Date: Sat, 1 Nov 1997 15:59:10 -0500 (EST)
From: Euphrosyne 
Subject: NEW:  Fallen Cards--Prologue (Part 1/21)


******************************
T  h e  X - F i l e s
Fallen Cards

For Twig, in Memoriam

by Euphrosyne 
Posted October 31, 1997

Classification:  T (A, R)
Rated: R
Spoilers:  mid forth season:  up to and including MM but 
     before Geth

Summary:  There is a murderer at large who kills only on 
weekdays, Mulder and Scully each go through angst, Scully has 
a cold, and M&S protect a potential victim--maybe.  
None of this happens quite yet, however.  Except for the cold.

I disclaim everything to do with this story.

All right, a longer disclaimer is at the end of this part, along 
with a few ramblings and some fawning obsequience in the 
general direction of my beta-readers.

Please remember that, brief or lengthy, feedback of any kind--
flattering, grudging, flaming--oh, okay, if you twist my arm I'll 
accept long, complimentary, incoherent gushing, no really, it's 
okay--is gratefully accepted.  All comments, criticisms, 
concerns, questions, suggestions, spelling advice, formatting 
tips, and general thoughts, etc. can be sent to and will be 
welcomed at euphrosy@netcom.ca or publicly (but cc. me a 
copy and let me know where)--I'd love to know what you think.

***********************************
Fallen Cards
Prologue:  Fugue
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)

Part 0 of 21

*******************************
Prologue:  Fugue

"Late, late yestre'en I saw the new moon
Wi' the auld moon in her arm,
And I fear, I fear, my dear master,
That we will come to harm."

--Old English Ballad, "Sir Patrick Spenss"
-----------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday, November 13, 1997
Upper West Side, NYC
7:24 a.m.

     Edward Street was quietly busy in the bitter November 
dawn.  Despite the tang of winter in the air, every manner of 
person rushed by, with the echoing click of high-heeled Italian 
leather and the damp squelch of rotting leaves.

     It was a hubbub that blended into a familiar, soothing 
background as Kara walked quickly toward the train station, 
checking the watch on her wrist.   She had that meeting with the 
City Council representative this morning, one of her firm's most 
important clients, and couldn't believe she would be late.  She 
checked her watch again.  Doing so helped not at all; she was 
already late and could not control time.  Yet the gesture, formed 
of sheer habit, was comforting to her tense mind.

     Approaching the station entrance, Kara paused, despite 
the time.  A man stood there stiffly: briefcase, umbrella, and 
tasteful overcoat in hand, an intent expression on his face.  A 
grubby child clung to his hand as the crowd milled past.  
Curious, she stopped; when he merely stood staring, she turned 
back to continue on her hurried way.  With a shock she realized 
that a year ago she might have inquired if anything had been 
wrong, maybe looked around to try and see what fascinated him, 
or wondered about the incongruity of the tiny girl with him, but 
now--today she hadn't the time or energy.  Guess her brother 
was right--she had changed from the simple country girl she 
once had been.  

     Long after the rushing of office workers, students, 
children and others had quieted down, long after Kara had 
caught her train, countered the sly comments of her obnoxious 
office-mate, and rushed in to her meeting three minutes after 
eight, the small child slipped off the bench and tilted her head, 
shaking her dirty curls to look up at the man slouching on the 
bus stop bench.  She tugged at his hand.  

     Tapping cigarette ash onto the pavement, the man 
roused.  Lifted his head, pushed back his hat, and turned 
towards the child just before rising.  And looking at the little 
girl, he blinked.

     Had anyone else been looking, they would have 
noticed the most curious thing.  Reflected in the man's grey eyes 
was an image.  An image of a young lady, tall and pretty, with 
long fair hair and a hesitant smile.  An image of  Kara Jennifer 
Matthews , youngest associate at Waters, Blake and Silverman.  
The late Kara Matthews, who even at that moment, was being 
pronounced dead at Mount Sinai General Hospital.

     And the unblinking child, still staring him in the eyes, 
smiled.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Manhattan, NYC
11:21  p.m.

     She awoke with a faint scream on her lips and tears 
wet on her face.  Again.  Almost every night, since she'd been a 
child, since she could remember.  She'd tried to avoid sleep, but 
the day had been so exhausting--and why, oh why, couldn't she 
remember his name?

     She wished she could call someone.  But the only one 
she had counted as a friend had been Kara, and Kara would no 
longer be there; never again.  

     She had met Kara at a party in law school, as unlikely 
a place as that was to meet anyone.  She had been in her last 
year, tense and serious, and Kara had been a fun-loving first 
year.  It was strange that they had begun to speak, stranger still 
that they had ended up spending the entire night in 
conversation.  Kara was bright and pretty and popular while 
Kate was shy and reserved and, even in three years, had made 
few friends.  But somehow, Kara had seemed familiar, almost 
disturbingly so, although that was, of course, impossible; for 
Kara was a wealthy and brilliant scholarship student from 
upstate Vermont, and Kate had lived her whole life in the city of 
New York.

     But their friendship, amazingly enough, had continued:  
past Kate's graduation, past Kate's gruelling year of Bar 
Admission exams, past Kara's subsequent graduation and call to 
the Bar.  Continued to the present day, until Kate had gone, 
reluctantly, fearfully, into work that morning.

     A quick morning phone call, and a friendship that 
continued no longer.  

     Mark had been the one to call her.  Mark was one of 
the most well-liked assistant D.A's there, charismatic and 
ambitious, with clean-cut good looks and an easy charm.  Mark 
was also one of Kate's few friends at the office.  

     An appropriate choice, moreso as Kara had been his 
favorite--and only--kid sister, four years younger.

     Despite the fight the siblings had had, only three days 
ago.

     It had been quiet at the office, everyone treating Kate 
with deference, solicitude.   They all thought Kate a trifle 
strange--but everyone had liked Kara.  And Kate had been Kara's 
friend.  

     Apartments a twenty minute walk apart, phone calls 
every night. 

     Similarities too strong to ignore.

     Kate had left the office before noon, and no one had 
uttered a word.  The funeral was tomorrow.

     In a world where trust is a myth built on illusion and 
deceit, in a profession where the shallow inspiration of trust is a 
valued skill and persuasive duplicity is considered high art, 
integrity and honesty are rarely found.  Kate had found those in 
the one girl she counted as friend in her school days, the only 
person she had ever felt able to label thus.  In a life spent behind 
masks, it was comforting to let the mask slip, even if only a very 
little.  Relaxing, refreshing, and so longed for.  But always 
cautiously, never completely.  Even then.
     
     She was so grateful that none of them could see from 
where she came.  Even Kara had not known--although Kara she 
had trusted, to the extent that Kate trusted anyone.  It was none 
of their business--her private mystery, a mystery none could see.  
And anyway there was nothing to be done, no person of whom 
she was certain enough to tell.  In any case, she knew better than 
to dwell on a past that was filled with nothing but pain.

     In darker moments, she acknowledged that truth was 
she could not tell what she herself did not know.  And she tried 
never to want what she could not have.

     Regardless, she had turned what life she had into a 
modest success, bit by bit.  She had transformed herself from a 
withdrawn and seemingly sullen child, a New York street kid 
and a child without a past, prey to theft and prostitution, into 
something resembling that of a well-adjusted person.  Dark 
brown hair and smoky blue eyes; a tall, slim figure that 
gracefully carried off the suits she was required to wear in her 
chosen profession.  She was known to be intelligent and 
articulate, bright and attractive.

     So, carefully, young Kate developed the socially adept 
facade required of the legal profession.  Changed her name 
slightly from what she had been given, enough to erase the 
remaining shards of the child.  Now Katherine Sarah Jacobs.  A 
bright young star at the D.A.'s office.  Not yet twenty-nine, she 
was good at what she did--though she admitted having a 
naturally eidetic memory helped in her field.  She was even 
organized now--after a fashion, although her co-workers still 
considered her desk the office joke.  She was going places, they 
all said.

     The fact that she remained determinedly single and a 
bit of a loner could easily be attributed to the demands of her 
career, not the hidden need to have time alone, time in which 
she didn't need to constantly force a smile.  And anyway, she 
told herself, there were a lot of people that jealously guarded 
their privacy; she was just another one of those people.  

     The only thing that she couldn't seem to get rid of was 
the damned nightmare.  Almost anything triggered it--tension, 
happiness, fear--and of course, with Kara's death, she had 
expected it that night.  The only reason she went to bed early 
was to ease her grief, and she knew that this night, no matter 
what she did it had been unavoidable.  And although it was the 
same every night, it seemed worse, somehow, tonight.  Maybe 
because she was already distressed, grieving for a friend who 
had died so young.  Wondering why Kara had died, with no 
cause of death, nothing.

     No answers.

     No one to call to ease this lingering unease.

     Just circles in circles; lines on a page.  Mysteries and 
patterns.  Another to add to the pile, and it was too late and she 
was too confused to worry about it tonight.  Which only brought 
her back to the dream.  A memory of long ago, a forgotten 
consciousness that emerged only at night, in the land of myth 
and shadow.  A memory that arose in the one place where she 
could not prevent it.

     In her dreams, she lived in another time.  Where she 
was young and she was happy.  Before she had learnt of 
harshness, when she still believed in light and rainbows.  When 
she yet believed that innocence and beauty were any kind of 
protection in the world.  A time when she had loved, and had 
faith in, fairy tales.

     In this suspended land, betwixt sleep and wake, her 
life was very different.  There, she watched herself as a shy but 
laughing child, with a mother who was bright and beautiful and 
held her close and an older brother who was tall and strong and 
who knew everything there was to know.  She had a father also, 
although she did not remember him much; he had a rare, kind 
smile and a gentle voice.  They had known about her, the father 
and mother, but not the boy; known what none else did, and 
loving her despite this had told her never to reveal her secret to 
another.

     In these dreams, she barely recognized herself.  She 
dreamt wistfully; this side of pain, as she tried not to remember, 
because it hurt too much to know what she had been, and what 
she had become.  The life she could have known, could have 
lived.  Nonetheless, she desperately wished to wake at this 
point, for waking here meant she avoided what came after.

     But usually she could not.  And then the dream 
blurred, briefly, only to continue.  A kind-eyed woman, different 
in manner than the first.  But still the same mother, although 
now with pale brown hair and a strained, sad half-smile.  A man, 
tall and somewhat frightening, larger than life, who had picked 
up her child-self and tossed her, wished her a happy eighth 
birthday and called her Sammy Jo.  He had a hearty laugh, but it 
sounded artificial, forced.  She wanted to like him, and knew 
she did not.  The same family, a little older.  

     By this time she was afraid.  There was something not 
quite right--she was unsure of what, exactly--about the joviality 
of the man, and something disturbing about the faded quality of 
the mother.  There was, in fact, something faintly sinister about 
this whole family portrait in her dreams, something she could 
not quite tell, something she could not quite recall.  Almost as if 
even her dreaming mind liked the perfect myth, clung to it, and 
dared not disturb it.

     Then the dream sharpened, focused.  On her brother, 
always, and the disquieting parents faded away.  Here the 
feeling became bittersweet, sorrowing yet glad.  The only 
constant in her dream.  

     Her very own brother, serious and sweet, irritating and 
wonderful in the way that only barely tolerating older siblings 
can be.  She was stronger than him, though, not physically but 
otherwise----practical and impulsive, a tomboy waiting to 
happen.  Both the child-self and the dream-self understood this, 
that this had always been so, despite the age difference.  He had 
been the sensitive one, the one who was quiet and hid the hurt 
he felt, the one who always ended up taking the blame for 
everything that had been either her fault or his, no matter what 
she did.  But he had not known, and she had never felt able to 
tell him.  And now, within her dream, she feared for him.  This 
was the brother she'd abandoned even though he was frightened 
and needed her.  But she could not protect him.  And now, now 
he lived only in dreams, in her nightmares.

     Because by now the dream had changed and they--she 
and her brother--were fighting.  He was calling her a cheater, 
and she was returning the favour.  But he had done the cheating.  
She had known he had done it though.  He thought he was sooo 
clever, and hated to lose to his younger sibling.  But she knew, 
had always known.  Inescapable knowledge:  this was her gift, 
and her curse.

     There was so much anger, though--and her dream self 
lamented and silently chastised the other for it--and then . . . and 
then she was being taken away.  For some reason, the man in the 
dream was sending her away, and although he was not there, 
somehow she knew it--he was calling, sorrowing--but she could 
not quite trust the sorrow.  The brown-haired lady was letting 
her go, her misery palpable, tangible; born of weakness but 
somehow more real . . . 

     And above all, sharp regret.  She had not wanted to 
leave her brother alone.  She loved him--the only one who truly 
did in this dream world--and knew he loved her.  Knew with a 
certainty beyond any other.  Although things seemed to happen 
quickly , as she went she had time to think, and to wonder.  To 
wonder, angrily, why; why didn't he stop her from going?  For 
she did not doubt that he could:  he was her older brother and 
could do anything.  He knew she really didn't mean any of those 
things she said, didn't he?  And after all, he had been the one 
who had cheated, not she.  

     But then, in her dream, he turned towards her, and his 
hazel eyes were almost black with fear.  In that instant, she 
tasted bitter remorse at having doubted him, however briefly.  
Then he called her name.  But she couldn't hear him properly, 
and she wasn't sure if he was calling her, Kate, or her dream 
alter-ego.  And crying for forgiveness, desperately wanting to 
reassure, to explain, because she did not want to leave him by 
himself, did not want to go, did not want her last words to him 
to have been provoked by rage--I'm sorry, so sorry--she took a 
breath to call his name . . .  

     And that was when she always woke up.  For almost 
17 years, she had woken to a silent room with fleeting fragments 
of a dream dissolving from her frantic mind, and a wordless cry 
half-formed on her lips.  For almost 17 years, and many more 
months, she had tried to remember.  To remember his name.  Or 
at least recall her own, although for some reason her own 
seemed less important.   It didn't matter.

     Because in all those nearly 17 years, she never, never 
could.  

------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Prologue.
__________________________________________________
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:
~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:
Well, I'm caving to popular pressure and leaving my hideously 
long author note to the very end of the story.  This is the short 
version.  Really.  And see?  It's even at the end of this part.

Just wait 'till you see the piles of stuff at the real end.

I've had this story kicking around for almost a year now; my 
knuckles are knocking and my fingers are getting hot and cold 
flashes as I type this.  This is the only complete story with a plot 
I've ever written before, even in private.  It's rated a conservative 
R, for some profanity and disturbing scenes and images.   
Spoilers?  Nothing past Leonard Betts or maybe Memento Mori 
I don't think.  Certainly the last couple of fourth season 
episodes never happened in this universe.  

All right, if you really require a disclaimer:  I confirm that I have 
no rights in property or otherwise to any of the recognizable 
characters contained herein and that Mulder, Scully, et. al. all 
belong to someone else, most probably Chris Carter and 10-13 
productions.  I am not deriving and do not plan to derive any 
tangible profit from them whatsoever (yeah, I wish!).  However, 
this story, such as it is, does belong only and solely to me, and 
should not be reproduced either in whole or in part without my 
express permission (just so that I can be amazed that you would 
actually want to reproduce any part of this part!).  In addition, 
any characters I have made up--including Mark, the incidentals, 
etc., are exclusively mine and mine alone (ha!).  Lastly, although 
I have named real cities, most location details are likely 
inaccurate, and for this I apologize.  This disclaimer constitutes 
good and fair notice and applies to each and every part of this 
story.  If for any reason you do want to copy this story or 
borrow any of the characters, e-mail me first and ask.  

Alternatively, if this disclaimer does not please you, 
you may instead read any other general disclaimer 
to any of the other stories and insert it here as you 
like.  

Thanks go to a whole slough of people, and I'm pulling a 
Jennifer Capriati--you'll be glad to know I'm leaving out the 
hordes I elliptically whined at and thanking only, for the first 
draft I wrote months ago:  Jeannie, of BRC fame, who edited 
and held my hand through the first chapters to the writing of the 
bulk of the first draft, Megan R. for her prompt comments that 
kept me going, Michelle C., for her careful critique, and Melissa 
R. for her comments on the opening.

Special thanks to Hindy who asked to read the draft months 
later, did a thorough edit for me, let me use her as a sounding 
board, and really saved this from an eternity on my harddrive.  

Thanks also go to Becky, beta-reader to the stars, for the pretty 
patterns--and all her attempts at salvaging and trying to talk 
sense into me. But the evil are not so easily won ...

Finally, thanks to Deirdre, Natalie, and Char, who told me at 
various points not to delete it.  Also to those kind souls who 
sent me feedback as I posted the first half--you know who you 
are.

If I asked y'all not to feel obliged to comment, I'd be sincere, but 
at the same time I'll sit here and cry large salty tears if you don't.  
Please, please, rip this apart, tell me I have terrible grammar, 
point out that I cannot format, rave about my inability to 
punctuate, tell me my plot's incoherent, simply tell me you read 
it at all, whatever... critical comments are wonderbar, but any 
comments are good comments.  Unless they're flames.  In which 
case, they're still comments and thereby good, but on a relative 
scale they're fairly low in the goodness factor.  

I have greatly enjoyed the opportunity to write and post, and 
thank anyone about to read this.  The process has given me 
untold pleasure in the joy of creat ... okay, *fine*.  I did it for 
the feedback.  Yeah, yeah, all I want is feedback.  I'm a pathetic, 
lonely soul with no mail in my box.  I grovel well, though.

Seriously, if you enjoy this story, please write me.  If you hate 
this story, please write me.  If you couldn't care less about this 
story, well, you can still write me.  If you haven't read the story 
but want to know how to cook spagetti, you can still write me--
I'm really not so picky.

I promise not to whine or beg anymore.  Well, not much, 
anyway.

I'm still allowed to hint gently, right?

Thanks for reading.
__________________________________________________


******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 1:  Edge of Belief
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously disclaimed)

**Please note--although this is chapter 1, there is also a 
prologue contained in Part 0 that, like all prologues, goes 
before this.**

Any and all comments--positive, negative, or otherwise--
received with much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter I--Edge of Belief

I had a dream that love would never die,
I dreamed that God would be forgiving--
But I was young and unafraid,
And dreams were made and used and wasted . . .

--Fantine, "I Dreamed A Dream" 
Les Miserables  (The Musical)
__________________________________________________

Friday, November 14, 1997
Alexandria, VA
3:02 a.m.

     It was a quiet night, a night when even the stars shone 
with a hushed magnitude.  The pale light of the waxing moon 
seemed brash as it spilled over dusty floorboards and paper-
covered tables.  And in the starkly furnished bedroom, a figure 
tossed restlessly on the plain iron-frame bed.

     Mulder dreamt.  He was crossing a bridge, a rope 
bridge in a lightning storm.  The wooden boards were wet and 
rotting, and had no more strength left than would damp 
cardboard.  The river below was swollen; wild, white and 
writhing below him.  He knew better than to try to cross, but 
Scully was on the other side of the bridge, and calling to him.  
He did not know why, but with dream-logic, he knew he must 
get to her.

     Had to get to her.  Needed to get to her.  So he began 
to cross.

     Then a board broke, and another.  He was falling, and 
as he fell, he heard her laugh, free and gleeful.  

     Only to find himself standing, dry and dressed,  in a 
room.  A dark room, with one window.  The sun shone behind 
the window, but a dark shade was pulled over it, leaving only a 
faint gleam of light at its outline for illumination.  A figure 
stood before him, face turned slightly away from him, staring at 
the window shade.  Samantha.  He could not see her, could 
barely make out her profile in the darkness, but he knew.  He 
would know her anywhere.

     He also knew, had always known, that soon she would 
look at him and come to him and then everything would be all 
right.  It was the stuff of a thousand fantasies; the faith that gave 
meaning to all he did.  If she would just look at him.

     "Samantha," he said, "Samantha."  Her face turned 
toward him.  Her eyes were closed.  Suddenly, frighteningly, her 
eyes flew open.  But these were not the eyes of the child he 
remembered, the girl who had followed him anywhere, the sister 
who had adored her older brother.  These eyes were dark and 
cold and blazed with an unearthly light.  

     And then the figure, who was his sister and not his 
sister, spoke.  

     "I do not know you."  Her words were razors of ice and 
splinters of steel, inhuman and indifferent.  

     *I do not know you*, she said, and his world shattered.  
Because he knew with every certainty that this person had once 
been Samantha, and if she would not acknowledge him, all was 
naught.  But she was one of them now, he realized, 
understanding this truth, mind protesting, even before she began 
to change.  But he could not refuse to believe as she kept 
changing, and changing.  And as she mutated further from the 
sister he knew into a creature he could no longer even recognize, 
he began to scream mindlessly at the horror, the hideousness of 
the creature that was once his sister, that was still his sister, 
even as his heart more silently keened its terrible loss . . .  

     And then he woke.  Woke to the sound of his own 
scream echoing in the still, lonely room.  Woke covered in 
sweat, with the touch of a single tear cold on his cheek.

     Awake, he could not stop shaking, as his mind 
replayed, over and over, the unreal terror he had just witnessed.  
Your fault, his mind screamed, for thinking you could sleep, in 
a bed, all the night through.  Your fault, his heart whispered, 
that she was taken, and so you pay penance.  Your fault, his 
soul cried, because you have failed all these years.  So he sat up, 
and drew his knees tight against his body, wrapping his arms 
around them and stayed like that, shivering, until the birds 
began to sing outside his window in the thin, pale grey of dawn.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Annapolis, MD
6:54 a.m.

