************ Chapter 21, Epilogue ************ Scully's apartment November 22, 2000 6:35 p.m. Thanksgiving Eve in Georgetown and the snow falls, fresh and white. Such a contrast to three weeks before when leafsmoke scented the air with the crisp, pungent musk of autumn, when crackling piles dotted the curbs near Scully's apartment in colors of cinnamon, sage, and honey. The National Weather Service would have a viewing public believe it's a freak storm front that has moved in from the Midwest just in time for the holiday. She knows better, preferring to explore her own conclusions in the matter, though her thoughts eddy into pools that are decidedly Mulderish in theory and content. Because of his eclectic interpretation of events her belief system has taken yet another jar, another stretch further away from the clinical realms of science. But the fact remains that her heart, along with her body, is slowly healing. "The soul often communicates to us through synchronistic events," Mulder insisted again last night, when they whispered together in bed. "It's the nature of the beast that deep psychic patterns are formulated within each one of us, struggling to reach the conscious level where they align with physical patterns in the outer world until they reach a peak --" "So, in your opinion, did I reach my peak?" Her question was posed in innocent skepticism and soft shadow, not referring to sex at all, though her fingers browsed the side of his face in a teasing, familiar caress while they conversed. The corners of his eyes crinkled; he kissed the palm of the hand that touched him, ignored the temptation to jest, and continued with his point. "I'm convinced that yours peaked when it reached a level of consciousness strong enough to support a manifestation of the inner pattern. Your visions. This case, the Lego house. The date and time alignments between Benjie Tillman and your depression over Emily coinciding with the jump of the killer's demon from Cokely's bloodline to fresh ground." "Your theory seems surprisingly astute." He nodded. "The power couldn't function within the kid's youth and innocence, so when opportunity came it leapt, like the train off the tracks, to a riper victim who was more deserving of possession. Evil attracts evil, Scully. By accident it re-discovered its original, intended victim, Alice Eberhardt Marshall, at a child's birthday party. A psychic reunion, if you will." "She duped Cokely back in '42 and escaped for all those years," she mused, letting her hand drop. "Victimology in reverse. I still call that hideous recompense, Mulder." "But consider that the poetic justice satisfied by such a convergence... " "...came with such a price," she finished, placing his hand above her breasts on the warm skin of her upper chest, where all the healing powers within her own body have been brought to bear over the last two weeks. Recuperation offers her abundant time in which to muse and wander the apartment alone. Other than Alice's confession, she has only vague, brushstroke recollections of that terrifying night in Aubrey. Images of malice and darkness mingle with Benjie Tillman's wiry little body and the downward flash of a razor. The silky pressure of Emily's small hand and voice. Sensations of deep pain and suffocation, of despair... then merciful release. Thank God a plastic surgeon was on call and at the Aubrey Memorial ER within minutes of her arrival. His fingers sutured the chest cuts with gossamer thread and the consummate skill of an artist. Scarring, he promised afterward, would now be negligible in that high-profile area of the body, hard to detect unless someone with knowledge sought it out purposely. Mulder, she imagines, would have smiled at that observation, though at the time she felt only simple gratitude for being one of the luckier survivors. Like Mulder had been, when B.J. attacked him six years before. Unlike Linda Thibodeaux, who remains in the ICU, scarred and semi- comatose. They became separated during the flurry of treatment in the ER. X-rays were taken, her ribs taped, the deep scalp wound closed and stitched. Abraded skin was salved and covered until she felt cocooned in gauze and hazy from sedative. Awakening later and turning her cheek sideways in the hospital bed, she met Mulder's Oxford shirt and the strong, steady rise and fall of his breathing. His blessed closeness, his kiss to her forehead, nudged the floodgates open. Over the nurse's objection he would not be budged while Scully leaned her face against him and wept slow, heavy tears that darkened the front of his shirt. Within twenty-four hours they were back on the plane to DC. It takes four to six weeks for fractured ribs to become stable, she knows. Only two weeks into the imposed sabbatical and she already chafes from inactivity, hence the restive walks through the apartment for exercise and peace of mind. Fractures of the fifth and sixth vertebra and a bruised lung are small prices to pay for her life, Mulder reminds her. Her mother stands in vigorous agreement. Though unable to fully embrace her stitched, scuffed daughter, Margaret Scully was solicitous. She hovered, eager to do mother-things, providing