was full of it--she began to look at herself in a slightly different way. Perhaps open herself up a bit mentally. Feel less unlovable." "But why here? Why not Manhattan?" "We used to come here as kids--before all the gambling. I used to dream here. I feel a kinship. It's cold and lonely sometimes. Elemental. But I feel I can almost reach out to souls who may need me here." "And tell them about their true loves?" "No. Well, I don't know. It's far more complicated. The way I look at it now is that I see the person, when all is said and done, that SHOULD be considered the love of your life." "A soulmate," Scully physically willed herself not to roll her eyes heavenwards. "No. Maybe more of a grand passion. Your greatest love. It's very complicated. For example, married people come here all the time. I don't necessarily see them with each other at all." "You tell them that?" "Only if they are being read separately-which I've pretty much come to insist upon." "What if they are happy in the situation they are in?" "Well, that's what I tell them. Sometimes you are not meant to be the happiest with the grand passion of your life; sometimes someone more suitable to your temperament can make you happier." Scully shook her head slightly. "So, pardon me for asking, but what is the point then?" "This service ideally should not cater to those who are happily married or in a relationship. If I had a choice, I would only read the so-called lonely hearts. To let them know there is hope. But I can't pick and choose my clientele. People are out here to have a day of gambling and wandering around the boardwalk and think it would be fun to come in and have a reading. I can't turn them away." "Do you tell them the truth about what you see? Even if it could possibly effect their long-standing happy relationships?" Miranda looked down at her hands. "I don't lie. I try to lighten up my readings and put things in perspective when I see potential trouble and would hope that the relationships they are in are serious and committed enough to survive a half- hour in my shop. But if they choose to accept everything I'm saying and they are discontented to begin --yes. It could possibly affect a long-standing relationship or marriage." "Someone could have something against you." "Yes. If you follow that line of reasoning, yes." "You don't keep records of any kind?" "None. It's a cash business. And it's Atlantic City. Some locals pop by but mostly it's the tourists from the buses. In and out in one day." Scully let out a breath. This was not going to be easy. XXXXX Boardwalk Outside of Madame Miranda's Love Connection 8:45 PM Scully turned onto the boardwalk from the side street immediately preceding Madame Miranda's. She saw a figure on a bench that could only be Mulder's. They had been separated for quite a long time that day. Following her interview with Miranda, she had made her way to the Atlantic City police department, where Mulder was scouring over a stack of files hoping to find something connected to their case. It was a needle in a haystack. After a few hours, Scully had gone back to quickly check on Miranda and have a solitary meal. It was lonely in this town. Very lonely. She was tempted to pop into a casino just to hear some noise and see some people actually enjoying themselves but decided that might very well depress her further. He turned before she quite made her way to him. A bright smile lit up his face and made something in the pit of her stomach do a brief, nearly painful somersault. It was supposed to have turned out differently. It was supposed to be different. And it wasn't. She sat next to him. "Did you eat?" she asked. "Yeah, I grabbed something. I didn't have a chance to shower, though." "Thanks for the warning," she said, butting her side against his. "Did you find anything?" "Not really. This town sure does have it's suspected mob-related crimes, though. Amazingly, none of them seem to lead anywhere. Very few trials. Very few convictions. No witnesses. How strange is that?" He feigned wide-eyed innocence. "Very strange, indeed." "There were a couple of local murders. That's about it." "You didn't really expect to find much, did you?" "No." "So, why are we sitting here, Mulder?" "Miranda has a late reading. I thought it would be better if we were out here instead of hovering inside, screwing up business." Scully got up and walked to the railing. Just sitting there with the cold wind blowing was becoming intolerable. She looked out at the water and a sudden thought occurred to her. She turned to face Mulder. "Do you remember your first kiss, Mulder?" He looked at her in surprise. She shrugged her shoulders in response. She had very little idea as to where the question came from. She just wanted to hear the answer. He seemed to accept her shrug, leaned back against the bench and looked up into the night sky. "I saw stars," he said finally. "That good, huh?" "That bad." "Tell me." "Well, Pammy--that was her name--was about 13. I was almost 14. It was a very big embarrassment to me that I had lived to such a ripe old age without having anything to share in the boy's locker room discussions. So, I had to change the course of history and selected Pammy as 'the one.' She came from a very functional, if somewhat reserved family. She had seen some public displays of affection but no great slobbering matches. I had my romance lessons from the street." "Yeah, I hear the Vineyard was tough." "It was a regular Fort Apache. Anyway, what I had been taught was a real man--one considered a highly skilled kisser--always attempted to shove as much of his tongue down the recipient's throat as possible. So, Pammy and I go to the movies and she is eating popcorn and I turn to her--pretty much as she is about to pop another kernel in her mouth and pop my tongue in instead. She gagged; I gagged at her gagging and she proceeded to bitch slap me about the head and face until…" "You saw stars." He nodded. She tried desperately to keep from laughing at the mental picture. "You would