     Scully woke that morning feeling less than wonderful.

     In general, she hated getting up in the morning.  While 
she loved actually being awake early in the day, a rare 
occurrence for her, mornings and she normally had an 
independently exclusive relationship.  She hit her snooze button 
until the last possible minute, rolled out of bed and into the 
shower, dressed to hide the fact that she was practically 
sleepwalking, and left her apartment, looking polished and 
feeling hazy.  It usually took her over an hour before she felt up 
to rational thought.  It was one of the more irritating things 
about Mulder, really, that he always was so alert in the 
mornings--even more, that he expected her to be so.

     But this morning she actually felt slightly unwell--no 
doubt the onset of a truly annoying cold, her mind muttered.  
She hadn't, in fact, been feeling well for the last couple of 
weeks--horrible nightmares, waking up constantly throughout 
the night, and mornings where she felt a curious assortment of 
aches and pains.  She'd been eating lightly as well; her stomach 
had been in full revolt.   While she'd been healthy for the last 
several months--the frequency of the nosebleeds hadn't 
increased, which could only be a good sign--if this kept up she 
promised herself she'd go see a doctor.  The stomach pain, 
although mild, really should not be ignored if it persisted, even 
though she was sure it was merely stress and the latest virus.   

     She did not acknowledge the fact that it had been fairly 
bad all week, and she hadn't been able to stay at work past early 
evening for the past few days.  She'd been putting off seeing a 
doctor for several days now, telling anyone who asked--
including Mulder and her mother, when she cancelled on 
Sunday dinner two weeks ago--that it was the 'flu and would 
soon pass.

     But she had a self-imposed rule that she never stayed 
home from work, unless going was practically impossible; and 
even though today was worse, it still didn't qualify in that 
category.  She hated the feeling of a wasted day that should have 
been better spent, hated the feeling the following day when she 
felt as if everyone had moved slightly ahead of her, leaving her 
just a few steps behind and unable to quite catch up.    

     Besides, she didn't think she could face the look on 
Mulder's face if she stayed home for a simple cold--either smug 
or concerned, or God help her--both, she would probably end up 
hitting him no matter what he did.  Undoubtedly, he would beat 
her to the office this morning, and truth be told, she was too far 
behind not to go in today.  So to maintain a good working 
relationship with her annoying partner, it was imperative she go 
in today.  

     Armed with this slightly obscure logic, Dana looked 
longingly at her rumpled bed before she left.  The slight 
weakness of her limbs having thrown off her finely tuned 
morning schedule, she hadn't had time to make it and the 
temptation to crawl back in was great.  Tugging at her skirt, she 
dropped the bottle of aspirin into her briefcase.  Just in case.  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
3rd Floor
9:47 a.m.

     "Hey, Scully, when did you get here?  I've been looking 
all over for you.  D'you have a minute?  I want you to look at 
this."

     "I have no time this morning, Mulder.  Forster's been 
wanting this autopsy report for two weeks now and I have to 
finish it by noon, along with 3 weeks of expense reports that I've 
been promising Holly so she can process it for Skinner for this 
quarter's budget.  And my expenses were really high with this 
last case, and if I don't finish it for this report it won't get filed 
till next quarter, which means that they'll make a fuss about the 
entire thing.  So unless it's crucial, can you wait till the 
afternoon?"

     Mulder had breezed into her office, sans jacket, with a 
load of heavy files and the expression of a child at a midway 
fair.  Scully, on the other hand, had not looked up once from her 
notebook, calculator, and laptop precariously perched on the 
assorted pile of files, papers, and books concealing her desktop.  
Her voice was calm, but the overall impression was one of 
controlled frenzy, marked by the quick ponytail she had pulled 
her normally coiffed hair into.  It was a blessing that he had not 
disturbed her flurry of reports and autopsies yesterday; was one 
more morning too much to ask?

     "Really Scully, this is fascinating.  Here, just  . . . "  He 
paused to dump the stack of files onto her desk--right over her 
notes, and with a thud just hard enough to displace the careful 
balance of her laptop--forcing her to maneuver wildly to prevent 
it from crashing unceremoniously to the ground.  Danger 
averted, she turned her attention to its cause.  For his part, that 
cause seemed rather oblivious to the havoc he had created, still 
standing and continuing his sentence without interruption.

     Having rescued her laptop, Scully focused her efforts 
on glaring at Mulder, who was flipping through the messiest file 
she had ever seen--before she joined the X-files.

     " . . let me show you some of the photographs in the 
file.  It's amazing.  Appears there have been sightings of a large 
object in a corn field in Idaho.  There have been several 
witnesses, and they say that the lights are hovering.  Several of 
the reports include statements from people who say they've 
experienced episodes of missing time, and the guys--Frohike's 
really excited about this by the way, almost as excited as when I 
gave him your numb . . .", the file in his hand tilted a bit, he 
almost lost a paper, reorganized, "I mean, the guys are collecting 
more data as we speak.  One of the witnesses included a member 
of NICAP, who made sure to take these pictures--yeah, well, 
they're not all that clear . . . "  He found the photos, looked up, 
noticed her frosty expression, hesitated.  "What?"

     She was silent, merely looking at him.

     She watched him clue in.  "Guess now's not a good 
time.  I'll come back later.  Sorry, Scully."  Chagrined, gathering 
up his stuff, he left her office.  When he was gone, Scully let her 
lips curl into a smile, and shook her head once.  Despite 
everything, she could always rely on Mulder.  He really was 
incorrigible.

     She bent her head back down to her work.

     Outside, Mulder walked back to his office, biting the 
corner of his lip, brow creased with worry.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
11:35 a.m.
Office of Asst. Director W. S. Skinner

     "Good afternoon, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, thank 
you for coming on such short notice.  I trust you both have taken 
time to review the file?"

     "Yes, sir, may I ask why this file has such priority?"

     "It was requested by some members of Congress 
because of the frequency of the deaths--eleven  deaths in just 
two weeks.  They're calling them the All Saint's Murders . . . the 
first murder having occurred on Halloween,  just after midnight 
November 1, and since every one of the victims has been, as 
you've seen, involved in charity work of some kind.  Given the 
prominent nature of the victims--at least two were close relatives 
or friends to the requesting members--it is thought to be a matter 
of some concern."

     "But sir, I don't . . .."

     "Agent Mulder, Senator Matheson personally 
requested that you take this file."  Skinner's voice softened a 
fraction.  "The latest victim, Kara Matthews, was his niece."

     "I see. Will that be all sir?"  Scully's voice, steady and 
cool.

     "Yes--please close the door on your way out."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
4:56 p.m.
Basement

     Mulder looked down at the file, but he wasn't really 
concentrating.  He had gone upstairs to check something over 
with Scully, but had found her office empty, her things gone.  
Odd, and disquieting.  She had arrived late for the meeting, 
done her work in a rush, and left far too early.  Granted, it was 
Friday, but Scully was not the type to cut out early--even before 
a weekend.  

     She'd been cutting out early all week.

     Something was wrong.  He knew it.  Maybe he should 
call, although she was probably fine.  And she'd snap if he 
called to check up on her again.  He'd already called about a half 
hour ago, before deciding to go up in person just now.  But she 
was gone.

     If he tried calling again, could he relate his call to 
another small point in the case?  Surely  he could, and kill two 
birds  . . . and disturb what little weekend she had.

     He glanced back at the last lab report in the file, and it 
blurred before him.  He looked at the ceiling, back at his desk, 
and over to the wall, covered in articles and photographs.  And 
his poster.  

     He contemplated it for a minute.  He was no longer so 
sure it held true.

     Sighing, he started to pack his stuff into his briefcase 
as well.  He'd finish reviewing this at home.  He couldn't 
concentrate here, anyway.  He grabbed the case, and grabbed his 
jacket, and overbalanced, falling against the wall.  Damn.  He'd 
ripped his poster.  Not badly, but a little.  Oh, well, he'd fix it 
later.   He turned and left the office as a corner of the poster 
floated slowly to the floor.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, November 15, 1997
3:35 p.m.
J. Edgar Hoover Building.
Office of Asst. Director Walter S. Skinner

     "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully."

     "Sir."

     "Thank-you for coming on such short notice this 
afternoon.  I apologize for the confusion.  I'm reassigning the All 
Saint's File."

     "But sir, reports have just come in of another  two . . ."

     "Because of the frequency of deaths, there had been 
some concern as to risk towards other government officials and 
employees.  However, that worry has since been put to rest, and 
the priority of this file has been lowered.  I am sorry for the 
inconvenience, but I will want the file returned to be reassigned 
later.  You can return the file to me at your convenience as long 
as it is here by the end of the week.  But Mulder," and here 
Skinner paused to look at directly at the agent, "you are behind 
in several of your assignments.  Therefore I am not immediately 
reassigning you to a case--so you may feel free to work on 
whatever you think needs to be done for the remainder of the 
month.  Dismissed."

     As they left, impassively surprised, Skinner turned to 
open his window a crack, despite the chill.  He shivered slightly, 
but his office needed to be aired.  He'd always hated the smell of 
cigarettes.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
3:52 p.m.

     "So, what do you think that was all about?  I thought 
you were caught up with all your paperwork, Mulder."  She 
gazed at him piercingly.

     "Hey, don't look at me like that!  I *am* finished, 
Scully.  I'm wounded you'd doubt me."  He looked at her with 
the tragic expression of someone cut to the quick.  She snorted.  
"Although, maybe," he suggested wickedly, "*you're* the one 
not finished?"  

     She didn't dignify that with an answer.

     "So, Scully, what *do* you think it means?  It's almost 
like he's telling us to do whatever we want . . ."

     "Skinner giving us carte blanche; will wonders never 
cease."  She grinned, his mood infectious.

     "Stop it, Scully, you're giving me ideas."  A playful 
leer, the requisite look.  "You know what I think?"  He ignored 
her soft groan.  "I think he wants us to investigate this case.  
He's practically given us his blessing."

     "Mulder . . . honestly.  I haven't had time to look at the 
file properly, and can't make sense of it.  It's tragic, but people 
die, and sometimes--sometimes it's uncertain as to why."  She 
sighed.  "It's been reassigned, Mulder; just let it go."  God, she 
was tired.

     "I don't buy it, Scully.  Thirteen people--oh, we got 
another two reports in, late yesterday and this morning--all share 
the same unexplained manner of death.  Look."  They were back 
in the basement; he strode in quickly and sat down, not even 
glancing behind to see if she followed.

     He spread the file out on the desk, continued.  "The 
first was in Madison.  A quiet high school teacher.  Then 
Chicago.  Dr. Colleen Sommers, a paediatrician.  The librarian 
in Detroit.  The engineer who had just began his fifth year 
working for the City of Akron.  A fourteen-year old boy in 
Cleveland who wanted to be a doctor when he grew up.  A nurse 
in Buffalo.  Kenneth Jones, an accountant employed by the 
State of New York found mysteriously dead in his downtown 
Rochester apartment.  Mr. Kevin Thatcher, college professor 
and resident of Albany.  Taught environmental studies.  Dr. 
Karen Steinberg, orthodontist with a thriving practice in Boston.  
Christopher Wells, a graduate student in immunology, down 
from Princeton, visiting family in Providence.  Senator 
Matheson's niece in Manhattan, a children's book editor who 
died Friday afternoon in Queens in a similar way and after lunch 
I got an e-mail from the guys that a second-grader named 
Caroline was reported dead on Long Island early this morning."  
He looked up from the folder.  "There you go.  Scully?  You 
feeling okay?"

     She nodded.  He looked at her sharply for a moment, 
chose not to comment on the dark circles under her eyes that 
even make-up could not conceal.  "Not much of a pattern, it 
seems except for the nature of the victims--all young, healthy, 
successful.  Even the kids were all A students.  All the adults 
were professionals, worked in the service sector, all lived in 
major cities, most of them in the east.  Most had some 
connection to the government, directly or indirectly.  All the 
adults volunteered, or contributed generously to charity.  Even 
the little girl had just taken part in a charity play with her 
Brownie troop.  Cause of death inexplicable in each case, 
except."

     "Except?"

     "Except, Scully, for a strange mark on the collarbone 
of each victim, rather like a birthmark that appears a good hour 
post mortem.  Medical personnel are baffled."  He smirked at 
her, but she didn't say anything.  "Scully?"

     "Yeah, Mulder, just drifting a little.  Sorry--I did get 
all that."

     "And there have been no reports of death on Sunday, 
although, as far as I know, Thanatos doesn't usually take a day 
of rest."  No response.  He sighed. "Anyway, I've been doing a 
little digging.  Look at this.  A lawyer in Los Angeles died under 
exactly the same circumstances.  As did a medical researcher in 
Sacramento, a politician in Austin, and a newspaper reporter in 
Salt Lake City."

     "Well, why aren't any of those in the file?"

     "Well, that's because those murders occurred in the 
first week of November, 1988.  10 years ago, Scully.  10 years 
ago."

     She didn't even want to think about how long he'd been 
here last night.  "How can you be sure, Mulder, that they're 
related?  I'm pretty sure that there's no recording of anything 
unusual anywhere in the old file."

     "Yes, but all of these reports note the birthmark.  And 
in every case, it's exactly the same, a large red apple-shaped 
splotch on the left side below the collarbone."

     "Apple-shaped?"

     "That's what it looks like . . . 'and the fruit of that 
forbidden tree' . . .".  He grinned.

     "'Whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and 
all our woe'.  I took English in undergrad too, Mulder.  So, have 
you reached a conclusion yet?  Some way to make this into a 
report-editing nightmare?"

     "Not yet."  He smirked unrepentantly, then sobered.  
"But last night I had a phone call.  Someone who warned me I 
would get this case and that I should refuse to take it.  But I've 
never been that obliging, Scully."  A wicked grin now, with an 
almost undetectable trace of concern coupled with anxiety.  
Undetectable, certainly, for anyone that knew him less well than 
his present audience.

     "Well, Mulder, book us tickets.  I guess we fly out to 
Chicago or something on Monday?"  She tried not to sound 
hopeful.

     "Long Island, Scully--I think that we should work 
backwards, from where the clues are freshest.  No point in going 
today--I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at eight."  His voice 
was unusually gentle.  

     "Fine, Mulder, whatever you want.  I'll be upstairs if 
you need me."

     After all, it was only Saturday.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, November 16, 1997
Annapolis, MD
7:38 a.m.

     Scully sat bolt upright.  Rather than waking, as usual, 
just a few moments before her alarm went off for the morning, 
she had slept in.  While her hatred of morning was not a secret, 
this was getting silly.  She never slept in.  The past few days--
well, weeks, had been different.  Besides the occasional pain, 
she'd been feeling unusually disturbed in the mornings, more 
than just your too-little-sleep, too-much-to-do morning anxiety.  
To top it all off, she'd been waking not just tired, but exhausted, 
as if her nights had actually depleted rather than refreshed her.

     Silly, really.  Probably she was just a little depressed 
or stressed or something.  She'd been thinking a lot about 
Missy, lately, and about her father.  And about the track her life 
had taken.  She'd been pouring so much into work--into the 
project that a few years ago had seemed to be a bit of a frivolous 
assignment, one she'd been hoping would be short-term.  She 
almost had to laugh at herself back then:  ambitious, far younger 
than she was now, dreaming of stellar recommendations and a 
quick reassignment to something more career-enhancing.  Never 
thinking about the work itself, not really.  Not what she was 
doing, and what it meant to be doing it.  Not like she did now, 
every day.

     But she also resented what her life had become.  When 
had she become the X-files agent, the partner who would leave 
to go across country on a fine Sunday morning without a second 
thought?  Before, she had been a woman who enjoyed quiet 
lunches with her colleagues, had loved going to the theatre or 
reading a good book, had made sure she went home for dinner 
with her mother every other week.

     No longer.  Now work consumed most of her life, and 
mundane chores the rest.  When she was not working, she was 
content to simply stay at home, doing little or nothing.   Sure, 
she still went out for lunch or dinner every so often, and tried to 
see her mother when she could, but now even those occasions 
were few and far between.

     She did not know when she had begun to put so much 
time into work.  She could lie to herself and say that was the 
nature of the 'Files, and that would be true, to an extent, but not 
wholly.  She could say that Mulder was an extremely demanding 
partner, and that too would be true, to an extent.  But in the end, 
it had been her choice.  She let Mulder demand things of her, 
she let work dominate her life, and she gave up the dinners and 
the theatre tickets.  She was not sure why.  Escape perhaps; at 
first because of her father, and later with Missy . . . throw in a 
small part revenge.

     And then, of course, there was Mulder:  who could 
really refuse him anything?  She smiled, and then sighed.  Too 
many could.  Too often, too many did.

     Whether or not he deserved it.

     In the end, though, it was, always had been, her own 
choice.  She just wasn't sure that it wasn't time to change her 
mind a little.  She really was getting tired of not having a life, of 
not having simplicity.  Warmth and friendship.  Maybe 
something more.  She missed that--for all the fact that really, 
even when on those rare occasions when she did go out for 
lunch these days with any of her old acquaintances, all she 
could think of was the latest case, the piles of paperwork, 
laundry she'd rather be doing, what Mulder would think and say 
about her inane luncheon companion . . .  she really needed a 
life.

     But that did not solve the real problem, she thought, 
steeling herself as she rolled out of bed and walked softly to the 
bathroom.  I really am unusually tired.  Maybe I should go see 
someone.  If it gets any worse, she vowed to her rational mind, I 
will.

     In the other half of her mind she knew she wouldn't, 
although it *had* been getting steadily worse.  As it was, she 
loathed the monthly monitoring appointments she was still 
compelled to make.  And because, in her heart, she knew there 
was no easy, medically treatable problem attributable to her 
current symptoms.

     Besides, Dana Scully, B.Sc.(Hons.), Ph.D., MD., 
Special Agent with the FBI, had always hated going to the 
doctor.  

     She looked at her watch.  Man, she was sluggish this 
morning.  Didn't help that every one of her muscles, for no 
reason she could fathom, screamed protest.  There was no help 
for it though--she was going to be very, very late.  Maybe she 
could ask Mulder to pick up some coffee as a delaying tactic 
before he came by to pick her up--she hated snide comments 
about women and morning preparation. 

     She looked at her hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror, 
and sighed.  Makeup would be very necessary this morning, 
despite the time.  Couldn't go to New York looking like a 
wreck.  And it definitely wouldn't do to let Mulder see her like 
this.

     Even in the most secret recesses of her mind, she 
would not acknowledge the cause of her restless nights, nor the 
disturbing images that lingered behind burning eyes.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 18, 1997
11:26 a.m.
Long Island, NYC

     With luck, she'd be home in a couple of hours.  The 
investigation into a case they weren't even supposed to be 
working on had led exactly nowhere, and now another little girl 
had disappeared from the same class that Caroline had been in.  
Just this morning--while they were here.  Mulder had taken that 
*real* well.   And there was no trace of the Davidson's youngest 
daughter, Anais.  When they had arrived, they'd been told Anais, 
Caroline Davidson's younger sister, had been missing for over 
three weeks . . . her mother had tucked her in for the night and 
in the morning the child was gone.  And now Caroline was dead 
as well. 

     The parents had been devastated at the loss of both 
their children:  the mother had had a nervous breakdown, and 
the father, a speechwriter for a local Congressional candidate, 
had been unresponsive and uninformative when Scully spoke 
with him, although tears had glinted in his eyes.  The girls had 
been the couple's pride and joy, adopted late in life through the 
aid of a very expensive, very exclusive private agency.  Scully 
had not been able to speak with the mother.  However, the 
interview with the devastated father had been just lovely.  

     What could she tell him?  One daughter was dead, and 
the other--a pretty little girl barely four years old--she had no 
information about.  Kidnapped or runaway, after three weeks 
Scully doubted they'd ever find her, if she was even still alive.  
Against Scully's better judgment, she'd indulged Mulder and 
talked to Missing Persons, checked hospital records, but it was 
a lost cause.  And Mulder had a closed, intense look about him 
that frightened and unnerved Scully, although he'd barely said 
anything at all.  It didn't help that he'd watched her do the 
autopsy on Caroline, a seven-year old who'd had dark hair and 
dark eyes and that even Scully had to admit looked uncannily 
like old photos of Samantha.

     A miserable three days.

     Scully stood, shivering a little in the stiff breeze, 
waiting for Mulder to get back to the motel. Several of the 
officers and agents were also staying there or simply waiting to 
hear the latest, and everyone had ended up converging in the 
courtyard as afternoon approached.  A couple of other agents 
still hung around--a couple of outside agencies as well as the 
local FBI had been involved since technically neither she nor 
Mulder were supposed to be investigating this case--as well as a 
few of the motel's regular patrons.  She just wanted to go home. 

     One of the agents was staring at her.  She refused to 
react.  Hurry, Mulder--tell them we're going and let's get out.  
She hated it here.

     At least she'd been physically feeling better.  And 
unlike Mulder or the last few weeks, she had slept soundly last 
night.  Every cloud . . . thank god, here comes Mulder.  And, 
good grief, he looks happy.   

     "Scully, guess what--we found Jessica.  She was just a 
runaway--nothing more.  Gone to a friend's house instead of to 
school, and she just came home.  Just a prank, Scully, just a 
prank."