small comforts and a homemade pot of soup. When the first evening darkened, however, she made no offer to stay the night and play nursemaid. Mulder's intent to remain was ironclad, evident in the possessive, easy way he stood beside Scully's bedside, monitoring her needs. His suitcase, airline tags dangling, camped just inside the bedroom door and he reached out to stroke her hair with open affection when farewells were said. Their casual touching and all similar signs of intimacy weren't lost on Margaret, Scully knew. After kissing her daughter's bruised cheek, she then bestowed a similar buss to Mulder's sandpapered one before heading for the front door. "She'll get the best of TLC," Scully heard him assure her in the hallway, all grave earnestness and calm possession, "so don't worry about a thing." "Call me, Fox, if you need me to come over," was the straightforward reply. Closing her eyes in exhaustion, she sensed her mother's tacit acceptance of their new depth of partnership. And that despite the tumultuous, dangerous job they shared, all would once again be well in Dana Scully's life because of her partner's protective, loving presence and care. Home to recuperate, she faced a daunting therapeutic regimen of breathing exercises to be performed several times daily. Hold the pillow tight to the chest to supply pressure and decrease pain, breath deeply to expand lung capacity and prevent build up of fluid. She knows the drill, the consequences of shallow respiration; pneumonia is not an option she wants to consider. Mulder observed her from afar the first night. She slouched on the side of the bed in pajamas, bare feet placed apart for balance, hugging a pillow close to her chest. Deep, deep breath, hard squeeze of the pillow, then the resulting hurtful moan. After her third time he clucked with impatience and tossed the offending thing away, kneeling to take its place in her arms and between her knees. "Now, squeeze me," he'd instructed, so she dutifully encircled his broad body with her arms and pressed him tightly, stifling her small groans of hurt and breathlessness into his neck and shoulder. Loving him, grateful for his closeness and selfless involvement in the things that cause her pain. "Partners in everything, Scully," he'd murmured in explanation. So much to heal, and they both profit... Mulder has attended to their caseload and mandatory meetings at the Hoover, continuing where they left off several weeks ago. During this quasi-leave-of-absence, she's also managed to contribute by working from home to flesh out the final report for the Aubrey case and add research addendums, but little else. Major cleaning and meal prep remains off- limits. As he's done since their return, Mulder should arrive soon at the dinner hour, bringing food and his own unique, companionable charm. Restless and hungry now, she makes another round of her apartment, a meandering journey through cool, quiet rooms, pausing to take in the virgin snowfall through windowpanes stenciled with frost. In the bedroom she nudges the thermostat higher and eases her sweater tighter around her tender sides, conscious of a chill. Streetlights flicker awake at this hour, powdered by snow, and other neighborhood families grouse safely in warmth and lamplight. Scully knows the obvious: that each case she and Mulder accept carries significant risk. Each tragedy they endure offers ripe opportunity for her to refine her equilibrium, to redefine her sense of faith, or lose another necessary part of it. Looking back she sees that Mulder has always been more attuned to the darker side of an X-File than she; a profiler, he's been adept at sensing its manic surges in behavior and reacts in time to dodge the worst of the fallout. She, on the other hand, has been known to stand evaluating the ground that bucks beneath her feet, weighing belief against a scientist's skepticism before the splintered foundation threatens to disintegrate beneath her weight. The evidence that has touched her so recently -- a little boy's dreams, a tiny house made of block, the protective gratitude from a dear child ascending from beyond the grave -- must be reverently sorted and catalogued, but from them Scully has gained a sense of resolution, acceptance, and comfort. Alice Marshall died at the scene on that dark, snowy night, cut down by the second of Mulder's two bullets. The first was intended to disable, but the one that followed meant to kill. The demon within the old woman proved unstoppable, despite a verbal warning and a neat, first shot to the shoulder. Suffering with his own severe head wound, Lieutenant Brian Tillman was able to corroborate that Alice Marshall did indeed confess her accessory role and guilt in the 1942 slaying of her sister Kathy at the hand of Harry Cokely. He had also coached his son to pitch the tiny block house like a hardball at the old woman in order to protect a federal agent by gaining valuable minutes until help could arrive. According to news brought home by Mulder, his immediate plans include an extended leave of absence, divorce proceedings, psychological counseling for himself and his son, and relocation away from