never bitch slap me about the head and face, would you Scully?" "You mean I haven't already?" "Not so far," he smiled softly. "So, why the sudden interest in first kisses?" "I don't know. Maybe it's just the atmosphere. All the moonlight and water and talk of the great passions in one's life. Maybe it's just some long dormant curiosity over what you were like when you were younger. I have no idea." "What was yours like?" "Not all that much better than Pammy's, actually. I didn't gag but I didn't find it all that exciting either." "Men can be such beasts." She laughed and looked back out at the water. She felt him move behind her and drape his arms around her body for warmth. She stiffened at his touch and felt his arms stiffen in response. "Don't hate me," she thought she heard him whisper. She was just about to turn and ask him to repeat what he said when she spotted a woman determinedly coming up toward them "Uh, oh. Trouble." "What?" he said, dropping his arms to his side. "One of the psychics I interviewed is coming toward us." "Oh. Well, I'll be your ... " "We have to talk," a thin, bleached blond approached Mulder and Scully. "Change your mind about being interviewed for the article?" Scully asked. "What article? The one for the Federal Times? Please. . ." The gig was up. "Okay. Then what would you like to talk about?" Scully asked evenly. "Dead people." XXXXX McGee's Restaurant Five minutes later They led Rita into McGee's restaurant and took a corner booth. The restaurant was no longer crowded and privacy was not an issue. "Okay. What about dead people?" Mulder asked. "Right to the point, are you? That's good. No offense to you, Ms. Scully, but no newspaper worth its salt would do an article on the non-gambling joys of Atlantic City. I've lived here all my life. AC is gambling. That's it. That's all she wrote. You want the seashore-- you go somewhere else. Hey--even places not far from here have nicer beaches. You want old world charm and kitsch--again, find another place. Anyway, I knew you were some sort of law enforcement officer and I just thought you guys might be picking on charlatan psychics." "And are you one?" "I admit to nothing. Well, no, that's not true. I admit that my particular expertise in the paranormal world is not the one I currently represent in my little storefront booth. But then again--no one wants to hear what I'd have to tell them. At least, not during some one day gambling junket." "And what is that?" "I can channel the dead." "I see." "Not all that thrilling is it? When you come in to find out your lucky numbers of the day, or if you will be riding home in a limo instead of the bus--you don't want to hear that great-aunt Ethel is standing over your head telling you to be better to your mother." Mulder smiled. "But, I do have this 'gift' ... curse ... whatever. And I can't do much with it but it's always there. Except now I'm not flying solo. Since you got into town, I've had this damned near constant companion--Miranda's ghost. And he just won't quit. And he sucks at communicating although he's trying all the time." "A bumbling ghost?" "Nah. Just pathetic. No offense," she says to the air around her. "He doesn't seem to have the energy to come through clearly. For example, he tries to stir up a breeze--it comes out as a puff of air. Tries some of that ghostly writing stuff and can barely do more than a word or two. But I have managed to pick up a few things. He's been sort of playing some kind of psychic charades with me. Sending me mental pictures. So, I'm passing it on to you and you can do with it what you will. I know he wants me to tell you because that image came through loud and clear. It was you, Miss Scully and this guy you're with." "Agent Mulder," Scully supplied. "Yeah. Well, I didn't know him from a hole in the wall but I saw you with this good looking guy in my vision and lo and behold, I find you two groping on the boardwalk." "We were not ... " "Look, you don't do any exposes on charlatan psychics and I never saw a thing. Anyway, this guy--and I call him Freddie--I have no idea why. I don't think it's his name but I needed to call him something. He was killed pretty recently. His killer was caught. It was his wife. She had the direct Madame Miranda connection. She had been read. She later told her husband about this and he went to her shop. I don't know why. Anyway, I see Freddie standing outside of Miranda's shop and looking in the window and something happened. I don't know if she was busy, or what, but he never got read by her himself. Instead, I see him kind of walking off in a fog. He went home and as he's sitting there, a little lightbulb goes off in his head--and believe me--that's the way the guy showed me what he wanted to say. I don't know what strange shit this man watched but every freaking message he gave me more or less came through this way. Me trying to pull some meaning out of his weird ass images --like I'm pulling some fucking teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. Anyway, he's sitting there having some sort of revelation at the same moment that the poison his wife has been slowly feeding him for a week has finally accumulated to the point of being fatal. 'Aint that always the way? And now--geez, I'm seeing Miranda's dog. What's up with that? He's sending me a mental picture of the board game 'Sorry." Make any sense to you?" "Um, yes. It does. I think he was trying to tell us about the poisoning and perhaps regrets how he tried to get his message across," Scully said. "Okay. If you say so. So, he never got to say what he had to say to the people he had to say it to. But he made it seem like his wife knew. That he told her during his dying moments. We need to talk to her. Well, you need to talk to her. I need Freddie out of my head. No offense," she again addressed the air. "And how do we get in touch with this anonymous woman?" "Well, apparently, she's in the slammer. That should rule out all those people not in the slammer." She smiled wryly. "And her name is ... unless I'm really fucked up with the game ... Natasha. He was running this little Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon in my mind and I saw Boris and ... Natasha. She had a spotlight over her and when I said her name out loud, the cartoon disappeared. So ... Natasha. How many freaking Natashas can there be in jail?" "In the country?" "Yeah. Even in the country. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that I have never met an actual Natasha. Have you? But I can narrow it down even further. I am getting a strong, strong feeling they were local. So, check the local jails." She shook her shoulders. "Whew. He's gone. Cool." Mulder shrugged. "That's it?" "Yeah. That's it. He got his message through. I don't think he'll be bothering anyone anymore. May he rest in peace and leave me the hell alone." She swallowed the last of her coffee and bid the agents a good night. XXXXX Scully's Room Blue Shores Motel January 18, 1999 1 AM The evening's stakeout was cancelled. After a brief consultation with a Miranda who had no recollection of anyone announcing that their name was Natasha--it was the general consensus among those who believed in ghosts that it would be worthless spending the evening waiting for a spirit who had now found some rest. Scully scowled in response and tried to think of what she would tell Paul Michaels when he called to chew them out for not fulfilling their duties. Mulder pointed out that their only duty was to find the rest of the ghost's message to Miranda and once that was fully understood, it was back to background checks--or, if the Deputy Director was extremely grateful, back to the X-files. Mulder spent a few minutes on the phone trying to locate a Natasha but gave up on conventional routes. Instead, he called the Gunmen who promised an answer by morning. Scully took a shower, got dressed in a warm pajama and then found it hard to even begin to relax enough to sleep. She opened her curtain and looked out onto the dark, Atlantic City streets. This wasn't the boardwalk. This was a sidestreet. It made all the difference in the world. Whatever feelings of desolation one felt on the boardwalk, one could always pass it off on the ocean on a winter's night. This street was just cold and raw and ugly. Scully didn't even think. She picked up her key and Mulder's key and left the room. In a few moments, she jiggled the spare key in Mulder's lock and let herself in. The television was on but Mulder was sound asleep. Good. She was hoping to find him in just such a state. She didn't particularly want to talk; she just wanted to be in his presence. She sat down on a dusty easy chair near his bed. It was nice watching him sleep. He didn't have to say a word or even be conscious. Just being with him helped give her life a sense of structure and order. "Scully? What's wrong?" he asked, groggily. "You think I hate you," the words were out of her mouth before she was fully aware of the thought forming in her mind. "What?" he asked half asleep. She was surprised she uttered the statement herself. She hadn't been aware that it bothered her so much. "I think I heard you say that on the boardwalk," she said, backpedaling a bit. He sat up on one elbow and rubbed his face with his hands. "Well, that was pride. I wanted to kiss you. I thought you had issued an invitation with your choice of subject matter but when I felt you stiffen up when I touched you--I guess a lot of issues we haven't discussed came flooding into my mind and I just channeled it into that general statement." She smiled. Even half asleep he could psychoanalyze himself. "Do you?" he asked gently. "Hate you? Of course not. I was just taken surprise by that little public display of affection. That isn't our usual M.O." "No, it isn't," he said with a soft smile. "Mulder. . ." his name was almost carried on a sigh. "I know we screwed up badly. I don't know how anything that started out feeling as right as it did that night got so complicated, but it's so hard to sit there, sometimes, and pretend I don't want to show you how I feel." "I don't want you to pretend." "But it *is* easier to not be involved romantically, isn't it?" "Of course it is. Romance seems to have this big--I don't know--expectation of complete devotion. Maybe that's not even the word I'm looking for. That next morning, Scully, I expected you to completely back me up during the OPR hearing. and you were the same skeptical scientist I had known all along. Making love didn't suddenly change that. And I think you were expecting me to not have unreasonable expectations. When have I ever given you any indication that I was even capable of such a thing?" Scully laughed and watched Mulder lay back against the pillows with his arms behind his head. "Anything else you want to clear up, Mulder?" He looked her straight in the eye. "Anything else you want me to clear up?" She knew what happened during the OPR meeting. She knew why they had both been cold toward each other afterwards. One issue remained: Diana. It still hurt. Perhaps it always would but she was now convinced that Mulder was acting on the basis of old loyalties toward his former partner and lover. Scully had expectations of total devotion of her own--perhaps she deserved it but she could only deal with what she was actually given. Just as Mulder learned about her and her scientific ideals. So be it. She shook her head. "Then come here--it's warmer." He lifted up a corner of the blanket and she scooted in next to him. She was tried of fighting against something she wanted so badly. He put out a hand to gently touch the curve of her waist. Such a soft, tentative touch. She looked in his eyes and found a soft, gentle, tentative look--afraid of revealing too little or too much without some kind of signal from her. She quickly put her arms around his neck and buried her head on his shoulder. She needed to feel him again. "No pretense?" he asked as he nuzzled his face against her hair. She shook her head against him. No pretense. End of Part 5