     There was a smile plastered all over his face, full of 
exuberance and relief.  And he wasn't thinking.

     He came up to her, and grabbed her by the waist; there, 
in full view of everyone.  And giving her a quick hug, he leaned 
forward to kiss her.  It was brief, impulsive, and so natural.  For 
a moment she felt herself lean forward in response.  Then she 
stopped, and pushed against him.  He let her go, and she looked 
at him.  The whole episode had lasted mere seconds.  The only 
one that probably even saw was that leering agent, and she was, 
in a way, glad that he witnessed it.

     But then she looked around, and while the officers had 
left and the other agent was engaged in conversation with the 
motel owner, other people *were* staring, she thought, and she 
didn't want to make a scene.  But the damage had been done.  
The awkwardness between them was apparent, and she wouldn't 
meet his eyes.  Thoughts in turmoil, she did have the presence of 
mind to smirk at the offensive agent, to pretend as if the whole 
thing had been staged  for his greasy benefit.  Then she turned 
and went inside, walked into her room, closed the door.  Pulled 
out some forms and let the mindless checking of boxes absorb 
her mind.

     When he knocked on her door a few minutes later, 
after he'd talked to the agents and they'd left, she debated not 
letting him in.  But that would've been childish.  She sighed.  
They had to talk.  Quietly she opened the door and stood aside.
     
     And she read the answer in his eyes.  They were filled 
with regret, and embarrassment.  But clear.  No sorrow, no 
hidden love.  Nothing more than simply the Mulder she had 
always known, and nothing of the man she sometimes thought 
she saw.  Regret at having caused her any discomfort, however 
minor.

     Nothing more.  

     As he apologized,  quickly, awkwardly, and as she 
accepted his apology with a laugh and a pithy summary of the 
annoying Agent Barnes, she kept up the constant lecture in her 
mind.  You're better off, Scully, she told herself.  You could 
barely handle taking care of a dog, and Mulder's a lot more 
involved.  And as for commitment . . . well, you've returned your 
toaster for a microwave and the microwave for a toaster oven 
within the space of three weeks.  And you're still not happy with 
the appliance.  For heaven's sake, you can't commit to a toaster 
oven, much less a relationship.  Nothing even happened, 
anyhow.  It's better this way.  Really.  

     And she resolutely ignored the part of her spirit that 
cried out at having lost what she would never know.  

     Heart's desire unrealized.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
End Part 1 of 21.
__________________________________________________



*********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 2:  House of Cards (Part 2/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously disclaimed)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter II--House of Cards

And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth 
them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his 
house upon the sand:

And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds 
blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell and great was the 
fall of it.

--Matthew 7:26-27
__________________________________________________

Friday, November 21, 1997
Alexandria, VA
10:58 p.m.

     Mulder sat on a chair, TV turned low, glass of scotch 
in hand.  The twenty-first of November.  The final month of 
autumn.  

     His sister's birthday.

     One week later, 24 years ago, she had been taken.  And 
so he was allowed to be miserable, to give in to sadness.  

     He had sufficient cause, he mused.  The past few days 
had been, frankly, terrible.  Rain, cold, a touchy partner, a 
resistant police force, no proper authorization and hence a lack 
of adequate resources.  Flight delays and baggage mixups.  
Basically no clues or evidence.  And the deaths had continued, 
one a day.  

     Nothing.

     Not only had they not been able to find anything, but it 
got worse.  The Davidson's other daughter had simply vanished, 
and there was nothing they could do.  Although they'd talked to 
Missing Persons, the agent they'd spoken to had merely 
shrugged his shoulders and shown him the new list of missing 
persons for the current week.  It was New York.

     The sweetest looking kid, the poster girl for innocence 
and beauty.  Gone.  Probably dead, by now.  Or worse.  Only 
four, a baby.  Anais.  Gone, just like . . . it gave him a headache 
to let his thoughts dwell on it, however briefly.

     No answers.

     And the death toll piled up--a high school senior, a 
young mother, another child--a two year old infant, for God's 
sake, had all been killed *while* they had been investigating.  
Besides the psychologist and the architect.  Mulder did not 
doubt that they were all murdered, although Scully still argued 
about even that, when she talked to him at all.

     Because of course there had been his huge blunder.  
Scully hadn't been returning his calls all week either, unless 
they were specifically work related.  Even though she hadn't said 
she was angry and hadn't seemed upset when he'd dropped her 
off late Tuesday afternoon--on the contrary, she had been 
excruciatingly polite and professional.  They'd both taken the 
day off today, although he thought she might have gone in at 
some point to pick up the paperwork they should've been doing.  

     He still couldn't believe what he'd done.  It was the 
stress, and the child, and the dream . . . and the fact that she 
hadn't noticed how tense he was as she usually did.  And that he 
missed her--she'd been so distracted and distant lately.  He'd just 
been so desperately happy in that one second. . .  he couldn't 
explain it.  He'd always been so careful--for so many years and 
months and days.  Even though lately he'd been thinking about . 
. . but he couldn't stand to lose her friendship.  It was all he had.  
He gulped down liquid warmth.

     And the other kid, Caroline, the 7 year old--he 
shuddered and drank another shot.  She had haunted his dreams, 
albeit fleetingly.  Not that he didn't like variation, he though 
bleakly.  Can't become predictable or anything.  But he had 
dreamt of her before he ever saw her picture.

     Caroline Rachael.  His mother's name had been 
Rachael.

     His mother, whom he'd buried less than six months 
ago.

     In New York he'd finally seen a picture of the child, 
with her family.  Had felt almost faint when he saw it.  A whole 
family now wiped out.  Just like that.  Without any suspects at 
all.  No leads, nothing.  He couldn't have done the interview 
with the father, and had been grateful Scully'd offered to do it.

     But the part that shook him was the recognition.  
Because his reeling mind recognized the girl in the picture to be 
the one he'd dreamed of.   Noting, dispassionately, that he'd 
dreamed of her the very night before her death.  
     
     In his dream, she'd been very alive, very young.  And 
Mulder, unlike his normal persona, had not felt awkward around 
this very serious little girl with her dark, dark hair and her 
startling indigo eyes.  And then she'd smiled at him, and he'd felt 
himself warmed from the inside out.  Felt himself smile in 
response.

     She'd been in a room with a single light, building a 
castle of cards; a child's game, a simple pastime of precision and 
creativity.  And he'd walked up to the table to take a better look.

     And bumped into it.  The cards shook, and the whole 
structure caved in.  

     But the child said nothing.  Merely looked at him, eyes 
dark and full of sorrow and reproach.
     
     And through the deathly silence, he could almost hear 
Sam's voice calling his name.

     Then he'd woken up.  

     Over a whole week ago, and he still couldn't erase the 
image of those eyes.

     He'd been so upset when he saw the picture, he hadn't 
even been able to think about it while he was in New York.  
Couldn't have spoken of it there.

     Even so the knowledge was there, hovering 
malignantly.  Stress and worry and intense relief combined--the 
whole trip had drained him.  And then, when he'd returned, he'd 
wanted to mention it to Scully, needed to mention it.  Needed 
desperately to hear her laugh at him, putting it into perspective 
as mere silliness.  Dismissing it so that he too could dismiss it 
and forget.

     Soulful dark eyes in a narrow child's face.

     But there'd been no chance to bring it up, and he hadn't 
even been able to reach Scully at all today.  It was unlike her--a 
small, insecure part of him feared that maybe she was so mad at 
him that she didn't want to talk to him.  But that wasn't Scully--
if she was angry, he'd have known.  

     And not only did he need to hear her voice, he was also 
really worried; she hadn't looked well and had been acting 
strangely all week.  She'd looked better in New York, for sure, 
but he still wasn't convinced something wasn't wrong.  She'd 
been disorganized--not so you'd notice, but less than her normal 
efficiency, and she'd been staying home whenever possible for a 
couple of weeks now.  She'd come in later than usual, leave 
earlier, and, come to think of it, would barely talk to him unless 
she had to.  He *hadn't* noticed at first, but now . . .it was just 
this side of alarming, and past upsetting.  He turned his mind 
away from that train of thought as well.

     And so, tonight, there was nothing to impede the flow 
of his solitary thoughts.  The thoughts that returned, on this day 
of all days, to Samantha, and his loss.

     Technically, Mulder had heard the tapes of himself and 
knew there was probably nothing he could've done that would've 
changed anything.  And he had felt better after hearing them.  
Until then, his greatest fear was that everyone was right--
someone had kidnapped or killed his little sister, and he had 
merely watched and done nothing.  He had almost convinced 
himself that they were right.

     It helped to know that his memory of that night was 
clear.  That he hadn't hid or run and just let his sister be taken.  
Or worse yet, invited them in.

     That there was nothing he could have done. That the 
events had been impossible to change.  No one could have 
helped.

     That he had been young--barely twelve--and scared, 
and unable to move.  That They had arranged it that way.  
     
     But a part of his mind whispered that those were 
simply excuses.  It was the part of his mind, of himself, that 
believed in finding the truth because it could be found.  The part 
that believed in self-reliance, in being strong despite adversity.

     The part that secretly scoffed at the drunkard on the 
street, noting the difference between he and himself and 
believing, however, wrongly, that there was a reason in that 
difference.  A self-determined reason.  That you really did 
control your own life; shape, to some extent, your own destiny.  
And given that this was so, if you do control your life, if you 
choose to fulfill the role you play, if victims in some way allow 
themselves to be victimized--well, then, all those years ago he 
could've done something.  

     He had taken the classes--he had several degrees, for 
heaven's sake.  He understood all about social factors and family 
background and cycles of abuse and accepting that things 
happened that were simply beyond control.  Still.

              He and Sam had been very close as children, and he 
had loved his sister with all the intensity of a young boy.  
Pretending indifference yet, when it came to the test, hating 
anything that caused her pain.

     If only he had tried harder, wanted it more, not been so 
angry with his sister because she hated to lose so badly.  His 
sister Samantha, who had never once lost a game of Stratego.  
To anyone.

     The same superior, favoured kid sister that was 
irritated by the smug, obnoxious brat he had been.  The boy who 
had tried to be what his father had wanted; the boy who tried to 
be smarter, and faster, and better than everyone else.  Even if it 
would never be enough.

     The boy who hated to lose, and the sister who always 
deserved to win.

     The younger sister whom, his father had told him, 
lectured him, yelled at him, it was his duty to look after.  Before 
she was taken.

     His beloved only sister whom he had been raised to 
protect.

     Whom he had let go.

     In fact, although he was older, he was not much 
different from the obnoxious young man he had once been.  He 
knew it was wrong.  In many ways, he had been a victim as 
much as Sam, and self-blame was a classic response.

     Knowing this didn't change how he felt.  Or the voice 
that told him, still, that all the rationalization and psychology 
classes and whining in the world couldn't change reality--that 
often, things were not done simply because those with the 
power to act didn't *want* things done badly enough.

     And he had to ask how badly, that night, had he really 
wanted to save his baby sister?  The question echoed in his 
brain, over and over, despite the haze of alcohol and exhaustion.  
Because he could not answer it, because he did not know.

     The fact is, it is impossible to analyze your own 
subconscious.  Even if you are the only one who can.  And so, 
he would never know.  But even the possibility that there was 
something more that he could've done--or even tried to do--was 
enough.

     He had *wanted* to believe, to believe the reassuring, 
insidious voice that told him to do nothing.  And that, that 
simple moment of desire--that was the rub.  It was for that 
moment he cursed himself every day.

     Because when the voice faded and the horror sunk in, 
it was too late.

     It always was.
     
     The phone rang, he reached over to grab the receiver, 
and a deep, garbled voice issued two words.  "Meet me."  The 
line went dead.  Standing, grabbing his jacket, Mulder left the 
apartment.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere
1:24 a.m.

     On a deserted street, a tall man stooped down to talk 
through an open car window.  The empty silence eerily 
magnified the low sibilance of the harsh words.

     "What's so important about this file?  What aren't you 
telling me?"  Mulder was exasperated and infuriated.

     "You'll see, Agent Mulder.  There are those that do not 
want you to have this information.  But this is important."  

     "How?  How can one woman be this crucial?"

     "You will do what you will, Agent Mulder.  I cannot 
give you any further information.  But  . . . she is next in the 
pattern.  And that is the key."

     "And, Agent Mulder?"  Mulder looked up sharply.  "If 
I were you, I'd look after your partner.  She's not . . . well."

     "What do you mean by that?  Answer me!"

      But Mulder was talking to air.  The car had driven off, 
and Mulder could not catch it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
2:18 a.m.
Alexandria, VA

     Later, in his apartment, Mulder opened the file he had 
been given.   To find within it four newspaper clippings and a 
single photograph.

     The first clip was from a small town paper and dated 
September 18, 1975.  And the article chilled his blood.  A 
picturesque little place near Buffalo.  Mapleton.  A missing 
child case had local police baffled, and had turned a small town 
where you knew your neighbours and joked about big city crime 
into a place of fear and silence.  In a single night.  No witnesses, 
no evidence.  Nothing.  Just a child put to bed at night, and no 
longer there come morning.  A nine-year old girl named Colleen.

     She had wanted to be a doctor when she grew up.

     The second article was dated exactly one year later.  
The young girl had been found, wandering the streets of 
Mapleton, a block from her home.  She had no memory of who 
she was.  Her parents, Dr. and Mrs. Sommers of Mapleton, did 
not wish to speak with the reporter further, except to say how 
happy they were at their daughter's return.

     The second article was from a Cleveland paper five 
years previous.  A young boy had been walking home from 
school but never arrived.  The picture was a younger version of 
Colin Harrison, the teenaged fifth victim in the case.

     And the last article was about Kara Matthews.  An 
article from over two decades ago.  June 14, 1976.  Kara had 
disappeared one evening while her parents were at a charity 
function out of town.  The nanny could not recall what had 
happened.  There was a media ban on all further details.  
Stapled to the article was a copy of a police report, stating that 
the child had been found and the case should be closed.  The 
report was signed and dated June 28, 1976.
          
          The last thing in the envelope was the picture; 
scrawled across it were three India ink words, "She is next."

     He looked at the picture, and the image of a pretty 
young woman with haunted eyes imposed itself on his brain.

     Not yet over.

     He rose and shrugged on his jacket.  He'd find this 
woman, and maybe, just maybe, he'd find some answers.  
Maybe.

     The clock on his wall clicked loudly.  3 a.m.  Already 
early Saturday.  If this woman really was next, her time was 
running out.  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, November 22, 1997
3:25 p.m.
Annapolis, Maryland

     Scully turned over in the bed, and every muscle 
screamed with fire.  She didn't understand it--she'd never felt 
like this before.  And worse yet, although she must have 
basically slept for almost eighteen hours--she'd been out cold 
until about eleven this morning, and her memory was a bit hazy; 
she had probably taken some of that detestable cold remedy in 
her cupboard last night, she supposed--she did not feel better.  
She'd not even been able to get up to answer the phone this 
afternoon; the pain had been intense and she felt feverish.

     But nothing, physically, was actually wrong, no more 
than usual.  Nothing to account for this.  Her cancer was still in 
remission according to her last monthly, and her bloodwork had 
been clean.  Just to double-check, she had even made herself 
beg an extra appointment from Laura, an old friend from med 
school, now an internist with a thriving practice in the heart of 
Georgetown.  Despite the short notice, Laura had fit her old 
first-year housemate into her busy Monday afternoon schedule; 
the appointment was for noon the day after tomorrow.

     She'd made herself book the appointment, although she 
had felt more or less fine the last few days--even if she hadn't 
slept in her own bed at all the whole week.  She and Mulder had 
been flying or, to keep down the unauthorized expenses--ugh, 
that's going to take a *lot* of imagination come report time, she 
told herself--going on interminable drives back and forth 
between various cities.  They'd been trying to interview the 
families of the victims in the All Saint's case and, as a result, 
she'd ended up spending even more nights than she'd ever cared 
to sleeping on a grungy motel mattress.  The only exception was 
Wednesday, when she'd had to do all the backed-up autopsies 
she'd been assigned, which had ended up with her being stuck 
late at the office.  Not wanting to drive all the way home, she'd 
managed to get to her mother's who, about a year ago, had 
moved from Baltimore to a trendy little condo in the Adams 
Morgan area--a conveniently short drive from the Hoover 
Building.  Hmm, Dana, maybe you should consider moving too, 
she thought to herself, yeah, great idea--just as soon as you get 
some time.

     And the week had been simply wonderful, starting with 
New York--three days of an exercise in frustration.  A family 
who had lost two children in the space of a month, the seven 
year old dead of unknowable causes and a 4 year old girl who 
had vanished completely.  A cute enough child:  tiny, with 
strawberry-blond curls and dark blue eyes.  Not even the 
satisfaction of a cause of death, or the knowledge of what had 
happened to either child.

     The picture in the file was a family photo, taken in the 
summer, with the smaller girl standing beside her darker sister.  
Both with those amazing blue eyes, despite the fact that the two 
children weren't really blood relations.  The sister Caroline, who 
had simply gone into convulsions during an afternoon at school.  

     The same thing had happened with every victim.  
Convulsions and death.  No poison in the bloodstream, no 
disease or other physiological condition, no medically 
discernible cause of death.  Just death.  

     Death without reason.

     She sighed, and the lonely, painful image of an 
innocent woman, dying slowly of cancer, flashed through her 
brain.

     With no leads, and nothing to go on, Mulder had 
finally agreed to cut their losses and return home.  They'd 
arrived back in D.C. from Savannah, where the last reported 
death had occurred, late Friday morning.  By mutual consent, 
they'd taken the day off.  Mulder, who hadn't been sleeping well, 
looked ready to drop, and Scully was more than happy to have a 
day to herself.

     The deaths would continue regardless, she knew.  
They'd made no headway into the case at all, and Scully was 
simply grateful that the killer took at least Sunday off.  To be 
honest, she needed the break too.

     Scully moved again, slowly, to minimize pain.  She'd 
been dreaming, too, of late--similar to nightmares about her 
abduction, but more vivid, more clear, less substantial.  Thank 
God she'd slept well at the motel; the last thing she needed was 
Mulder worried about her where she could not avoid him.  The 
dreams had returned, though, to plague her weekend.  
Nightmares of horror and darkness, the kind she had been trying 
to block out; but lying here, weak, tired though not at all sleepy, 
it seemed her mind would not obey her dictates.  This last had 
been the worst.  

     It was a nightmare of abduction, like the others but 
different.  She lay on a table, bound in a spread-eagle position.  
The most vulnerable of positions.  Completely open, completely 
defenseless.  She had vowed to give them no satisfaction.  

     The first thing she felt was the blood, wet and sticky 
down the side of her leg.  And then, a splintering pain.  
Suddenly, the whole right side of her body felt like it was on 
fire:  a searing, scorching pain.  The world was pain, with 
nothing to counter it.

     She had not screamed aloud, although her mind did so 
silently.  She did not let out the constant whimper of her heart, 
or at least she thought she did not.  Because she was Dana 
Katherine Scully, and Dana Katherine did not scream.  Did not 
whimper.  Did not beg.  But it began to matter less and less, 
until finally even pride, even self, even love and hope could not 
hold out in that dark place of pain, and fear, and despair.  

     And she began to scream, not caring, desperately 
praying for someone, anyone to hear her.  The horrible sound of 
her own cries reverberating in the windowless room.  But as her 
vocal cords gave out, the screams became fainter and fainter, and 
the hope that someone would hear her became less and less.  
Until she began to think herself mad.  Until she began to think 
she would do anything they asked.  Anything to stop the pain.  
To control the fear.  Anything.  Because, in the dream, she no 
longer believed in hope.

     Then, with gratitude, the numbing black.

     And then the dream faded, and began again.  But not a 
repeat of before, slightly different.  As if the They in her dream 
began the torture anew when she returned to awareness.

     The worse part of the dream was her own loss of self.  
Control, which she valued more than anything in this world, 
being stripped from her in the haze of drugs and pain.  Being 
kept marginally aware, but unable to move, and often delirious.  
The minutes blending into endless hours, marked only by 
periods of pain, and periods of passivity.  Time passing without 
meaning, she who lived by her wristwatch.  Being fed 
intravenously; all bodily functions beyond her conscious 
thought.  Feeling as if her body was no longer hers, and, worse 
yet, as if her mind would soon cease to be as well.

     And this would continue, all the night through.  She 
did not wake, which was odd, but she did remember.  At first 
vaguely, and now, more and more clear.

     Must be some strange sort of mild delirium, she 
decided, or a weird reaction to that generic cold remedy she'd 
taken, although she couldn't remember doing so--nevertheless, 
she was going to throw out the remaining bottle ASAP.

     Although this morning, when she woke, she woke to 
pain all along her left leg.  And a long mark, faint and white but 
straight as a ruled line along her calf.  A mark she did not 
remember having been there before.

     A mark like a healing scar.

     Mulder had called that afternoon, frantic.  Wanting to 
know where she was, although he tried to hide the concerned 
tone.   She had not known how to answer him; lied and said 
she'd been visiting her mother.  She'd been using that excuse a 
lot lately, and wondered if he was suspicious.  Apparently he 
had tried several times Friday evening and she had not 
answered.  She said she hadn't had her cell phone on either and 
had turned the phone off immediately after coming home.  
Unusual behaviour for her, granted, but she said she'd needed 
some time to relax away from everything.