Aubrey. "He's a lonely man with a good heart," Scully murmured one night soon afterward, drawing Mulder's eye. "So much of his life has been wasted on women who have given him only hurt and disappointment. They haven't been able to reciprocate for a variety of reasons." "Present company included?" She frowned. "A gratuitous question, Mulder... you know that." "But I still like to hear your answer," he said gravely, reaching to take her hand in his. Last week they learned that Janine Tillman surfaced in a small city near Lincoln, Nebraska, where for over a year she had rendezvoused with an off-again, on-again lover, a man who shared a similar pattern of substance abuse. Weary and also ripe for divorce, she agreed to whatever was necessary to expedite the proceedings. Taking his lawyer's -- and his young son's -- advice, Tillman reluctantly declined to pursue allegations of child abuse and negligence, choosing to break all ties rather than prosecute. As for the elusive connection Scully shared with Benjie Tillman during those two weeks, she wonders now whether his new counselor will also be a recipient of toy houses and whispered warnings. She thinks not, if Mulder's theories about synchronicity bear out and the vicious cycle has come to an end for the boy. "Jung claims synchronous events are often associated with periods of intense transformation," he explained during one of their whispered exchanges between the sheets. "The internal restructuring produces external resonances, as when a burst of mental energy is propagated outward into the physical world. In this case, both yours and Benjie's encountered one another within the same time frame and space." While not sold on this matter of colliding synchronicities, it startles her to realize that she misses Benjie Tillman's presence and endearing, childish attentions. Hopefully the boy's voice will one day lose its husky tightness, his skin will attain full, healing clarity. He'll flash wide boyish smiles and laugh out loud at will, like a healthy, expressive five-year old should. Like Emily would have, if she'd lived. Like she does now, full-throated and tinkling happily in Scully's subconscious thoughts and in her tumultuous, recurring dreams at night. When Mulder shakes her awake and murmurs his concern, she wipes a tear but feels better able to respond with honesty, his arms a life jacket around her insecurities. That they talk about such things now, even under cover of darkness, is evidence of further emotional healing and trust between them. Slowly the walls of self-imposed solitude are beginning to tumble down... Her circuitous journey brings her back to the kitchen. Supplies for tomorrow's modest holiday meal wait on the clean white countertops. A package of dry, seasoned stuffing mix, prepared dinner rolls, a can of whole-berry cranberry sauce, at Mulder's insistence. They've begged off attending the annual Scully Thanksgiving dinner at Margaret's house this year, preferring to remain at home together to aid in Scully's recovery and to celebrate the gift of life. Even so, her mother insisted on dropping off a home-baked apple pie and several decorative gourds, which Mulder has been shaking with annoying frequency, impatient for the seeds to dry and break free into a musical rattle. Some things, Scully knows, profit through time and waiting. Intercourse is one. She draws in a deep lungful of air and exhales carefully, brushing a wishful hand over her breasts. Her nipples tighten at the stimuli and she sighs. It may happen for them this evening, if her body permits such tempting invasion. The desire is alive and lusty, but flesh and bone may still be less than cooperative for such a purpose. Mulder, as befitting a close friend and lover, has been patient and inventive over these last few weeks, gentle with hands, mouth, and tongue. He reads her body and its intricacies like a connoisseur. The sexual seeds that sprouted between them last spring, that reached their true blossom in Aubrey, are just the first fruits, she realizes, in this new depth of devotion they share. Torn from her meditation, she hears Mulder's key in the lock and turns to greet him. He stamps into the entryway, dislodging the last remnants of snow, then removes his shoes before looming into the shallow light of her kitchen. His eyes seem dark and hesitant as he approaches, making no move to touch her. Shucking both his coat and a large bag that smells deliciously of Chinese carry-out onto a chair, he holds out a wide goldenrod-hued mailing envelope. "This came to the office today," he says, searching her face. "What's in it?" "It's addressed to Special Agent Dana Scully, so I figured you should do the honors." The envelope feels bulky between her hands. Glancing at the return address, she reads the name 'Tillman' and closes her eyes briefly. "Mulder..." she defers, head tilting. "Scully, open it." She's fearful, she admits to herself, not knowing whether the message hails from father or son, and why now on the cusp of a holiday? But innate curiosity and the need to ferret out truth no matter how difficult cancels out any hesitation. Taking a thin knife from the block on the counter, she slits