     She swallowed the guilt.  She was well aware that last 
night had been, could have been, Samantha's birthday.

     She didn't mention it.  Neither did he.

     They made small talk for a few minutes and then she 
said she had to go.  She hung up the phone carefully, a frown 
creeping across her features.  He had sounded odd, as if he 
didn't quite buy her explanation.   Before he said good-bye, he'd 
asked if everything was all right.  That was very unlike Mulder.  
She shook herself mentally.  Jeez, Dana, now you're paranoid.  
Why wouldn't Mulder believe you?  Of course he does.  

     Melissa, she thought wistfully.  The stray, unwanted 
thought.  Missy might have understood.

     She turned her mind forcefully away.  This was 
ridiculous.  She merely had a cold.  A bad one, to be sure, but it 
would be gone by morning.  Of course.

     Dana Scully moved again, reached for the remote 
control.  She turned on the television, and found a mindless 
sitcom.  Cranking up the volume, she let the whine of spoiled 
television children drown out the fear in her mind.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Washington, D.C.
11:23 p.m.

     Margaret Scully slowly got ready for bed, thinking 
over the events of the day.  It had been a quiet day: a day for 
reading and cleaning and conversing with friends.  A day when 
she had not pushed herself to do very much, because she'd had a 
vaguely uneasy feeling all day.  She sighed as she turned down 
the coverlet.

     She'd had an upsetting dream the night before.  She'd 
dreamt of a child, a tiny child with masses of red-gold curls and 
a daintily upturned nose.  Fragile, delicate, exquisite.  An 
achingly beautiful little girl.  In a way, the small girl reminded 
her of her own two daughters, one now buried, and the other . . . 
well, Dana was very busy nowadays.

     It had not been an unpleasant dream, just--
disconcerting, maybe.  There had been the child, and she had 
been sitting, and playing.  With a deck of cards.  And then she'd 
laughed, a free, clear laugh, and had said her name was Anais.  
She seemed so happy, so innocent.  

     But then she had looked up, and with eyes like the 
blue of a darkening sky had said, very seriously.  "It's too late, 
for me.  I played too long, and now it's too late.  They'll look 
after me now."

     And the moment passed, and the child giggled, but this 
time it did not seem to Margaret that the sound held the same 
sweetness as before.  And the child said, "I know your daughter, 
Dana.  I like her.  She's not like me, but she could've been.  
She's too old, they say.  It's hard to change when you're older, I 
guess."

     The little girl fell silent, and then suddenly she threw 
the whole pack of cards in the air.  She ran around, screaming 
and giggling her high-pitched giggle while the cards all swirled 
and fell to the ground.  Swiftly she bent, and lifted up a single 
card to show to Margaret.  

     "Here it is!  I've found it!  My favorite card in the 
whole pack."

     And Margaret looked at the scrupulously detailed card 
held in the fine-boned little hand.

     The Queen of Spades.

     At that Margaret, who had never been superstitious, 
shivered and woke up.  In spite of herself, her heart had been 
pounding.  But she had gotten out of bed, poured a glass of 
water, and come back to sleep.

     And she had resolved to call her only living daughter 
as soon as she could.  In fact, she had tried to call Dana this 
morning.  But there had been no answer, and the beep on the 
machine had been unusually long.

     She was sure everything was fine.  Someone would 
have called if there had been anything wrong.

     Well, she'd break a rule and pester Dana to come spend 
the day tomorrow.  Just because.  She hadn't spoken to Dana for 
several days, and it was high time she found out what that girl 
was up to.  She'd seemed so tired when she'd visited on 
Wednesday.  

     She was probably just concerned because Fox had 
called this morning, asking for Dana.  Come to think of it, he'd 
seemed really confused when she said she hadn't heard from her 
daughter in days.  Almost anxious.  But then again, according to 
Dana, Fox always sounded anxious.  And if anything had been 
wrong, she would've heard from him again.

     But Margaret had never heard him sound like that.  

     She'd call Dana, and maybe invite her over for dinner 
tomorrow night.  Yes, tomorrow night would be fine.  A lazy 
Sunday dinner.  She missed her daughter; when Dana visited 
she was so rushed, and they barely ever spoke lately.

     And then, maybe, she'd see about calling those sons of 
hers.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 2.
__________________________________________________



******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 3:  Queen of Spades (Part 3 of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously disclaimed)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter III--Queen of Spades

She knows not what the curse may be
And so, she weaveth steadily
And little other care hath she . . .

--Lord Alfred Tennyson, "The Lady of Shaalott"
__________________________________________________

Monday, November 24, 1997
J. Edgar Hoover Building
3rd Floor
12:03 p.m.

     Mulder had come up to drop something off at Scully's 
office and found her gathering her things.  Quietly, because she 
hadn't yet noticed him, he watched as she meticulously cleared 
away the top of her desk, organizing and filing.  He wondered if 
she had plans for lunch already.

     He sighed.  He very rarely went anywhere for lunch--it 
was a non-event.  He came; he worked.  When he was hungry, 
he found something to eat.  Scully, on the other hand, always 
had her lunch hour planned out--an errand, a friend, a personal 
appointment or even just a somewhat work-related meeting.  
Never just nothing; always someone she needed to see, someone 
whom she couldn't keep waiting.  He admired her and envied 
her--her easy relationships, the respect she kept.  But maybe she 
was actually free this time.  His investigation into the 
photographed woman was going so badly . . .  He cleared his 
throat.

     "Hey, Scully, here are those reports with my 
authorization.  By the way . . .  you doing anything for lunch?  
Want to order in some pizza?"  He spoke quickly; to his own 
ears, both awkwardly and eagerly.  Okay, Mulder, that was 
wrong.  New York had been *such* a mistake.  What a 
miserable trip.

     Scully looked up and tried to focus on what was going 
on.  She was feeling so off these days.  Mulder . . .  Mulder was 
asking her if she wanted to order in.  For a moment she 
considered telling him 'no'--a guilty pleasure to refuse, to tell 
him that she did have a life beyond this office, beyond the 
obsession.  Wouldn't even be out of the ordinary.  Going out for 
lunch was an indulgence of Scully's, something she tried to do 
for herself once every so often and Mulder knew that.  It let her 
feel connected to the world, to normalcy, to life.  Let her feel 
like she had something of a life left.  But, as usual, that was 
before.

     Lately it was rare she had the time, rarer still she had 
the inclination to do anything so involved in the middle of her 
day.  If she had the time for a lunch, she usually just rushed 
through work and tried to go home early instead.  But today she 
had thought to not just follow the normal routine but rather to 
pick up something at the cafeteria and then stop by Laura's 
office for a couple of tests.  While Scully had done the 
bloodwork herself on Friday and forwarded the lab results to 
Laura's office, Laura had hinted at maybe running a couple of 
the more exotic tests that her oncologist normally didn't run--
and Laura had also said she'd taken a look at Dana's bloodwork 
and consulted with a specialist friend of hers in infectious 
disease research to double-check, discreetly of course.  Scully 
certainly didn't want Mulder along for that.  She opened her 
mouth to refuse.

     But when she saw the hope on Mulder's face, and then 
saw his face fall ever so slightly, she fudged and told him she 
was going out to grab something and invited him along, 
knowing Mulder hated to leave the office midday.  No one was 
more surprised than she when he accepted.

     Well, she was feeling so terrible that maybe it was 
better that she went to see Laura later, she thought.  The whole 
thing was just such a hassle and at this time of day there were 
probably be other patients scheduled anyway, and she knew had 
there been anything at all, it would've shown up in her 
bloodwork.  Instead, she'd drag Mulder over to that tiny diner a 
couple blocks away and get some of their soup.  Homemade and 
hot, it was the kind of comfort food she craved.  No need to put 
Laura to the inconvenience; she'd call to set up an appointment 
for another  day.

     Yes, another day would be much better.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
4:32 p.m.

     By late afternoon, she was convinced she just had 
some sort of nasty stomach flu. 

     Well, she thought, at least I didn't waste my lunch 
going to see Laura--you'd think all that medical school and I 
could've figured this out long ago.  I'm sure it's viral--just a 24 
hour thing.  Probably caught it right after I ran that blood test.

     In fact, she'd felt almost okay this morning, and now 
the fatigue was coming back with the exertion of the day--just 
like a regular flu.  Choking down that soup was almost more 
than she could manage, but necessary with Mulder watching.  
He'd have been suspicious if she hadn't even been able to 
manage that--not answering the phone on the weekend really set 
him off.  Oh, well, she thought to herself.  Live and learn--and I 
still have all this to do before I can leave. 

     The mound of paper on her desk looked distinctly 
unfriendly.

     The office was warm, but she still felt chilly and her 
hands were like ice.  Probably a fever, she thought in disgust, 
trying in vain to read Mulder's tiny scrawl in the margins of the 
report through watery eyes.  Another couple of hours, she told 
herself, if I don't feel well by then, I'm going home regardless.  
Everyone gets sick, Dana--it's simply overwork.  You're just not 
used to being out of commission, but it'll pass soon.  

     Too bad I'm not more like Mulder, she mused.  Last 
time he had a cold, I could hear his sniffles all the way up here.

     She suppressed a grin.  While Mulder hated actual 
injury and chose to suffer such things in a close-mouthed 
silence which frustrated all concerned others, minor ailments he 
gleefully and perversely milked for all he was worth.  She had to 
give him credit, though--even when he was truly ill he never 
willingly took time off work.

     She had caved and taken the aspirin a half-hour ago 
and was hoping it'd kick in soon.  It was only paperwork today--
she didn't think she could've survived doing an autopsy--she had 
dropped by the basement earlier in the afternoon and Mulder 
had been swamped by stacks of it. He had given her some to do, 
but not as much as he usually sloughed off on her, she noted 
gratefully.

     It was just as well she missed the sharp look of 
concern he had sent her, observing the pallor of her lips and the 
faint sheen on her skin.

     Besides, she had her own reports to make, and the 
combination meant she was more than busy enough.  Still, she 
rationalized, I could just as easily do a lot of this at home.

     She ignored the fact that she hated working at home 
unless absolutely necessary.

     She sighed.  Her brother had called, inviting her to 
dinner because he was in town on business, and she'd lied and 
said she had to work late.  I'll go home at five, she told herself.  
That's tons of time, and the rest I can take home.  She returned 
her attention to the file in her hand.  

     By six she felt nauseous and fuzzy.   *Please, not 
again.*  She thought vaguely about taking a cab home, because 
going home was no longer a choice.  She could not work, and 
she did not really feel like driving.  Her stomach had begun to 
scream in agony.  She should, in fact, have gone home over an 
hour ago, but she had begun to feel lethargically weak and 
thought maybe if she waited she would feel a little better.

     It was surprising how intensely this bug worked.  It 
had been a while since she had the flu, and she couldn't 
remember it hitting this hard before.  She'd felt a little better this 
morning, but . . . she sighed.  What dreadful timing.  It had been 
really busy at the office, lately, especially as it was close to year 
end.   What with vacations coming up and an elevated crime 
rate, they had been swamped with extra work.  Extra work that 
did not make time for a cold, or for someone who'd been going 
home early for the past week.  Damn.  She stood.

     And the world tilted.  She sat back down in a hurry.  

     Great.  Dizzy too.  Even better.  I am going to have to 
get a cab; I don't think I can drive.  Hate to leave my car here, 
but such is life.  It was at that decidedly inauspicious moment 
that Mulder decided to poke his head into her office again.

     "Hey, Scully, I just got back from a meeting with 
Skinner.   Guess what?  Scully?"  Mulder noticed with concern 
the flush on pale skin, and the slump to her shoulders.  He also 
noticed how long it took her to respond, far from the crispness 
of her usual self.  When she looked up at him, her eyes 
wandered, unfocused, although her fatigued voice was even and 
clear.

     "Yes, Mulder, I'm listening.  So what now?  And can 
this wait until tomorrow?  I thought I'd go home a little early 
today.  I think I've caught the flu."

     "Sure thing, Scully.  I hear there's quite a bug going 
around.  You gonna be okay?  You want me to do anything for 
you?"  Lame question, but Scully hated leaving unfinished 
business around.  And she looked truly ill.  He wondered 
whether he should offer her a ride home, but didn't think, given 
current circumstances, she would properly appreciate the offer.  
On the other hand, she barely looked capable of standing, let 
alone driving.  Maybe he better walk her to her car, just to make 
sure she was okay.  Yeah, that was a good plan.  If she was truly 
out of it, he could argue with her then.  

     "No, Mulder, I'm fine.   A couple of aspirin and a down 
comforter are all I truly desire at the moment."  A patent glare 
from her at even that query.  Mulder tried to back off, but how 
many times had he been told one of his most irritating traits was 
persistence?  At least he had resisted the opportunity to make a 
joke, he thought defensively.

     "Well, in that case, let me walk you to the lot.  I was 
just planning to run out to get something to eat--I'm starving--
and it'll give me a chance to run a few things by you."

     Wonderful.  Now what.  Mulder would be offended if 
she called a cab now, and she actually didn't feel capable of 
anything so involved as walking, far less driving.  Why was he 
always so hungry anyway?  What now?

     "Actually, Mulder, I have just a couple of things to 
wrap up first, so I'll be a few minutes.  You go ahead.  I'll be in 
early tomorrow morning; we can discuss whatever it is then."  
She prayed Mulder would buy it.

     Being Mulder, and annoying, he didn't.  "That's all 
right, Scully.  I can wait.  I have to glance over this file anyway."

     Rats.  Foiled again.  Now what?  Time to fake it.  She 
stood, gripping the desk tightly, waiting for the world to right 
itself.  There we go.  That wasn't so bad.  Pity everything was so 
dim.

     She walked over to the Mulder blur, feeling a little 
light-headed.  Well, a lot light-headed.  That's okay though.  I 
kind of feel like I'm floating, like nothing's real.  Nod and smile, 
concentrate on walking, and get to the car.  You can call the cab 
from the lot, Dana.  It'll be fine.  One thing at a time.  Let's not 
tax the old brain.  Mulder's hand was on her elbow, and even 
then she almost giggled at her own wit.  Mulder was talking, but 
she couldn't possible focus on him as well as her feet.  She was 
so glad that she didn't have to navigate any stairs.  It would have 
been more than she could handle.  

     They had reached the elevator, when she shivered 
slightly, and then swayed visibly.  *All she wanted to do was lie 
down, maybe she would.*  Everything had gone dark anyway.  
Odd, she thought, I don't think I remember ever having a power 
outage in November before.  But at least with the electricity 
gone I couldn't work anyway, so I don't need to feel bad about 
going home early.  I really need to lie down, though.  Here is 
good.  Just for a moment.  And she began to slide bonelessly to 
the ground.

     Mulder had been watching her like a hawk since they 
left the office; she had been acting so strangely, and standing 
this close to her, he had a strong suspicion she was running a 
fever.  So he was prepared, but no less alarmed, when she began 
to crumple at the elevators.  Even then, dropping the files and 
papers in his left hand with a thud, he barely caught her.  He 
shifted his grip, grabbing her wrist.  Oh, God, she was burning 
up.  No way was he taking her home.  The elevator arrived and 
he dragged her into it, mentally calculating how long it would 
take to get her to the hospital.

     A strong arm was around her, and a voice was talking 
at her, and although she couldn't concentrate on it properly 
enough to understand what it was saying, the arm associated 
with it was preventing her from reaching the ground.  The hand 
gripping her own arm was firm and hard, holding her securely, 
tightly upright, in contrast to the hand at her wrist, which was 
cool and gentle against her skin there and then against her 
cheek.   The voice in her ear was urging her to lean into him, 
and so she gave up the struggle to try and stand on her own, 
letting him support her weight.  Just as soon as the power comes 
back, she thought vaguely, I'll stop leaning on him.  Where was 
he going, though?  She didn't want to go.  She wanted to rest.  
She wanted to go home.  She tried to protest, but he wasn't 
listening.  What was he saying?  They were going too fast, and 
she was so tired.  
 
     She moaned.  "I'm tired, please, can I just stop a minute 
. . . "

     "I know, Scully, it's okay, we're almost there."

     She sighed.  Mulder would be so irritated that she was 
ill.  But there had been nothing he could have done, nothing 
either of them could have done, so what difference did it make?  
But happily he was here, which meant he didn't know and she 
could tell him later.  Somehow, that didn't make sense.  Never 
mind.  She would deal with his anger later, but for the time 
being he was here and in control, and no matter how much she 
didn't want him to have to take care of her she was grateful.  He 
seemed to know what he was doing, and it was easy enough to 
just follow his lead.  She didn't feel up to the task of 
functioning right now and was more than happy to indulge 
Mulder.

     "Come on, Scully, that's it, just a little farther.  It'll be 
okay, we just have to make it to the car."  He wished he could 
bring the car up closer, but didn't want to leave her there.  
Thankfully, he was parked fairly close to the elevator.  He got 
her in the car, despite the fact that she had begun to resist his 
tugging a little and was moaning incoherent words of protest.  
He ran a couple of lights on the way to the hospital.

     The fresh air of the open window seemed to revive her 
a little, because when they stopped, she opened bleary eyes and 
looked around dazedly.  "Where are we Mulder?  I want to go 
home.  Why didn't you take me home?"  

     "Hold still, Scully, we're at the hospital.  You're really 
ill, and I think it'd be best if we got you checked out before I 
take you home, okay?"

     She stiffened at his words, and began to plead.  "No, 
Mulder, I don't want to go.  I want to go home.  You said you'd 
take me home.  Please Mulder, I don't want to stay here.  
Please."

     Nightmares of a cold white room, of green scrubs and 
sharp steel.  Fairfax Mercy.  That sign.  Reality blurred with 
nightmare.  She had been here before.

     She was practically delirious, Mulder thought--Scully, 
consciously, never wailed.  Extremely agitated, she had become 
almost frantic, tearing ineffectually at the seat belt across her 
body.  He reached over to still her hands, murmuring softly to 
her, then calling her name sharply.

     "Scully!  Listen to me for a minute.  Look, we won't 
stay, I just think it's best if someone took a look at you.  Scully.  
Trust me."  He was getting scared.  She seemed really far gone, 
and while he hated upsetting her further, he was convinced this 
was not your average mild flu.   Even if it was, he wanted a 
medical authority to tell him so.  He was trying to keep his voice 
calm and even, comforting, but she was almost screaming in 
panicky little gasps, and she looked like she was going to cry.  

     But he had no choice, and couldn't just take her home.  
He had no idea what could be wrong, and she needed 
professional help.  She had begun to shiver, but for some reason 
even that small movement looked painful.  She had gripped the 
door handle to try to stop the tremors wracking her body, as 
well as to prevent him from opening her door.  But in her 
current state she couldn't resist him at all.

     Then she looked at him, fevered eyes glinting.  
"Mulder, if you believe in me at all, you will take me home."  
And her eyes were intense but clear, for the moment.

     He hesitated, and then, decisively, closed her door.  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 3.
__________________________________________________



******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 4:  Quantities of Sand (Part 4/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously rated and disclaimed)
All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter IV--Quantities of Sand*

Ils marchaient sans savoir l'un vers l'autre
comme la chance quand elle cherche le hasard
deux enfants mis au monde l'un par l'autre
pour jouer les heros d'une histoire . . .

--Eponine, "L'Un Vers L'Autre"
"Les Miserables" (The Musical)

(*from Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter")
__________________________________________________

Monday, November 24, 1997
Annapolis, MD
11:22 p.m.

     It was already past 7 by the time he drove up to her 
apartment, having stopped off at his own first for personal 
essentials.  She'd wanted him to simply drop her off at home, 
but he'd refused flatly, telling her he'd go to get whatever she 
needed but then it was either his place or the hospital.  He 
figured he could watch her in his apartment and still get some 
work done.

     She hadn't argued as much as he'd expected.  Which 
was why he found himself at her apartment, he guessed.  You 
took what you could get, in this life.

     He'd found a can of soup and made her drink some, 
although she'd glared at him and barely drank half of the small 
bowl.  She'd been tired and trying to hide it, and she refused any 
attempt at eliciting an explanation, so he left her alone to go to 
bed and had come out into the living room to see if he couldn't 
get something done.  

     He'd called the Lone Gunmen about an hour ago.  
Checked on her around about 10 minutes before.  And there was 
nothing on television.

     He was just thinking he'd maybe go for a run in spite of 
the burgeoning thunderstorm when the sound chilled his blood.

     He heard a scream, and ran into the bedroom.

     There was no one there.

     The rain slapped against the window pane, the bed was 
rumpled but empty, and the sheets were falling in on themselves.   
As if someone had lain underneath them just recently but had 
been rudely snatched away.   Someone like Scully.

     The curtains billowed in the cool breeze at the 
window.

     There was a breeze at the window.

     A breeze at the window.

     "Please, God", he whispered to himself.  "Please, not 
again."  He ran to the window and looked out through the 
driving rain. The street below was devoid of sound, of 
movement.  Utterly still and silent.  Peaceful.  He bit back the 
bitter taste of panic.

     He ran outside, to the parking lot and the street 
beyond, but there was no sign that anything was wrong 
anywhere other than in his own mind.

     Frantically he searched the room, the apartment, the 
building.  Keeping his mind blank, staving off despair.

     Desperately he searched through rain-slicked streets, 
by foot and then by car; streets that held no sign of any living 
creature, and less so of the only person he wanted to find.

     Nothing.

     Breeze at the window.

     The window.

     He forced himself to move faster.

     Defeated, he returned at past 4 in the morning, 
dripping wet and chilled to the bone.  Back to the empty 
apartment, the empty bed.  It hadn't been long enough to call for 
outside help, not yet.  And since there was nothing left to do, he 
sank to his knees at the side of that bed, dry-eyed and perfectly 
still.

     Somewhere around 5, he fell asleep.

     He woke to the sound of birds chirping and warm 
sunlight on his face.  And the sound of quiet weeping from the 
bed.  He looked up.

     Scully was there, lying there as if she had never left, 
laying on her side, turned away from him.  And she was crying--
very softly, muffling her sobs with the down comforter, but 
crying nonetheless.  He did not think she was aware of him.

     But when he touched her shoulder, she flinched away 
in panic and pain before reacting in more normal fear and 
surprise.  Turning her head to focus wide, frightened eyes on 
his.  And that's when he noticed the two small streaks of blood, 
dark and disgusting, marring the sleeve of the otherwise pristine 
white shirt that she now wore.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 25, 1997
7:25 a.m.

     They had been arguing ever since he woke up, arguing 
for at least the last 15 minutes.  

     He watched her, watched her try to use science to 
explain away what she did not want to hear, what she could not 
accept.  Using it as some kind of mantra, a medieval charm to 
ward away evil.  She hid herself behind conventional science, as 
did so many others.  But a part of her remained curious, 
remained open to the possibility.  He knew her.  She was far too 
honest for anything else.  

     "I don't want to talk about it, you know; I really, really 
don't."

     "I have to know, Scully.  How long has this been going 
on?"

     "I've been having nightmares, Mulder, that's all.  The 
flu and nightmares.  Surely that's not unusual?  Not after all 
that's happened.  A lot of people have nightmares."  Her face 
was rigid, uncompromising.  Angry.

     "Scully . . . "  He ran a frustrated hand through his hair.  
Getting angry in return would not help.  She was just scared, 
and feeling out of control and helpless.  Denial was a coping 
method, he knew that.  Still, she couldn't just refuse to deal with 
this.  Couldn't just deny that anything was going on.  

     Her fever, which had faded earlier last night, was back 
up.  Her eyes glinted with it.  By now Mulder had no doubt why 
and he was sure that she knew also.  This was the reason she 
hadn't wanted to go to the hospital.  Confirmation of your 
darkest fears was a frightening thing. 

     Or maybe there was another reason.  She'd need 
medical attention eventually, and soon; but for now, there was a 
more immediate danger.

     "I was here, Scully.   You did not just have a 
nightmare.  You were gone.  And there are needle marks and 
bloodstains on your sleeve.  You are sick, with no discernible 
cause."  He paused.  "It's not the . .  . it's not that, is it?"  

     She shook her head, once, a confirming jerk.  No.  

     Which was good, because they never spoke of that, 
anymore.  

     Anger was easier, at any rate.
  
     Suddenly, inexplicably, she was incredibly weary.  "If 
you know all this," she said, "if you already know all the 
answers, why, then, do you bother to ask me anything?" 

     She was so tired.  She just wanted to sleep, to go to 
sleep and not dream and wake up and be taken care of.  Not to 
deal with any of this.  Let Mulder do what he wanted, let him 
think anything.  Let him go elsewhere and solve impossible 
cases and spout his bizarre theories.  She just wanted to be left 
alone.

     She wanted her mother.  

     She swayed where she stood.

     Mulder caught one arm.  "Come on, Scully, you're 
coming with me."

     "Where, Mulder."  The words slurred together, 
incomprehensible.  She was too tired to argue properly.

     "My place.  You might be safer there, you might not.  
We know that you can be taken from here.  You seemed better 
in New York and Savannah, right?"

     She blinked at him, confused.

     "Scully.  Were you having these nightmares when we 
were in the field?  In New York?"

     "No.  Not there."

     "Then, a change of venue, for now.  Maybe a hotel.  I'll 
have to consider.  But only at night, right?  Scully?"  He had let 
go of her arm to pace across the floor, and she had sank down 
on the bed, sitting there slumped over.  Her eyes were drifting 
shut.  He knelt down by the bed.

     "Scully, you have to tell me.  The nightmares come 
only at night, right?"

     Blue eyes opened, looked at him, closed again.  "Yeah, 
Mulder, I only dream at night.  Most people do", she added 
dryly.  Maybe she could go back to sleep.  Comfortable on the 
bed, so comfortable . . .

     She let out a gasping wince and clutched at him 
spasmodically as he wrapped an arm around her waist, twisting 
her body away from him.  Frowning, he loosened his grip 
immediately as his mind began an endless chant.  Don't think 
about it, Mulder, don't think.  Concentrate on getting her out of 
here, and worry about the rest later.  "Scully?"

     She caught a breath, face pale and bloodless.  "Don't 
do that, Mulder.  It hurts.  What are you doing anyway?"

     "I think we need to get out of here for a while.  You're 
going to have to help me here, okay? C'mon, Scully, get up, 
that's it, put your arm around my neck, here, sit up for me, great, 
all right now, I'm going to lift you, okay, here we go, that's it . . . 
"

     By the time it occurred to her foggy brain to protest, 
they were already out the door, and she was held in an embrace 
far too secure--and far too comfortable--to possibly struggle 
against.

     So, for the first time in weeks, she let herself be taken 
care of, be sheltered, protected.  Let herself feel she could be.  
Relieved, this time, to give up her vaunted control.  She settled 
her head against his chest and let the steady sound of the 
heartbeat against her ear lull her back to sleepy oblivion.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere
At a roughly corresponding time

     A lazy smoke ring drifted over the desk, through the 
room to finally dissipate into the tobacco-odoured air.  

     "Not bad."
     
     "I try."

     "I long ago gave up smoking pipes."

     "Far better than those sticks you inhale."

     "So, the project is progressing smoothly."  Another 
ring sailed around the room.

     "Really?  It's going well?  And those rumours I heard?"

     "As well as can be expected.  It's under control."

     "And what of the rogue experiments?  I trust they are 
no longer a problem."

     "We are making the appropriate efforts to locate them.  
It's only a matter of time."

     "Excellent.  So our latest subject has achieved stasis?  

     "Presently in conjunction with the other, yes.  We are 
weaning it to independence."

     "And the termination schedule?"

     "Proceeding as planned."

     "Really.  I had heard you were encountering some 
resistance with the second stage.  According to your report, 
subject SDK0223 seemed to be particularly resistant.  We had 
hoped you would be able to salvage it, you know.  We are 
somewhat disappointed."

     "Yes, well.  It seemed to have potential, but no longer.  
It has fulfilled its use, and gradual termination seemed to be the 
best course, with continued efforts in case it was still possible 
to salvage anything.  It did perform so well previously.  We may 
have to accelerate the termination, though."

     "Let it be done."

     "I am still not so sure that she can not be controlled."  

     Four heads swiveled to look at the thin man in the grey 
suit, who paled under the scrutiny and tapped the ashtray 
nervously with the cigarette.

     "Really.  'She'."  A raised eyebrow from the speaker 
sitting in shadows.  A cultured voice, accented.

     "I mean number SDK0223, of course."

     "And why do you take such an interest?"  The tone of 
excessive disinterest.

     "Because of the project.  No other reason."

     "None at all."  The head briefly inclined in mocking 
deference.

     "Gentlemen, please.  That is sufficient.  I think that we 
have covered all that is necessary.  This meeting stands 
adjourned.  I thank you for attending, and caution you to 
remember, as always, the constant need for discretion and 
security.  Gentlemen, until next time, you may be dismissed."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:48 a.m.
Alexandria, VA
Apartment #42

     "So, Scully, you want to tell me what's been going on?"

     "Nothing, Mulder.  I've just had a cold, and I've been 
having some problems sleeping."  Obdurate.

     "Seems like more than the common cold, Scully.  You 
shouldn't have been at work."  Relentless.

     "Well, maybe I was feeling a little worse than usual.  
As I said, nothing a few hours of sleep wouldn't, and hasn't, 
cured."  She was intractable.

     "Dammit, Scully, why can't you . . ."

     Swiftly, irrationally, she was extremely angry.  "What 
Mulder!  What do you want to know?  I can't tell you who they 
are!  I only saw one of them outside, the one time!  Never again.  
I don't know, I can't remember, I am ignorant of it, what part do 
you not understand?"  She was shaking with the force of her 
anger, screaming, and the words tumbled one over the other.  
Until all at once she realized what she had just said, and 
stopped mid-tirade.  Clutched the side of the table, fisted the 
hand of the arm wrapped around her body, bending slightly.

     "I don't know," she reiterated; and quieter, "I don't 
know."  Her world was crumbling and he would not let it alone.  
She took a step back, away from him.

     "So you saw someone."  His voice was implacable.  

     "No."

     "Tell me, Scully.  I won't leave you alone until you do."  
He stepped towards her.

     "Yes, all right, once at the hospit--"

     "God, Scully.  No wonder you didn't want to go."  
Although he knew that, despite her profession, she hated being 
in hospital more than anyone he knew, now.  Avoided them in 
all but a purely professional role.  "Are you sure?"

     But the conversation had already become much too 
insane for her.  So she said in a voice of strained and 
condescending rationality, "No, Mulder, I'm sure I just saw 
someone I knew."

     "Scully, you know that's not the case."

     Would he never give it a rest?  Clearly she did not 
want, the last thing in the world, in fact, she wanted, was to talk 
about it.  She got up.  They were late for work as it was.  Maybe 
she could get him involved in telling her about this case, the one 
they weren't even supposed to be on.  Shouldn't be hard to get 
Mulder to start babbling about that instead.  She walked over to 
get her coat.

     "Hey, where are you going?"  He was content to let the 
other issue drop, for the moment.  He'd been badgering her for a 
while, and there would be better times to talk.  And she would 
talk--if not to him, then to someone else.

     "It's a quarter after nine, Mulder, where do you think?"

     "You're not serious; stay a while."

     "Mulder, I've barely done any work at all last week.  I 
can't afford to do less than I already am."  She looked at him.  
"In fact, we're both late, and you should be complaining about 
the lack of stuff I've been completing.  What kind of department 
are you running?"  She was half-playful, half serious.  Mostly 
relieved at the change of subject.

     He tried again.  "Aw, c'mon Scully", he sulked, 
"couldn't you stay, just this once?  My apartment's not that bad . 
. .  and I've got leftover Halloween chocolate."   He smiled at her 
entreatingly, cajoling, his best wounded puppy look.  "You 
know you want to." 

     "No, Mulder, I have to go."  She smiled back, gently 
but firmly.  This kind of Mulder she could deal with.

     And his expression changed.  "Correction, Scully, you 
will stay.  I'm not convinced it's safe for you to leave, and I need 
some time to figure out what to do.  *You* are going to stay and 
rest, as you are clearly not well enough to leave.  And if you 
won't stay here willingly, I'm simply going to tell Skinner you 
were so ill you practically fainted in front of the elevator.  And 
he'll have you both on leave and in a hospital so fast you won't 
even have time to yell at me.  Neither of us want that."  He knew 
he was being high-handed and obnoxious and he didn't care.  
Scully was stubborn, but he was equally determined.

     "You wouldn't."  The faintest tremor in her voice.

     "Try me."  Grimly.

     "Mulder!  Don't do this."  Her face was white with fury.

     "I know you Scully; if the situation were reversed, 
you'd do the same to me."  He looked at her.

     She lowered her eyes.  "That's different", she mumbled.  
"I'm not really sick.  And I'm a doctor."  

     "So if you're not sick, are you willing to let me in on 
what's going on?"  

     Silence.  He sighed.  "Then you can't guilt me into 
letting you leave, although I do feel badly."  He attempted a 
crooked grin, tried to catch her eye.  "I had hoped you'd agree to 
my hospitality willingly.  You're giving my apartment a 
complex."  

     She refused to look at him, and he cringed inwardly.  
Rage exuded from her every pore.  "Only when your fever is 
down completely, Scully.  Not before."  He paused, then added, 
"I'll be back in a few hours."  She was facing away from him and 
pretended she had not heard.

     He sighed, and, hardening his heart, he got up and left.  
He'd make it up to her later, he promised himself.

     Later.  He almost smiled at the thought.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somewhere
Trailer of the Lone Gunmen
9:52 a.m..

     "So, Mulder, we've discovered the name to the face on 
the photograph."  Langly moved to lean back against the desk.

     "And rather pleasant work it was as well."  Frohike 
leered.  "Exactly why do you want to find this woman, Mulder?  
She seems quite luscious.  Photographs never lie."

     Mulder did not even deign to grant Frohike a reply, 
although he did hide a faintly pained grimace.  Frohike, a bit 
surprised at this grave demeanour in one so usually *not* 
serious, exchanged a quick look with Langly.  Noticing the 
tension, Byers stepped in.

     "Let me tell you, this one wasn't so easy", Byers began.  
"This woman seems to have no records before the age of 12.  
Not surprisingly, she was a street kid, picked up by the child 
welfare authorities at that age.  But before that, nothing.  No 
previous records, no family history, nada.  And believe me, we 
looked."

     "So, guys, who is she?  The magic question."

     "Ms. Katherine Sarah Jacobs.  Twenty-nine, and living 
in New York City.  A district attorney there, rather well-known 
actually.  You should've come to us earlier."  Frohike looked at 
him smugly.

     "Thanks guys, I'm indebted--a manner of speech only, 
Frohike.  I value my own skin far too much for that."  He 
grabbed the data sheet they gave him, smirked in grateful relief 
and ducked out of the dingy trailer into the fresh blowing wind 
and dark romanticism of the November morning.

     At least one thing could still be counted on.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
11:49 a.m.
Alexandria, VA

     Scully awoke from her nap to silence.  Stretching, 
sweaty, she rose from the bed, and went to the bathroom.

     She felt much better.  She would never have admitted 
it, but she had really needed the rest.  Maybe a shower--but 
later.  The bone-weariness had abated, her right hip--which had 
been amazingly tender when she first returned, although there 
had been no bruise, no cut, no mark of any kind to be seen--felt 
a lot less painful now and she was, in fact, ravenously hungry.

     She went to Mulder's shelves to rummage around, 
certain she could find something vaguely edible.  However, the 
only appealing thing seemed to be some kind of sugary kids' 
cereal, the kind she hadn't eaten since she'd been ten.  But, 
looking at the box, it seemed more and more to be just the thing.

     She smirked to herself.  Must be Mulder's influence 
urging her on--knowing him, his apartment probably had some 
weird Mulder-hex on it.  And wonders, there was fresh milk in 
the fridge, just waiting for her.

     Grabbing the cereal, she wandered over into the living 
room, feeling safer and more relaxed than she had in days.  She 
sat in the large armchair and placed her bowl near the telephone 
on the small table beside her.  She picked up the receiver, 
dialing the remote access number for her answering machine.  
She hadn't answered the phone much all weekend and hadn't 
bothered to check her messages this morning, although the light 
had been blinking when she'd left.

     She listened to the messages and then erased them, 
mentally noting who had called:  Mulder, four times; her 
mother, twice; Jack, Billy, and Laura, once each; Cathy inviting 
her to a recital this Friday; Laura's secretary Meigan earlier 
today, confirming the new appointment; and another few 
messages from Trish, Skinner's latest temp.  Wonder what that 
was about?  She sighed.

     She was grateful for their concern, but really wished 
they would leave her alone.  She felt guilty for not returning 
their calls, for turning the ringer of her phone off Sunday 
evening so that all calls were automatically routed to her 
machine, but couldn't seem to snap out of it.  It was nice to 
know people cared, but right now she wanted a void with no one 
but herself and her own thoughts.

     Just a few days, she thought, after that, I'll face you all.  
I just need a couple of days to figure this out before I can talk 
about it.  She carefully hung up the receiver and just sat for a 
minute.  Then, looking for distraction, she began to examine the 
small table, antique and elegantly whimsical.  Rather unlike 
most of the other things in Mulder's apartment.  

     The table was also covered in photographs, the only 
place in the apartment that displayed this kind of personal 
memento.  Of people, of places.  Of past times and present.   
There was one of herself, and one of his mother.  Some clearly 
from college, and some from school.  Some just of scenes, 
places visited.  And one photograph, old and crumpled, 
carefully smoothed into a small brass frame.  A picture of two 
children, young and innocent.

     She looked at the photograph of the two kids together 
on a beach.  Smiling, happy.  Like any other kids on holiday.  
The boy had his arm around his sister, partly in camaraderie, 
partly protective, and the girl allowed this.  Pretty children, the 
both of them--large dark eyes and dark, dark hair.  She ran a 
finger around the edge of the frame, then picked it up.  Slipped 
the picture out of its frame, and flipped the photograph over, to 
read:  Fox William Taylor Mulder, Samantha Anne Taylor 
Mulder.  July, 1973.  An ornate, flowing inscription in faded 
sepia ink.  She sighed, and carefully replaced the photograph 
and the frame back in the exact same position on the table, the 
position marked in dust on the polished wood.  She turned away 
from the table to look out of the window, onto the quiet street.

     She had often thought of Mulder's obsession with his 
sister.  It was strange that he believed he could save her.  A bit 
amazing, that he could have such a strong faith in that when he 
believed in so little else.  It was his own sense of control, the 
belief that he could have saved her, that he still could save her, 
in a world that he knew was full of chaos, and lies, and 
deception.  In this one thing he believed, if in nothing else.

     Well, that and aliens.  She smiled, but there was a 
tragedy in her eyes.

     What do you do when you can no longer believe in 
anything?  You start to believe in everything, and the world 
becomes once again full of possibility.

     Scully had often gazed at the poster on Mulder's office 
wall thinking that she, too, wanted to believe.  She had seen the 
evidence, felt the evidence, painfully learned the knowledge.  
But belief was a precipice built of perception and faith, 
unsteady and crumbling, standing on the edge of reality over the 
chasm of illusion.  To believe in Mulder's truth would be to alter 
all she had so far perceived to be true.  Where does fantasy end 
and reality begin?  And whose perception held the greater truth?  
Tired now, fever returning, she picked up the half-eaten bowl of 
cereal and padded slowly back to bed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
2:43 p.m.
Dulles International Airport

     Scully heaved her bag in one hand, and tried to look 
for Mulder at the same time.  "This is the final boarding call for 
Flight 156 to New York City, now boarding at Gate 15.  Would 
all passengers please proceed to Gate 15 at this time.  I repeat, 
this is the final boarding call for Flight 156 . . . "

     Why the hell was Mulder going to New York?  It's a 
good thing she'd remembered to call Skinner's office before 
going back to bed.  Even more lucky that Trish, the young temp 
replacing the vacationing ever-efficient Kim, Skinner's regular 
secretary, was so completely clueless.  Scully had called and 
identified herself, and before she could say anything further 
Trish had begun saying, "Yes hello, you must be calling about 
your tickets."  Scully had just stopped herself in time from 
asking what on earth tickets the woman was talking about and 
the girl had continued without pause.  "Agent Scully, I have you 
and Agent Mulder booked on Flight 156 out of Dulles at 3 p.m.  
The flight was pretty crowded, but I did manage to get you an 
aisle seat.  It was pretty short notice, though; Agent Mulder only 
told me to book a flight this morning."   

     Scully had barely managed to stop herself from 
laughing.  Clueless types with initiative.  Simply wonderful.  

     "That's wonderful, Trish.  Could you do me a favour, 
and hold my ticket for me until I come to pick it up?  When 
Agent Mulder comes in, just give him his, and don't mention 
that I called.  Just tell him the other one's not ready yet, if he 
asks.  But don't mention it at all if you can.  Can you do that?"

     "I don't know, Agent Scully.  Although he hadn't said 
anything about your ticket, I'd assumed he wanted to pick both 
up together, and he is the head of your department."  The woman 
had sounded unsure and worried.

     "Don't worry, Trish, it'll be okay.  If you will note, I 
actually have equal authority."  Must remember again to thank 
Skinner for that promotion, Scully thought.  She'd been 
promoted just this past May, to her delight, and now her level of 
authorization and security clearance was indeed equal to that of 
her partner's.  The third floor corner office was nice, too.  She 
grinned.

     "It's for a surprise, I can't reveal details, and I'll tell him 
later I asked you, so he'll know that it's not your fault.  I'd really 
appreciate it."  Reluctantly the woman had agreed, something in 
the confiding tone Scully had assumed had appealed to her 
frivolous nature, and to seal the bargain Scully had thanked her 
far more effusively than she normally would have.

     She chuckled.  Mulder would not get away with 
ditching her this time.  Let him even try and justify it--she wasn't 
that sick.  She craned her neck again, wishing she was taller as 
she tried to look over the crowds and shiny, newly renovated 
surfaces of the airport.

     "Scully!"

     She whirled.

     "What in hell are you doing here?"  His eyes flashed 
with rage.  Oops.

     "Mulder, I was told that the investigation of the case 
was taking us to New York, so I packed and came."  Best to 
keep it simple, Dana.

     They had the inevitable argument.