the end of the wide envelope, turns, and lets the contents slip out onto the table before them. Oh, dear God, she thinks, frozen where she stands. No, it can't be -- On the table rests a mound of construction paper in vibrant autumn colors, creased to fit into the mailer. Brown, orange, yellow, red. Another, with silvery foil pasted on a black band, white collar, and another... Tears rush to blind her and she squeezes the bridge of her nose with one hand, shielding her eyes from view. Mulder is at her side in an instant, his hand gingerly supportive across her sweater-covered back. "What is it? Pictures?" She shakes her head. "No, paper cut-outs. They tape them to the windows at the elementary school." Benjie must be safely back in attendance, sharing in the joys of childhood art with his classmates, unafraid. She senses it from the bright colors and widened shapes, an expression of peace and of well-being. The tears reach her throat, thickening her words, and Mulder brushes a quick kiss to her temple before attending to the gifts laid out before them. "Hey, Scully, check this out..." He opens the first one, flattening it out on the table for her, working out the creases. The foil buckle gleams. "A pilgrim boy with a gun. Not bad." Reaching for the next one, she hears him chuckle. "Here's an Indian girl holding an ear of corn. At least I *think* it's supposed to be an ear of corn. Looks a little on the long, purple side..." "Mulder..." she scolds, diverting him from questionable territory with his observation. More shuffling of bright paper and he urges her tighter against him, caressing her hip with one hand. "Here, you unfold the last one." "It's a turkey," she murmurs, dabbing an eye and then extending both hands to fully reveal the traditional holiday bird. Pasted on, multi-colored spikes of construction paper serve as a tail, the wattle wide and red beneath a yellow beak. The body... She swallows and blinks in recognition. The bird's outline was made by tracing a child's fully- opened hand, with the thumb being neck and head, the palm a plump body, the fingers providing a base for tail feathers. It's exactly what she's hungered for, these long weeks of early November. But who could have known? A chill prickles her arms with gooseflesh and her chin lifts toward him. "Who are these really from, Mulder?" He flips over the mailer. "Tillman, it says. So it's gotta be Benjie. I think the Lieutenant's hand is a whole lot bigger than that, Scully." "I realize Benjie made them. But suppose he was guided by someone else to do it? What if... what if *she* asked him to make these -- for me?" "You think he could still be channeling Emily." Honest to a fault, he says the name aloud in the stillness of the kitchen. She feels his hand curving over hers, requesting eye contact in the tense web of silence. "Scully, there are some truths we may never know. I don't think it matters *which* child you feel this came from. Both are precious to you. Either way, you're the designated recipient and keeper of the gift." His words make sense, but regret flutters in her chest, stings her eyes. As before, life boils down to a hard crust of never knowing the true whys and wherefores of her abduction and infertility, of things so achingly precious to her soul. Whether it's little Benjie Tillman who sent her Thanksgiving cheer, or her own cherished, long-lost child, she realizes the difference is negligible. She's pondered for some time what Emily's creative efforts might have looked like, gracing the classroom window, or here at home... A sudden burst of gratitude fuels her impulsive need for Mulder. Reaching up, she pulls his mouth down to meet hers, savoring his moistness and male scent, his responsiveness and the sinuous stirring of his tongue against her palate. Ever conscious of her injury, his hands rest splayed and tender along her sides until the kiss ends with a soft, mutual tug of lips. He leans down to nuzzle her for one more moment, browsing her hair with renewed interest. Clearing his throat, he takes in a long breath of her scent before he eases back, eyes soft from suppressed emotion. "So, Scully... where you gonna hang 'em?" "Over there, I think. On the refrigerator." "Tape or magnets?" "Um..." She thinks quickly, swallows. "Magnets. I have some in the junk drawer by the sink." Turning away, she says over her shoulder, "Don't wait around for me. You can get started on dinner if you want--" But he's already gone, one loping step ahead, carrying the heavy, white bag of food to the living room. Lamps click awake, the TV flares to life with bluish energy, and she hears him rummaging through the paper bag, spreading out the little boxes of wealth they'll soon share together over the coffee table. But it's so much more than that, Scully realizes, blinking back tears of thankfulness and love. He understands and respects her need for privacy now. So like Mulder, he's granting her this time alone in the quiet glow of her kitchen. These fragile, magical moments in which to hang up her gifts and commune in solitude with her children, before joining him for dinner. ************ End of Chapter 21, Epilogue Seeds Of Synchronicity