     In the end, though, he decided that maybe it was better 
if he let her come.  Mostly because, although he wouldn't admit 
it, he'd been feeling apprehensive about leaving her even for a 
day, and wasn't really sure how long he'd have to be in New 
York.  He ignored the small voice in the back of his head that 
said that he wouldn't be too effective at protecting Scully 
anyway--when had he ever been?--but this was different.  He'd 
deal with the situation if and when it arose again.  In the 
meantime, he'd do everything in his power to make sure it never 
would. 

     Besides, finding this Jacobs woman was one thing, but 
after that?  He'd probably have to watch the woman for a while, 
if she really was being stalked by some bizarre serial killer.  
Who knew how long it would be before he could get 
replacement agents.  Backup would not be easy or forthcoming, 
especially as he'd have to explain why he was investigating a 
case he officially wasn't even on.  Then he'd have to go back to 
Skinner and explain exactly why he was working on this case to 
get the proper authorization--even if Skinner had given him 
some latitude, officially Skinner had pulled him off and would 
have to reprimand him--and that would be before deciding 
whether to even grant the request.  And if he went straight to the 
field office ASAC, a photocopied file was sure to look 
suspicious.  Either way, this might take a while, something he 
hadn't really considered until just this minute. 

     Regardless, now that Scully was here, and ready to 
come . . . it would have been hard to send her away.  Including 
the wrath he'd feel on his return.  In any event, he did not want 
Scully to be alone overnight.  And he didn't know who to trust 
to watch her.

     Deny it all she wanted, Mulder could not be willfully 
blind.  He was, he repeated to himself, justifiably scared for her.  
The terror of the previous night was still fresh for him, although 
she seemed to have blocked it out.  If nothing had happened 
there last time, New York might once again bring similar 
blessings.  Time for recovery, to assess what to do.

     Ultimately it made her feel better to come, he could 
tell.  More in control.  She'd be just as safe there as here.  

     Maybe, later tonight, he could persuade her to go to a 
doctor at least.  After all, he had to get his way sometime.  He 
had a good friend from undergrad who now practiced in 
Newark.  An oblivious kind of guy, Michael--and discreet.   
Yeah, that's it.  She could come, but he had conditions.

     So he smirked at her, and laid out these conditions as 
they walked through the passageway onto the plane.  The 
ensuing battle easily ate up the minutes of the tedious flight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
En route to New York
3:24 p.m.

     "Ladies and Gentleman, this is your captain.  We 
would request that you please keep your seatbelts fastened for 
the next several minutes as we anticipate some air turbulence.  
We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your 
cooperation."

     Great, thought Scully, turning even more pale as the 
small commuter plane began to jerk.  Just perfect.  Not only 
that, she had begun to feel seriously ill again.  She had gone to 
the bathroom to take an aspirin, casually, and was pretty sure 
Mulder had not noticed her discomfort.  Yet.  Now she walked 
slowly back to her seat; carefully, precisely, knowing that she 
just needed to sit down for a minute and all would be well.  A 
firmer jolt of the plane sent her sprawling against the seat she 
was passing.

     "Sorry."  The passenger, a middle-aged lady, smiled 
back reassuringly.  Scully kept going.  She was almost there 
before the world went black.

     Shit, thought Scully, maybe this will still work.  If she 
could just move a little forward, maybe she could kind of 
gracefully fall into her seat with no-one the wiser.  She reached 
out a hand, tentatively, hoping to feel the seat cushion and just 
lower her rather unresponsive body into it.  No such luck.  
Rather than the seat cushion, she encountered Mulder's hand, 
pulling her forward, lending her his strength, helping her to sit.

     She leaned back and took a breath, eyes closed.  She 
didn't care, not really.  She preferred that he didn't notice--not 
that she didn't trust him, but it was still hard to let someone see 
all your weakness, all the time.  Especially someone you work 
with.  But she was, in this instance, grateful--better a discreet 
Mulder than an indiscreet stewardess had she collapsed in the 
narrow aisle.

     Yet, for a change, Mulder chose not to be annoying.  
He did remark--she expected no less from him.  Wouldn't be 
Mulder otherwise.  But, miracle of miracles, he didn't push.  

     "Competing with your corpses, Scully?"  A dry inquiry, 
but to his credit he said not one word more.  After she was 
settled comfortably, he merely turned back to his paper and 
ignored the incident completely, except for one or two 
surreptitiously solicitous glances in her direction.

     She had never loved him more.

     And since that train of thought definitely did not need 
to be pursued, she instead closed her eyes and concentrated on 
trying to sleep, to blank her whirling mind, to let it drift.

     She never noticed when her head fell slightly sideways 
and encountered the soft dark material of European wool.  

     And she likewise did not notice when a careful arm 
reached out and tucked her more comfortably into place upon 
his shoulder.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 4.
__________________________________________________




Date: Sat, 1 Nov 1997 18:35:54 -0500 (EST)
From: Euphrosyne 
Subject: NEW:  Fallen Cards (Part 5/21)

******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter V:  An Even Frost (Part 5 of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)

(As previously disclaimed--I *still* don't own most of these 
characters or the basic premise.)

All comments--positive, negative, or otherwise--received with 
much gratitude.  I love mail, and respond to everything I get.  
That's a hint  . . .  don't make me beg.

Thanks for reading.
*******************************
Chapter V:  An Even Frost

A violet by a mossy stone
   Half hidden from the eye!
   Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

W. Wordsworth, "She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways"
_______________________________________________
Tuesday, November 25, 1997
New York City, NY
5:34 p.m.

     Katherine sat at her desk, and sighed.  She couldn't 
leave this case.  She couldn't take this case.

     The file before her had been one of Kara's.  

     She looked at the Kodak-colour faces of the children 
and something within her rebelled.  Two young girls, abused.  
Starved, neglected, raped, you name it.  Only three and six years 
old, plump baby faces and fine white-blond hair stared out at 
her from the pictures in the file.  Except that their bodies were 
marked in bruises and lines of blood.  Beaten almost to death.  
The older was comatose, and the younger . . . she would not 
speak.  Could not speak.  Not a word. 

     Robinson, Chelsea Deborah and Robinson, Caitlin 
Zoe.

     Their parents had brought them in to Sibley Memorial 
Hospital.  A mother that wore sunglasses well after sunset and a 
father that said the children fell in a playground.  

     The evidence from the police file had just come in 
today with the photographs.  She hated the visuals, they were so 
much worse than just detachedly reading about the horror in an 
impersonal manila file folder.  

     You don't have the time.  You don't have the energy.  
The deaths have started.  You've got to get out.

     She knew this as she knew the colour of the sky; she 
just didn't know why.

     Kara's death had left her uneasy, frightened.  Alongside 
grief had been fear:  Kara had been young, and in good health, 
yet died violently and the doctors had not been able to tender 
any explanation for her death.  Not knowing exacerbated the 
grief.  

     The autopsy results had come back a week before, and 
Kate had taken a look.  According to the results Kara seemed in 
perfect health, her death anomalous.  Everything had been in 
order, except for the birthmark.  

     A birthmark shaped like an apple.  A largish birthmark 
on her collarbone, a birthmark Kate knew Kara did not have.  
Until now.

     She had shivered to see the photograph.  There was 
something about that image, that reddish blotch, that had 
frightened her into leaving for an early lunch that day, that had 
plagued her nights thereafter.

     Then, this morning she had received a phone call.  A 
man's voice, a gruff voice which had spoken only one word:  a 
name, and then silence.  

     "*Samantha*."       

     Disconcerted, she had hung up the phone abruptly, but 
could not shake her uneasy feeling.

     As the afternoon progressed, she came to a decision.  
Perhaps neither event was enough for normal concern, but it was 
enough for her.  She was being warned.

     She had learnt well not to question these obscure 
warnings, or her own instincts.  Paranoia to some, in her case it 
was a life-preserving caution.

     She'd talk to Mark.  She'd beg to take the week off, 
copy the file and take it home, and tell him that she'd still like to 
take the file or at least assist when she returned.  Make up some 
convenient excuse for the sudden request for leave.

     She wouldn't mention that she might not come back.  

     If she couldn't return she'd let him know though.  
Somehow, because he deserved that much.  And because he'd 
have to reassign the case, and those two little girls deserved at 
least that much.

     Although, no matter how good the prosecutor was, 
these kinds of cases--no witnesses, no real evidence, a 
sympathetic and wealthy accused--were impossible to win.  
Pointless.  Depressing.  Despite the circumstantial evidence, 
practically unprovable in a court of law and even then, even on 
the rare occasion a guilty verdict was obtained, a sentence that 
could not possibly compensate for the atrocity of the crime.

     Three cheers for the system.

     She rose to pack away the file.

     "Hey, Katie J.  You wanted to see me?"  Mark, in his 
usual vaguely rumpled suit and ultra-boring tie, stuck his head 
into her office, perpetually flirtatious grin in place, the one that 
made the female--and part of the male--contingent of the office 
sigh and pine dreamily.  She was no more resistant than they, 
and smiled in response.  No matter how lousy her day--her 
week--Mark could always make her smile.

     She remembered arriving here, a little over four years 
ago, fresh out of law school.  Mark had made her feel welcome 
when few others had, respected her despite her being his kid 
sister's best friend.  Already highly regarded in legal circles, he 
had nevertheless taken the time to allow her to acclimatize, to 
include her, to try to get to know her, ignoring and dismissing 
her shy reserve and serious mien.  For that alone she'd be forever 
grateful.  

     More surprisingly, she found as time went on that he 
understood her.  Aside from Kara, one of the very few who did.  
He gave her space when she needed it, pushed her when she 
needed that.  Now that Kara was gone, she found she valued his 
friendship more than she knew; had taken it for granted for too 
long.  She would miss him.

     A few of the others had changed in attitude as she 
gained their respect during the four years she'd been here; but 
not most, and she found tbat this really did not bother her over 
much.  She preferred this, after all; preferred to be left alone, 
given a wide berth.  Preferred it both professionally and 
personally.  But Mark . . . Mark was a special case.

     She allowed herself to look at him, for a moment, 
knowing it might well be the last time.  Looked at him in his 
boringly well-cut navy suit, tall and broad-shouldered with 
golden brown hair several shades lighter than her own rich 
mahogany.  His face was not overly handsome, but open and 
pleasant.  The thing that caught her eye, though, the first thing 
she had noted when he walked into the room, his characteristic 
broad smile in place, were his eyes.  A young man, still a couple 
years shy of forty, he already had deep laugh lines etched 
around his eyes, more around his mouth.  That was what she 
wanted to know.  Intense yet open, the combination drew her 
irresistibly.   

     "Do you have some time?  It's kind of important."

     He grinned playfully.  "For you, my Kate, I have all the 
time in the world."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
New York City
6:22 p.m.

     Mulder drove straight from the airport to the address 
scribbled in Frohike's distinctive scrawl.  It took them, even 
then, some time before they arrived in front of the dilapidated 
apartment building in a relatively cheaper area of Manhattan.  

     Mulder loathed and despised rush hour in New York.

     When they finally found the address, 272 Park Street, 
Scully was dozing quietly in the passenger seat.  He leaned over 
and put a cool hand against her forehead.  She flinched and 
muttered incoherently but did not wake.

     He frowned.  Still too warm.   He debated for a 
moment with himself and then slipped out of the car quietly, 
leaving her there.

     He entered the building, flashing his badge at the 
indifferent security guard, and walked up three flights of stairs 
to stand in front of the door at the end of the hall.  He knocked 
but heard no corresponding movement or answer in reply.  So 
Mulder, with the guard's assistance, entered anyway, calling out, 
observing the austerity of the living area, the lack of furnishings 
and the minimalist possessions--almost like someone had just 
moved in--or was just moving out.  This apartment made his 
own look absolutely cozy.  But the information the Lone 
Gunmen had provided said that the woman had lived here for the 
past three years.  

     There were sounds coming from the inner room, and he 
walked slowly towards it, stepping quietly into a bedroom 
where a young woman in a charcoal suit was frantically stuffing 
clothing into a small suitcase.  She gasped and whirled as he 
entered.  

     "Hello?"

     "Who are you?"  The voice was suspicious, resentful:  
scared.  As she had every right to be--this was, after all, New 
York, and he was a stranger in her apartment.  She was actually 
fairly calm, he thought, under the circumstances.

     "I am Special Agent Mulder with the FBI.  Ms. 
Jacobs?"

     "That's right."  The voice was steady, but quick and 
tense.  "Can I ask why you're here?"

     "I have reason, Ms. Jacobs, to believe you are in 
danger.  I am asking that you come with me.  I believe you may 
be connected to a serial murder case I am currently 
investigating." 

     "That's absurd."  The woman did not quite sneer, 
although fear was behind it.  "I can't just leave--I have 
obligations."

     "Nevertheless.  And it seems that you were going 
someplace anyway."  He waved a hand at the suitcase.

     The woman ignored the last comment.  "Well, I thank 
you for your concern, but still don't really know what you want 
with me.  I can't go anywhere right now."

     There was some argument; the woman was belligerent 
and untrusting.  She seemed anxious and almost terrified of 
going with him.  But this was, after all, Mulder, and he had a 
printout relegated to memory of every case she had ever 
prosecuted over her past four year career--criminal prosecutions 
were a matter of public record.  He managed to make it sound 
like she had cause to worry from either one or all of the felons 
she'd been involved with over her current term with the D.A.  
Obstinate though she was, she never stood a chance.  In the end, 
they went through proper procedures and channels--after all, the 
woman was a lawyer--and moved her to a safehouse.  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Federal Safehouse
Upstate New York
Wednesday, November 26, 1997
6:17 p.m.

     Katherine sat in the armchair and willed her mind to go 
blank.  They'd arrived late last night, and the final paperwork 
was sent through early this morning she'd been told.  She had 
been assured that she would receive a copy of all relevant 
documents.

     The house was not bad, as these places went.  A small 
wooden cabin in a remote, forested part of northern New York 
state, it came complete with central heat, hot and cold running 
water, and a modern bathroom with an enormous bathtub.  As 
well as three not too large bedrooms--although hers had a small 
desk and an armchair--the cabin also had a fully equipped 
kitchen and a spacious living room with a wood-burning 
fireplace.  No cable, unfortunately, but there was an old 
television that picked up a couple of the local network channels.  
There were even flowers--tiny blue-purple violets that still 
bloomed, amazingly enough, in the sheltered area near the house 
where a white stone bench sat and the furnace blast kept the 
ground warm and frost-free even this late in November.

     The male agent, Mulder, had arranged for this 
safehouse on his own authority.  He hadn't been able to get a 
safehouse in the city, although Kate actually preferred the 
isolated cabin when all was said and done.  He hadn't been able 
to get any replacement agents either, apparently, so she was 
stuck with him for the week.

     He had muttered something about her being safe 
enough if she could stay until next Monday.  She didn't think 
she would ever be safe enough, but she supposed this was as 
good a place as any for her to hide out until after the weekend, 
and then she'd see.  Despite her inital panic at his unexpected 
entrance, for some reason she did not feel a true threat from him 
and everything had seemed to check out.  So far.  

     His partner, Scully, had come with him.  Kate was not 
quite sure why; in her experience two agents would not be 
needed to protect a single person but he'd been very insistent 
that his partner not return to D.C.  Come to think of it, Agent 
Scully had seemed a bit unwilling to stay here as well--in that, 
Kate could empathize fully--not that either agent had confided 
anything like that to her.  But in the end Agent Scully had 
agreed to stay, although as far as Agent Scully was concerned 
Kate was merely another assignment, no more nor less.  The 
agent's every word and act, the very way she treated her charge 
telegraphed these thoughts clearly.

     Kate was content with that, though--it was 
straightforward, direct, easy to deal with.  A very distant, cordial 
relationship.  Simple.  She liked that.  The other agent, he was 
more involved, more complicated, and Kate didn't like 
complications.  And for some reason--even though they shared 
some common interests, it seemed--he really irritated her, 
although she tried to hide it.

     She had notified Mark about the protective custody.  
The agents had told her it was tied into a current murder 
investigation as well as a trial she had prosecuted three years 
before and as her supervisor, she told them, Mark had the right 
to know.  At least that was the "official" explanation and that 
was what she had also told Mark.

     She knew Mark was worried about her; she also knew 
not what to do about that.  She had supposed, if she couldn't 
really get away, she'd like at least one person to know her 
general whereabouts even if she couldn't reveal her exact 
location.  And she found, when it came to the test, that she 
trusted Mark, as much as she trusted anyone.

     She'd tried her best to warn him.  To ask without 
telling.  She hoped he'd be careful, that he'd be safe.  Please, 
Mark, be safe.  She had almost considered asking the agents to 
protect him as well.  But that would've been extremely 
suspicious and practically impossible.  When it came right down 
to it, Mark was in no more danger than anyone else.  Even so, 
she was afraid for him, and yet she could not have stayed.

     She hated this.  She had never, not since she had 
gained control over her own life, been in any kind of 
confinement before.  This was driving her insane, and what with 
the new case and all, which was the only file she'd brought, she 
was having an even harder time than usual keeping the 
nightmares at bay.  They were getting more vivid, and so she had 
begun to avoid sleep altogether--which, considering her 
tendency to insomnia, was not too difficult.  She simply waited 
until she was past exhaustion, at which point the hour or two 
she got was absolutely dreamless.

     The migraines during the day were getting worse and 
more frequent; she'd been having them ever since the end of 
October but they'd picked up since Kara's death.  All in all, if 
she didn't get an hour or two alone, without any protective 
agents within the next mile, she would scream.  Even the 
familiar rhythms of work were less comforting, and combined 
with the disturbing facts of the new case her concentration was 
shot to hell--she had only managed to finish an initial review of 
the file this evening.  She felt as if her waking hours had 
become a numbing haze of pain and exhaustion, and her nights 
were of frustration and fear.  She was hanging on by a thread, 
and only sheer stubbornness prevented her from quitting the 
whole thing.

     She was not even entirely sure why she was here.  
Certainly the reasons she had been given sounded preposterous, 
and in any event did they really think she would be afraid of 
some pathetic delusional killer now?  A red flag alarm.  She 
couldn't think about it.

     This was stupid.  She should've slipped away.  How 
hard could it have been?  But the agent had watched her 
extremely closely, and Kate wasn't entirely sure she really could 
have managed to escape him.  And if she had, and he'd been 
looking for her, how far could she really have gotten with an 
open, officially sanctioned search on for her as well as the 
other?

     Yet she did not feel that this Agent Mulder was part of 
the threat, even though she did not trust any government agent 
the barest iota.  Although when he'd walked in, he'd looked so 
like . . . she had been certain it was all over and she had been 
found, and her heart had beat with the calm collected steadiness 
of absolute dread.

     Something had stopped her, though, from fleeing in 
that bare second.  He'd seemed sincere, harmless even, and 
against her own better judgment she had listened to him, even 
though he had spoken nonsense in the language and trappings of 
logistics and authorization, stupidly believing that she did not 
follow what he was saying and that she would blindly defer to 
the power his badge supposedly commanded.  She allowed 
herself to trust that he was likely not a part of it, and that this 
custody may well be necessary for some innocent enough reason 
perceived in his own mind as well an answer to her more 
imperative, and far more dire, situation.  She had a feeling, and 
she had long since been forced to trust her feelings, even when 
she denied any talent she might possess. 

     She was just getting desperate, she supposed.  She'd 
have gone anywhere that promised safety.  Even if it might not 
be real.  Considering her options.  

     As if she had ever been given a choice.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
7:33 p.m.

     Scully, who'd been stuck with dinner detail that 
evening--mostly consisting of heating up a couple of pre-
prepped meals, had sent Mulder away to find their charge and 
more or less obediently Mulder had gone, realizing that while it 
was a lot of fun for him to tease Scully, Scully did not feel 
similarly. 

     He found Katherine in her room; the door was open 
and he took that as an invitation to enter.  Barely asleep, she lay 
curled into the armchair and Mulder marvelled that she could do 
it.  She was tall and slender, long limbs and long hair.  Unlike 
Scully, she was not small, but instead more lanky--or willowy, 
or whatever--he thought awkwardly, strangely nervous around 
this hostile young woman.  Nervous enough that he was 
resorting to editing his very thoughts.

     Snap out of it, he told himself firmly--why should her 
opinion matter more than that of anyone else?  Yet, prickly as 
she was, he felt a peculiar kinship to her.  As if he needed to 
look after her, as if he had to.  Like a frightened child whom he 
was entrusted to shield from harm.

     You really are taking your job waaay too seriously, he 
thought to himself.  He reached out a hand to wake her.

     And jerked back when her head whipped up and a 
contemporaneous shudder racked her body, eyes unfocused and 
fearful and fixed intensely on his face.  

     "Hey, I was just going to tell you dinner is ready," said 
Mulder, surprised.  He watched her eyes focus, and the sleep 
fall away; saw coherence and rationality cloak the raw emotion 
he had seen.  

     Control.  And the vulnerable girl he had seen was once 
again subsumed into the arrogant woman that he was paid to 
protect.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:07 p.m.

     They were eating dinner, and Scully had long since 
given up even trying to make small talk with the woman.  It was 
just too difficult.  Far easier to simply eat in silence, huddled 
around the small coffee table in the living room.  The one thing 
the cabin didn't have was a dining area or table.  Ah, well.

     Mulder had also given up, but was feeling perverse this 
day.  Scully saw the warning signs.  So he asked the woman 
about her life.  Her family.  Her work.  

     Was answered, as usual, in unrevealing monosyllables.  
Scully didn't think she'd ever met anyone so reserved and 
secretive.  Comparatively Mulder was like an open book.     

     "Well, according to my file," Mulder was saying, trying 
his very best to be both polite and charming, "you also prosecute 
a number of child abuse cases.  That must be fairly rewarding.  
How successful is your prosecution rate?"

     Mulder, Mulder, Scully thought, someone really must 
teach you the proper art of small talk.  

     Finally, the woman put down her fork and looked 
directly at Mulder.  "The very first case I did was in my second 
year at the D.A.'s office, Mr. Mulder.  What I thought was an 
open and shut case; horrible tales of abuse, although we barely 
had any hard evidence, just some revealing statements from the 
child and the suspicions of psychiatrists.  But then I met the 
parents, and they seemed so nice I couldn't believe they would 
do anything like what we were charging them with.  They had a 
dog, and he taught grade school, and they even had a white 
picket fence, for God's sake.  Even I, after having reviewed all 
the evidence in the file, didn't believe that either of them was 
capable of letting happen anything like what was supposed to 
have happened.  And the kid had no visible marks of abuse."

     "Turns out we didn't have enough evidence.  Criminal 
charges of this kind rarely stick.  The child didn't testify either, 
not that it would've made any difference."  

     Kate looked at him, steadily, emotionlessly.  But there 
was a fire in her eyes, and they shone over-bright.  "The civil 
case for state wardship failed as well.  And so they took the 
child home, returned him to his parents.  And they seemed 
happy, and warm, and caring.  I even met them later, to serve 
them with the final judgment papers.  And I told myself I had 
done the right thing, that there was nothing more to be done, 
that things really would work out, and so thinking I salved my 
conscience.  Told myself this because I wanted nothing more 
that for it to be true."

     "About a month later, the local paper ran a story on a 
recent slaying.  Seems the body of a child had been found, 
murdered, in a ditch.  The parents had not done it.  But they 
hadn't stopped it either.  The details are not important."  She 
paused, and took a deep breath.  "I remember reading the article, 
and looking at the picture of the child; so bright, so full of life, 
filled with the promise of childhood and the beauty of youth.  
And I remember, gazing at that picture, thinking that I had 
thought I had felt the strongest depths of loathing for another 
human being that I could before, and thinking that it did not 
even begin to compare to how I felt now.  The pure, 
unadulterated hatred I felt."

     She looked directly at him.  "Until that moment, I never 
really knew how much I could hate.  But I don't believe I have 
never hated myself more."  And so saying, Kate pushed her chair 
back from the table, got up, and walked away. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------
10:13 p.m.

     Mulder had wandered into Scully's room, flinging 
himself on her bed as she typed up an activity report.  Her room 
had a fire that crackled comfortingly as an accompaniment to the 
quiet sound of her keyboard.  He kind of liked being stuck here 
with her, part of him thought:  the only redeeming quality of this 
job.  

     He watched her, gratefully thinking that she really did 
look better.  But he thought he'd ask anyway.  He still wished 
they'd had a chance to visit Michael in Newark before coming 
here.  

     He stayed silent, however, waiting until she was 
finished, when she saved her file and turned to him with a half-
smile.  "Hey, Mulder, bored?"

     "I hate this kind of thing--and the fact that this baby-
sitting detail has completely forestalled our investigation.  Wish 
we could have found someone else to do this, but it was hard 
enough wrangling this much out of the local Bureau.  If things 
had been different, I might have just continued the investigation 
and left her somewhere--motel or something--but she doesn't 
really seem the type that would trust me solely based on my 
credentials and the quality of my smile."  

     "No, it was hard enough to get her to agree to this--and 
she never really agreed, not until all the i's were dotted and t's 
crossed and she was left with little or no choice.  She's even 
more fond of procedure than I am."

     Scully grinned crookedly at him, but he wasn't really 
listening, staring off towards the lightly frost-patterned window.  
She tried to draw him back to the conversation.  "Reclusive, isn't 
she?"

     "At least the deaths have stopped.  No more bodies 
discovered with the mark, not in the past week.  But why is she 
so important?"  He muttered this last under his breath and then 
in a swift movement he sat up abruptly and changed the subject. 
"How are you feeling?"

     She made a face at him before answering.  "Fine,"  he 
looked at her and she amended, not wanting to disturb the 
amicable mood, "much better.  Tired of sitting."  She smiled at 
him fully and stretched before bringing the subject back to its 
original topic.  "So how is our reluctant guest?"

     "I dunno, Scully.  She doesn't seem to like me much."  
His words were emotionless, seemingly indifferent; an 
indication to the extent of his distress.  For some reason 
Katherine had taken a rather obvious antipathy towards him, not 
that she was overly friendly towards Scully either.  Nothing too 
overt, she just avoided the both of them, but Mulder more than 
Scully.  And for some reason, Mulder was truly hurt about this 
whole thing.  Not that he seemed attracted to her, he just wanted 
to know her.  Like a mystery he needed to solve that was being 
denied him.

     "Well, at least she has good taste."  She relented, then, 
because Mulder looked truly upset.  "I think she's just making 
you the focus of her anger over this situation.  It's sometimes 
easier to find someone to blame.  You know that."

     "I know, it's just that I haven't created this situation, 
Scully.  I wish I knew who had, or why.  But I have no more 
answers than she does, and I don't think she trusts that I don't 
wish her harm.  She watches me suspiciously, or hides in her 
room when she can.  She doesn't avoid you nearly as much."

     "She doesn't exactly seek me out either, Mulder."

     "Yeah, well, it's not the same."  A lame response, and 
he knew it.  Maybe he was just bored.  No T.V., no new files, 
and he'd already harassed Scully several times today . . . if the 
deaths really had stopped, maybe it was over.  His every instinct 
denied this, but he didn't want to stay here indefinitely, and he 
had no way to justify doing so--either to the Bureau or to Kate.

     "Go to sleep, Mulder, I'm sure it'll be better in the 
morning."

     "You promise?"  He looked at her lasciviously.  

     "Good night, Mulder."  And with the firm tone and 
quelling look, she stood and shooed him out of her room.

     At the door, he paused.  "Y'know, Scully, I think the 
real problem is I don't trust *her*.  What if this is another game 
being played with us?  Your . . .uh, nightmares, the photograph 
of a woman too easy to find--what if the Consortium is just 
toying with us again?  Katherine is not what I expected . . . I 
don't know.  She knows too much.  She's too smart, or 
something.  I'm just not sure what, yet."

     "I don't think so Mulder."  Scully's tone had also 
become considering with a faint trace of reflected anxiety.  
"There's too much about her that does fit, that makes me feel 
that she's not a threat to us.  If anything, I think she's just a pawn 
here as well.  She doesn't seem to have anything to do with this 
scenario anyway; if you recall, she didn't exactly plan to come 
here."

     "I guess--Scully?"

     "Hmm?"

     "Watch your back."

     "I always do, Mulder."  She smiled.  "It's late, go to 
sleep.  I'll see you in the morning."

     "Count on it," he smirked, "it's your turn to cook."
     
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 5.
_____________________________________________


******************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 6:  Violets in the Rain
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously rated and disclaimed)
All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.
*******************************
Chapter VI:  Violets in The Rain

"What country, friends, is this?"
     "This is Illyria, lady."
"And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drowned.  What think you, sailors?"
     "It is perchance that you yourself were saved."

--Viola, Captain; "Twelfth Night"
____________________________________________
Thursday, November 27, 1997
5:53 a.m.

     Katherine woke early, stiff and sore from a night spent 
less in sleep and more in counting the hours until dawn.  She 
woke, considering her present situation.

     Only me, she thought ruefully.  Others worked for the 
D.A. and grew old, had families, lived behind tall dense hedges.  
Safe, secure.

     She sat up and let the covers slip off, her exposed skin 
quickly covering itself with goosebumps in the early morning 
chill.  It was eerily quiet, save for the low sound of the 
television.  Someone must have forgotten to turn it off.

     She shook herself.  This was truly horrific, she who 
valued her privacy over everything forced to stay, here, in these 
close quarters with not one but two others.  She dragged her 
body up and off the bed, shivering; the thin nightshirt provided 
little protection against the icy draft.

     On the bright side, the agents did not seem too 
friendly, she thought.  In fact, the female agent was a bit 
standoffish.  At least she did not try to converse unduly, and she 
had an air of competence about her.  

     Kate could handle that.  Kate admired that.  She 
*liked* to be left alone.  Mark was the one person in the world 
that she felt nearest to being comfortable with, now that Kara 
was gone; and even with him she was fairly guarded.  They got 
along mostly because he understood this and gave her a lot of 
space.  Surprisingly, she missed Mark; she could not 
communicate with him from here.  

     As for the male agent ... well, the guy was just strange 
enough to be ignorable.  She wondered about him though.  He 
was so ... she didn't know.  Maybe, she brooded, he simply had 
not learnt to hide his oddness, unlike herself.  Maybe he hadn't 
needed it to survive as badly as she.  Maybe he just didn't care.  
But that was a luxury unavailable to her.  For someone who had 
spent the remembrance of her life looking over her shoulder, not 
to care could be worse than fatal.  

     She could relate to him better than the woman, though, 
with her set life plans and her picture-perfect profile.  Probably 
grew up in the suburbs, Kate thought spitefully.  She sighed.

     Well, at least insomnia had one virtue; being the first 
one up, she could use the bathroom first.  She probably looked 
truly disgusting; she needed no mirror to know of the dark 
circles under her eyes, and her hair was one curling, tangled 
mass.  She thought about looking for a robe, but then decided to 
forget it.  There was no one awake yet anyway, and she honestly 
did not have the energy to remember where it was packed.
  
     She stumbled across the cold floorboards, barefoot.  
Deep in her own thoughts, she did not notice the calculating 
hazel eyes following her movements from the couch.

     Sometimes she wished she could just live, without 
always considering the consequences, without always having to 
wonder what would happen.  To take risks and laugh carelessly, 
just once in a while.  Maybe, someday, to trust another enough 
not to have to do and be everything herself.  But she didn't, and 
she couldn't, and, she told herself, in that way lies more than 
danger:  there lies madness.

     Trust only yourself; it was easier, safer, and regardless, 
it had been made clear to her that she had no other choice.

     Still, to have someone take care of her, just now and 
again . . . she leaned back in the hot shower.  It was nice to 
dream.

     Outside the bathroom, hooded eyes registered a 
strange, distinctively dark club-shaped birthmark on the back of 
one calf.

     Noted it, and mused.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
7:11 a.m.

     Katherine sat on the stone bench, watching the little 
flowers.  They were so pretty, so perfect, full of life and hope.  
Even now, even here.  The other agent, Scully, dressed to go out 
on a morning jog, came up to use the bench and began to do 
some stretches in the frosted grass.

     "Watch it!"

     "What?"

     "The flowers.  Can't you see them?  Late violets are 
very rare."

     "Oh."  Grunting, Scully shifted further away from the 
patch, clearly wondering about this decidedly odd woman.

     "I used to love violets.  We had a whole patch of them 
in the yard when I was a kid."

     "Really", replied Scully non-committally.  

     "Mmm." Katherine wondered why she was even talking 
about this, and why, to begin with, she knew this at all.  Most of 
her childhood was a blur and she rarely remembered bits this 
clearly.  But this she remembered.

     Remembered, and needed to tell.

     "My brother hated violets."

     "Uh-huh." Scully switched legs.  "My brothers 
wouldn't even know the difference."  Neither would I, for that 
matter, thought Scully.  Despite first year botany--some things 
just can't be taught.

     "He said they were too whiny."

     Amused, Scully had to ask.  "Whiny?"

     "They demanded too much, and gave too little.  Wilted 
and died not very long after they were cut.  But I loved them; 
their transience, their fragile perfection made them all the more 
precious.  Something just beyond my grasp, too difficult to 
obtain.  I always thought that if I just looked after them 
properly, gave them the right temperature of water, the right 
vase, then maybe, just maybe, they'd stay for a whole day.  It 
never happened, though, and soon I just learnt to leave well 
enough alone."

     Scully was done her stretching.  "Tell Mulder I'll be 
back in an hour, will you?"

     "If I see him, I will."

     And Scully jogged off.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
9:29 p.m.

     After dinner, Scully announced that she was going for 
a walk.  It was late, and dark.  Mulder had looked at her a 
moment, assessing.  "You're sure?  You want company?"

     "No,  I'll be fine."  She'd smiled reassuringly at him, 
and he'd set aside his reservations.

     Leaving him alone with Kate.

     Awkwardly, they'd made coffee together and moved 
into the main room where the fire still crackled.  He'd wrapped 
himself in an afghan, and she sat cross-legged at the hearth, 
poking at the fire every now and again, watching it in 
fascination.

     "When I was young one of our neighbour's houses 
burned down", she said suddenly.  "I watched it burn from my 
window."  She would not let herself refine upon how she knew 
that.  She only knew that it was true.

     Silence.

     "I've always hated fire."  From Mulder.  An admission 
he'd made to very few.  She did not react.

     He told her why.

     Soon enough, they were actually having a 
conversation, and she had relaxed enough in the presence of this 
stranger, this very strange stranger, to feel comfortable.  To let 
go of a very few of her secrets.  Free and easy.  The walls had 
been breached and she was not quite sure how to put them back 
up.

     Not even sure if she wanted to.

     He was telling her how TV helped him work, backing 
it up with all kinds of doctored and obscure statistics.  
Impossible man.  It was too funny, though, and she could not 
help it.  She laughed at him.  With him.

     She laughed:  a clear, carefree sound; laughed as she 
had not done since she came.  She laughed as she had not done, 
in fact, for years.  "Yeah, my brother used to do that too.  Said it 
helped him think.  My parents didn't buy it though; they told 
him if he needed TV to help him think then he was a lot less 
intelligent than his instructors gave him credit for.  And then he 
used to come and bother me as a less obvious way to sulk."  She 
smiled in reminiscence; her dreams had become stronger as she 
stayed here with little else to do, and the sense of her past with 
them--helped by the fact that she wanted to believe in a family, 
even one so long gone.

     Although she knew they must--all of them, even the 
boy--by now be dead:  long gone, long buried, still it was hard 
to accept when she had no proof of the fact except cold logic to 
tell her it was so.  And so she hoped.  And although hope was 
ultimately more painful, although hope killed you in degrees, 
day by day, like some strange self-imposed torture, still hope 
was so hard to destroy.

     Hoped one day to find him, to learn his name, even 
when the very thought brought yearning tears of the 
impossibility of this knowledge to her eyes.

     Sometimes, the pain was all you had left.

     He was speaking.

     "Hey, my parents used to tell me the same", Mulder's 
eyes narrowed, "what did you say your brother's name was?"  

     Still smiling, she had not noticed the change in his 
tone, although she now sobered.  "He's dead.  He died long ago, 
when I was very young."

     "I'm sorry."

     "Not your fault."

     And there seemed nothing else to say to that.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
10:13 p.m.

     Katherine sighed, threw off the covers, and got out of 
bed to go and sit at the small writing table in her room.  She had 
gone to sleep far too early.  But there seemed to be little else to 
do, and she hadn't slept at all the night before.  More to the 
point, however, was escape:  from herself, from him.

     The conversation with that strange agent had unsettled 
her for some reason she couldn't name.  Unfortunately, escape is 
not always successful.  

     Some nights it is better to cut your losses.

     She sat for a moment before she retrieved the book 
from the suitcase and even then stared at it for a time.  A gift, 
from Kara when they first met, now so long ago:  a plain 
hardcover notebook.  

     A diary to collect her thoughts.  Thin and battered, its 
seams were coming apart; the only pages remaining were blank, 
clean and pristine.  Sometimes she wrote, sometimes not; never 
less than thrice a week.  A comfort, a relief, a source of 
invaluable solace, the familiar act of writing within it was by 
now almost necessary to her very survival.

     Opening the front cover, she smoothed back ragged 
edges so the book laid open at the first page.  Quietly, the 
scratching of steel nib on linen paper loud in the waning 
moonlight, the flowing lines of ink there blending softly into the 
forbidding dark, she wrote: 

    *They have put me in the witness protection program,
      they say.  Only until Monday and the trial of Edward
       Heath, once again up for charges of murder and arson, 
       the very same charges that I, early in my career, failed 
       to put him away on .  Only ten days away.

       Expedited, they tell me, for the danger I am put in.  
       Edward Heath.  As if I feared some petty felon.  As if 
      any thing they could do could protect me.  Do they not 
      see?

     I have the feeling that the others here, the man, who 
     rotates with the woman, they do know.  A small part 
     only, yet enough to give them some idea.  But they 
     court that danger and I cannot see why.  They do not 
     understand it; in their pitiful naivete they think they 
     can somehow defeat it.  How could they be so blind?  

     But I am too harsh; they do not, and hopefully will
     never, know what I barely remember, see what I 
     sometimes glimpse.  I pray to whatever God there be that 
     they, and all others like them, will not know.  I would not
     inflict such knowledge on any other.  But I ramble
     needlessly.

     They are FBI, the ones who watch me, and I am not 
     sure if I can endure their scrutiny for much longer.  They 
     are neither easy to ignore, nor are they comfortable.  
     They are simply there:  in anger, in pain, in 
     awkwardness.   And I cannot understand either of 
     them.

    The man is hard to fathom.  As I said, he courts danger,
    welcomes pain.  And I do not know why any person
     would choose, of their own free will, to do so when it is 
     not necessary.  At the office, I avoided those like him 
     and gravitated instead to a couple of the junior 
     secretaries, whose lives consisted of the simple 
     pleasures of home and love and the latest hairstyle. 
      Simple, easy, bright with life.  Not less important than 
      anything else, and perhaps more so.

     He is so innocent--despite everything, you can tell. 
     Privileged upbringing, comfortable lifestyle--he wanted 
     physically for very little.  A rich little schoolboy.  
     Creating problems for himself, tilting at windmills, 
     because he has so little else to occupy his time and
     energy.  Not understanding that when your problem
      is survival, it consumes all you are.  There is no
      room for love, honour, duty, when every breath you
      take is a blessing.

     Believing that there is a truth, and that truth would
     set him free.

    The woman is easier, but I like her less.  She seems hard
    to reach, and slow to laughter.  I do not think she ever 
    smiles.  I realize that I have not been friendly either.  
    Beautiful, in her own way.  Careful, methodical, 
    cautious.  Like, and yet unlike the man, she 
    nevertheless seems like one who could change, and has 
    changed, and quieter than he.

     They seem close, like two people who have spent
     much time in the other's presence.   He does not quite
     understand her, and she tries to understand him, but they 
     believe in the other despite this.  Respect of each other, 
     and trust--in word, in deed, in everything.  It is nice to
     see this, if a bit lonely for me, for they are very non-
     inclusive.  Three more days.*

       Sighing, she closed the book, yawned, and crawled into 
bed, feeling a little better.  10:42 p.m.  Tucking her hand under 
her neck, curled on her side, she tried again to sleep.

        Just this once, she would wait until morning before she fed 
the pages to the fire.  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
11:15 p.m.

     Scully had come back from her walk early to find 
Mulder still sitting and staring into the fire.  The heavens had 
opened halfway through her stroll and consequently she'd been 
drenched by the sudden downpour.  She shivered and walked 
over to the glow of the dying fire to warm herself, wringing out 
her hair and holding her hands towards the meagre warmth.

     She stuck a poker into the center of the fire, rekindling 
a small flame.  "It's really starting to come down out there.  
Where's Kate?"

     "She went to bed.  I think the effort of being civil 
proved too much for her."  The tone distracted.

     "Mulder."  Reproving.

     "Sorry."  He rubbed a hand over his eyes, and then 
looked at her.  Wordlessly he held out the afghan, and she 
wrapped herself in it, coming over to sit beside him.

     "I don't think she slept much last night.  She seemed 
tired."  But Mulder wasn't paying attention to her words; half-
reclining on the couch, he seemed mesmerized by the dancing 
flames.

     In the distance she could hear the low rumble of 
thunder, and then the more immediate sound of rain pounding 
harder on the roof overhead.

     The anniversary of Samantha's abduction.  Today--
about this time, Scully realized.  The grief of his heart.  An old 
grief, but just as fresh as it ever was, today.   Scully wanted to 
do something for him, she just wasn't sure what.  Wasn't sure if 
it would be welcomed even if she did.  

     He broke the silence first.  "Well, Scully, I . . ."

     And then they heard it.  Sounds of thrashing and 
muffled struggles.

     Coming from Kate's bedroom.

     Both of them froze and Scully pulled out her gun.  
Mulder rolled off the couch, waving for silence.  They moved 
closer to the bedroom.  

     Then they heard the cries.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, November 27, 1997
11:21 p.m

     She moved restlessly on the tiny bed, not by cause of 
the lumpy mattress, and not by cause of the thin pillow.  The 
dream had returned, more vivid than ever.  Again this time, she 
heard him call, mangled sound of her name, and as before she 
opened her mouth to call his name.

     Replay, again, but she did not wake.  Did not wake, 
and in the self-aware part of her mind, cold fear shook her.  She 
could not endure the continuation of the dream, could not, 
could not, omigod, oh please don't.

     She called his name:  the voice of memory, not 
requiring thought of the sound she formed.

     And the garbled sound cleared.

     She called his name.  "Fox, Fox, help me . . .", now 
hearing the sound of her own voice, all the while watching the 
fear in his eyes, watched him frozen in that same white light that 
held her still.

     Knowing to call was futile.  Hopeless.  Merely twisting 
the knife deeper, yet still unable to stop the voice that called his 
name, over and over.  Her own voice.

     Knowing that he could not help her, despite her wish.  
Knowing he could not help her, though she did not doubt his 
desire.  Knowing to call hurt him, and she hated herself for it.  

     But all she could do was call, and so she did; over and 
over, as she drifted slowly, helplessly away.  Further and 
further, and then the pain began, not sharp:  but slow, and 
steady, and with its own smouldering fire; until she could not 
bear it, until blackness blurred his face as he watched and called 
for her, until she screamed, high and panic-filled, incoherent, 
and with her last effort she formed his name once again, the last 
time, as the pain grew in intensity and . . . .

     She woke.  Woke in the safehouse room, bare and ugly 
and safe.  Woke to see him standing there, and for a second his 
face bled into the memory of her dream, and she almost 
screamed again.  But he only stood still, with his partner, both 
looking at her in horror, as she sat shivering in a cold sweat and 
cotton nightshirt, freezing in the fire-heated room.

     Looking at her as if she were the devil incarnate.

     The woman visibly shocked and angry, and the man . . . 
his face was a mask of inexpressible cold.

     "What did you say."

     Not a question, not ground out as it was in that tense, 
low, barely controlled tone:  not a question but a demand.

     "I . . . I don't know . . . I was dreaming . . . I'm sorry . . . 
I didn't mean to wake you . . . I . . . " and she lifted one shaking 
hand to rub at the tears rolling uncontrollably down her face, 
closing her eyes against the pain in her head.

     "Get a hold of yourself, Samantha," her mind screamed 
at her, "this is far too humiliating, even for you."

     "Samantha?," the other half of her mind inquired, "not 
even your middle name, for all it feels right, omigod, I can't even 
remember my own name, I'm losing my mind, O 
pleasepleaseplease make it all stop . . ." and she opened her eyes 
and they were still there, and she was still in the hated little 
room, rain beating harder against the window, and they were 
still staring at her as you would a snake you wished to kill, 
hatred and accusation apparent in their very stance, and she 
couldn't take it, and her mind tensed, and flashed, and a 
suppressed talent, so long unused but so carefully trained, 
responded to instinct  . . . .

     She was across the room.  In a blink, the bright of a 
lightning flash.  She wrenched the door open, as they stood 
watching stunned, and she was running, blindly, through 
another door, outside, and kept going, bare feet cutting on rocks 
and stones; she slipped on the wet grass of the embankment, 
kept going, mind blank, filled only with the need to escape, as 
half her mind thought back to another, similar escape; nonono . 
. .  

     Her mind flashed again, and she was down the gravel 
road, sprinting into the woods, can't go back, never again, they 
know, they know, omigod, ogodogodogod . . . and she was in 
the woods, in the dark and quiet, but it was neither dense 
enough to hide her, nor open enough for her talent to take her 
safely.  She glanced around, sightlessly; mindless with terror, 
half her mind screaming for calm, the other half to keep moving:  
to stop was death, or worse, worse, worse, and she could not 
bear worse, not again . . .

     And now she was aware, as she heard the quiet sounds 
of trees and wind as she slowed, on feet that bled freely and 
slipped on unnamed softness, on leaves made slick by blood and 
rain; became aware of bone-numbing exhaustion from the 
unsparing exertion of a talent so rarely used, so draining of 
energy; and she was shaking as with a deep chill, while the cold 
November sleet bit relentlessly into soft bare skin and washed 
over warm salt tears.

     And in a small room in a rough cottage, a tall man 
turned eyes full of fury, shock, and something else entirely 
unidentifiable to a woman whose pale face reflected the same 
bewilderment, covered over by deep concern and fear.

     Both were still, and then the unidentifiable expression 
in the man's hazel eyes grew, softening the other two, eclipsing 
them in favour of hurt, and confusion, and anguish.  And he 
began to shake, and reached for his much smaller partner, so he 
could bury his face in her hair as he cried helplessly, falling to 
his knees on the floor, pulling her with him, while she wrapped 
her arms around him and held him close.  

     Outside, near a small stone bench, the cruel rain pelted 
down on a small patch of violets, ripping the flowers from the 
stalk and pounding the single petals where they lay, until they 
were shredded to pieces and the colour leeched slowly away.

-----------------------------xxxxxxxxx---------------------------------

To be continued . . . (just wanted to say that ).

End Part 6 of 21.  
_________________________________________________




********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 7:  Rosemary and Thyme ( Part 7/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously rated and disclaime)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.  BTW, if there is a part you are missing and 
would like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  
********************************
Chapter VII--Rosemary and Thyme

Remember me to the one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine.

--Simon & Garfunkle "Scarborough Faire"
________________________________________________

November 27, 1997
New York State
11:30 p.m.

     "I saw her Scully.  I saw her, and she was only eight.  
Still my little sister, just as I remembered her.  But now this 
woman . . .  how can this be?  How can it be?"

     Although a dreadful certainty had grown in his mind, 
and he knew very well that this could be truth, in spite of all 
else.  Wasn't that always the case?  

     He hated the nature of this kind of knowledge, the very 
essence of all he searched for.  Because it flew in the face of 
everything known, and safe, and familiar.  And although he 
sought out this truth, sometimes . . . sometimes he'd rather he 
was wrong.  

     Because in the end, knowledge was dangerous.

     And because, in the end, he did not want the dark truth 
he found.

     "Mulder . . .  it doesn't mean anything.  You're staying 
here to protect her, she's scared, and its only natural that she call 
for you--logical, coherent, smart actually."
     
     "Scully, she called my name.  My *first* name, Scully.  
I told her to call me Mulder.  I don't even know if I told her my 
first name.  In fact, I know I didn't.  Why would she call for 
'Fox'?  Why Scully?  She looks like Sam.  She even has the 
birthmark, stretched out as it would be if she grew.  It all fits.  It 
doesn't make sense any other way, not unless she's Samantha or 
someone who's supposed to fool me into thinking that she's 
Samantha.  Either way, I need to know."    

     Scully did not say anything.  Could not.  What was 
there to say?  He was raving, but very coherently.

     Then he sighed and crumpled for a moment.  Looked at 
Scully directly, raw and vulnerable.  For just that instant, he let 
her see beyond the mask.  

     "Why is this happening, Scully?"

     "I don't know, Mulder, I don't."

     Scully was having a hard time rationalizing, it all 
seemed to add up, and the night had been so bizarre.  She could 
have sworn that Kate's distress was genuine, but then the woman 
had . . . Scully didn't know anymore.

     She wished it were easier.  Her heart ached at seeing 
him so hurt, and although she knew how much he wanted to 
have found his sister, natural caution and fear for him would not 
allow her to let him leap into a situation like this without at 
least a warning.  

     But for now, it was past midnight, late November, and 
raining hard sleet.  And there was a young woman wandering 
out there, somewhere, alone in the dark.  A woman who was 
under their protection.

     "C'mon, Mulder, we have to go and find her.  Let's 
worry about the rest after, okay?"  She stood and held out her 
hand.

     Time stood still for a moment.  And then the moment 
passed and Mulder looked up into her eyes.  He nodded 
acceptance and his expression hardened back into that of the 
agent on duty.  In control.  He took her hand and rose to his 
feet.  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
November 28, 1997
Elsewhere
3:14 a.m. E.S.T.

     "I think we've located MSAT1121. It's in an abandoned 
cabin--"  The messenger panted, out of breath.  Another clone, 
built for strength and little else.  The group seated around the 
table turned away from this invader of their sanctum, who 
handed a folder to one man and then obediently withdrew as 
indicated.
     
     "Are you sure?  You've confirmed? After so long . . ."

     "We have definitive proof."  Three handwritten pages 
were pulled from the folder.
     
     The pages were dated, neatly, at the top:  *November 
27, 1997*.

     "The New York Bureau is hopelessly disorganized; the 
information was difficult to locate.  It's in an official safehouse, 
but one that should no longer be in active use.  The papers were 
mis-filed . . ."

     "It appears that she is indeed the one.  And she is 
beginning to remember.  An unfortunate situation, but one that 
will be dealt with in due course."

     "We think the other Mulder might be involved as well."  
A younger voice, tentative yet smug.

     "Young Fox Mulder?  Again?  I thought he had been 
taken care of."

     "Apparently not effectively."  

     One of the women glanced down the table, where a 
hunched figure nervously tapped a cigarette against a carved 
ashtray, and then quickly glanced away.

     "That boy has got to learn to avoid trouble.  It was 
always his damning inclination." 

     "You should have killed him when you had the 
chance."

     "Yes, well, these things are what you go to confession 
for."

     "Regretful that the assignment of SDK0223 didn't 
work better.  Pity it is so uncontrollable."

     "Subject BDR0808 prematurely precipitated its 
introduction to the second stage of the project, and I understand 
that was the problem."

     "At least BDR was terminated--it had the potential to 
create greater problems, despite its lack of means.  Clones are 
far easier to control.  Although our current rogue subject has no 
such lack of talent, unfortunately."

     "I take it you have located both of them?"

     "Yes, they are together.  We've just needed some time 
to prepare the proper facilities.  Now we are ready."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Somewhere in Northern New York State
4:24 a.m.

     In the forest, in the rain, the girl wandered: wet and 
shivering, lost; alone.  Eventually the rain had turned to soft 
snow and then stopped entirely, but she kept trembling, cold 
and ill.  Although the sun had newly risen and the forest had 
begun to warm a little, she could go no further.  Past caring, she 
sank down where she stood, at the foot of a tree, leant her head 
back, and let herself relax into sleep.

     The dream was strange, unfamiliar--neither the terror 
of before, nor the calm of happiness.  Just different.  Almost, 
but not quite, recognizable, and thereby unsettling.

     "Child, your hand is shaking.  The mark is there, do 
not deny it.  And the time is near."

     She was above, and watching.  She watched herself, 
below:  she stood in a bright, barren room.

     Herself in this room, and another.  A man, with a face 
of wrinkled lines and eyes of slated blue.  Serious eyes, but not 
unkind.  Serious words, but not unwise.  He was holding one of 
her hands, and was grasping the other wrist, so that her palm lay 
between them, face up.  The girl--well, guess she should stop 
thinking of herself as a girl--woman--*herself* and not herself, 
shivered in response to the words.

     Katherine listened.

     To her own voice.

     "It is a hand, no more nor less.  I have no power over 
events, so do not tax me with this.  It is not mine.  Have I not 
enough to worry about?  Have I not endured enough?"  And the 
standing girl, whose name was also Samantha, roughly pulled 
her hands away.

     Katherine ached with shared sorrow and sympathy.  
For the pain in the voice was her own, and she had the feeling, 
had had the feeling, that it was indeed herself who stood in the 
room.  Echoes of carefully locked memories, remnants of a 
better forgotten past. 

     "Child.  You know better than this.  This is why for 
twenty years we blocked both talent and memory, so that you 
would only recall when there was need.  To protect you.  But 
they have not let us wait.  I regret this truly.  I do not tell you to 
burden you, and had this been mine own choice, none of you 
would have to undergo this.  But neither of us have the choice, 
and so we must continue.  Protest merely wastes energy and 
breath, and is an ill-afforded indulgence.  I merely teach, and 
instruct, and inform.  The decision, the act, has ever been your 
own.  Soon you must choose; you can delay no further."

     "Indeed", and this last was said quietly, almost to 
himself, "delay has already cost us too dearly."

     Watching, Katherine sighed:  in chagrin, in remorse.  
For indeed she had been trained better than that, knew better 
than that, and self-pity is always unbecoming.  Doing so 
betrayed all that had been sacrificed for her, all that she was.

     Still, she couldn't help but feel a tiny bit of anger, rage 
that she should have to do this, that the burden was, and always 
would be, ultimately hers alone.  Annoyance and resignation, 
but only to cover the fear that would overwhelm if 
acknowledged.  Calm acceptance had never been her way, she 
thought with a pang, not like--*oh Deirdre*.

     Deirdre had been younger than she.  And so in love.  
Just like her namesake of so long ago.

     Deirdre, whom she had known as Kara.

     Queen of Sorrows.

     But for all of that, Kara had not heeded the warnings.

     Chosen, instead, to ignore.  

     So Kara was no more, and the task fell to her.  To do 
what she could, in the best way she was able.  To think on "what 
if's" and "perhaps" was a futile and self-defeating endeavour.  
But, oh, she wished . . .

     "Look to others for aid.  There are those that can help 
you."

     "The two government agents?  Is that who you mean?"  
She laughed derisively:  a harsh, brief sound in this unforgiving, 
silent place.

     "Child", he sighed, "you are too quick to judge.  It has 
ever been your way."  And something in the way he admonished 
her made Katherine's cheeks burn in shame.

     "Nevertheless, someone was dispatched to protect 
you."

     And Kate wondered who it could be.  Not the agents, 
then.  Someone else.

     Someone she could trust?  Maybe.

     "Now, my child", the man in the ivory robes said, "you 
must return."  
     
     The girl's face reflected terror.  "No!  Not yet.  I am not 
ready . . . "  But already everything was changing, whirling, and 
Katherine lost her sense of orientation; felt confused, 
disembodied in a way she had not yet felt, and the only thing to 
focus on was the face of the man, the man with the slate eyes 
turning now to darkest blue.  Eyes filled with deepest regret, 
and most warm compassion . . .

     And the girl once known as Samantha woke, shivering, 
with tears in her own eyes and a silent cry in her throat.  And 
the words came, whispered, lingering:  echoing in the forest 
leaves.  "You must choose; the time for delay is past.  Choose."

     She looked up, through the trees, to see the sun 
shining high in the sky.

     And made a decision.  Standing, she began to walk.  
Retracing, in heavy footfalls of quiet dread, the quick steps 
made in a flight of panic.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere
5:57 a.m.

     "It should have been extinguished the first time.  Half 
the reason it was returned at all was because you argued so 
vehemently for the exception.  Three years, you said, give it 
three years.  You stated then, and I quote, 'It is of no further use 
at present but still holds promise.'  Despite our policy, we made 
the exception--for the first time since the project had begun, 
may I add--and that has jeopardized us all."  The high-pitched 
voice, shaded with anger.

     A puff of cigarette smoke and an unfathomable 
countenance in answer.

     "You were wrong, and we pay for your mistakes.  
However, since this is the case, there is no reason we cannot 
still use it in some way before it is eliminated.  Because of the 
anomaly of the situation, it has provided some interesting 
results--particularly lately as we have not needed to be so 
circumspect.  Since it has been marked for destruction by the 
end of the year, we are provided with a certain freedom."  
Another voice, soft tenor, barely mollifying.

     A throat was cleared.  A light alto voice spoke; 
wondering, considering.  Analyzing.  "Can I ask, in the initial 
stages of the project, why did you not take the boy as well?  
Surely you could have found some use for him to justify the 
resources involved in an abduction? Or termination."

     A loud sigh.  "Well, you are new to the project.  We 
had considered it, and decided against at the time."

     A throat was cleared.  "I have often thought on that.  At 
the time, we decided we needed to keep one in the house for 
control--both scientifically and politically.  We like to have a 
control subject, whenever possible.  As she was younger, and as 
girls usually have more talent, we chose her.  It was just our 
luck--she had far more talent than we had dreamed.  Seems Bill 
was smarter than we thought--he hid it well.  Poor Bill."

     "Bill Mulder", a raspy baritone, "Mr. Mulder did not, 
shall we say, participate wholeheartedly in the project.  We later 
found that he had become completely paranoid about his 
children; had them tested every other month.  Not quite 
Munchausen by Proxy, but close--even though he had good 
reason.  And we needed insurance.  We asked him to choose.  
One child to keep for himself, one to give for us.  Told him it 
was one or both."

     "And so he did.  He chose to keep Fox.  Naturally, 
therefore, we planned to take Fox--we only wanted to know 
which child, if any, he preferred.  And so the arrangements were 
made."

     "Yes, I've been reading the reports.  Twelve is rather 
old--we've been taking them far younger, now."  The alto, young 
and confident.  

     The heavy baritone continued the interrupted brief, the 
cultured tone unheeding.  "But then we realized.  Samantha was 
his joy, his laughter.  Fox was his firstborn, the one he hoped 
would carry on--almost as he has, although not quite in this 
manner.  So which is more cruel to take, light or hope?  Light, 
naturally.  Without light, hope just twists the blade."  The tone 
gentle, contemplative; trailing off.

     A cough, and a husky voice attempted nervously to 
explain.

     "It was typical of Bill, actually.  He loved both his 
children, but for different reasons, of course.  Yet he chose to 
let go the one that, if taken, would hurt him more--typical 
Mulder.  Basically, when Bill chose, he did our work for us--all 
we had to do was trust his choice.  That's the interesting thing 
about the Mulders--they're so naively honest--they live the truth.  
*Their* truth, of course, but a truth nonetheless."

     The self-assured alto interrupted.

     "You must have realized he had an ulterior motive.  I 
think he hoped Samantha's power could prevent the abduction 
somehow--of course he was wrong.  An untrained child, no 
matter how talented . . . although it would have been worse for 
the boy.  To that extent Mr. Mulder was correct.  Regardless, it 
certainly didn't take us long to discover the extent of Samantha's 
talent, or the many beautiful possibilities she presented."

     "She was one of the more successful of the 'K' 
division."  The clear soprano, accented.

     The heavy baritone resumed.  "It was not so easy; he 
had made plans to hide the child from us.  We had not meant to 
take her so soon, wanted to wait until the spring.   But 
sometimes plans must change, and we try to remain as flexible 
as possible to allow for such contingencies."  He paused.  
"Although the subsequent loss of such a large segment of our 
merchandise ..."

     "The coup was greatly disruptive to our work," the 
tenor lisped.

     The speaker fell silent, seemingly lost in thought.  A 
man at the far end raised an eyebrow, and a rasping voice 
hastend to explain.  "At the time, of course, we had not known 
about any of that.  The abduction served its purpose, besides 
providing us with an extraordinarily valuable piece of new 
merchandise."

     The man paused to tap out his cigarette, then shook 
herself and continued the tale.  "Afterwards Bill began to resent 
Fox, even as he loved his son and hated himself.  The child fell 
into a fever after we took the girl, you know.  For a year Bill 
dragged him around from hospital to hospital, had the poor 
child subjected to all kinds of tests, scared to death that we had 
harmed his son as well--despite, might I add, our assurances to 
the contrary.  Guilt had begun to eat away at Bill.  Misdirected 
guilt can be a powerful thing."

     "Well, you had given the boy some powerful 
suppressants.  Some of the inmates we experimented on died 
from less.  You were fortunate really, at the time, that the boy 
survived."  The crisp alto:  critical while desperately smug.

     A gracious nod was granted to acknowledged the 
comment.  "You were instrumental in perfecting much of our 
technique.  It is why you have been invited into our circle."  The 
cultured voice not quite condescending, remindful.

     "And the child did not sustain permanent damage.  We 
kept our word", chimed in the tenor with an unrepentant smirk 
directed against the quelling gaze of the speaker.

     "The problem with Bill Mulder began around this time.  
His marriage fell apart, and he sent young Fox away to school in 
Boston.  That was when we started to realize just how important 
Fox was to the project, and not just to the experiment."

     "Mere mortality," agreed the soprano, "because Bill 
thought he really had chosen Fox over his daughter, even as Fox 
became his only reason in life--his pride, his meaning, his only 
object of love--over his wife, over the work he forced himself to 
do, over himself.  The perfect pawn:  Fox was all he had left to 
lose."

     "He practically lost Fox anyway, though;" an 
interjected rasp accompanied by the sound of a tapping 
cigarette.  "Bill was, I'm afraid, terribly hard on the boy--both 
before and even more so after.  And of course sons never react 
well to these situations--Fox, especially, being part of our initial 
subject group, was also quite bright.  The combination of love 
and resentment and impossible expectation  . . . after all that 
trauma . . . difficult for a child so sensitive."

     "Incidentally, that was when we found out Bill was the 
leak--it was finding out about his kids that put him over the 
edge--he had been terribly subtle, once.  And we were left 
sitting in the catbird seat, knowing that to lose Fox would ruin 
Bill entirely, and knowing he knew it.  Knowing too that he 
wanted to remain in the project, if only for word of his child.  
Aside from the fear we inspired, he would not personally allow 
himself to leave, if only as some perverse self-imposed sentence; 
the carrot dangling that he could somehow change past events, 
find some inconceivable remedy."

     "But we've all made sacrifices for the project.  The 
Mulders could not understand, and that was to be their lesson.  
They were lucky--we gave them almost two decades--time to 
have children, to raise them.  Anne and I hadn't nearly so long.  I 
gave her up, far before we could even consider having children--
Rachael never forgave me that either.  But Anne, had she a 
choice, would have understood.  She was so giving, my 
beautiful Anne.  So compliant."    A considering drag on the 
cigarette.

     "For sisters, they were very unalike."

     "Well, the Taylors always were an odd sort."

     "Yes, the Mulder child was one of our greatest losses--
she was lost less than two years into the project.  Not even 
completely trained, and in fact proving exceptionally resistant.  
She should have been terminated, like all the failed trainees, but 
she just had so much promise and so we hesitated.  This was the 
problem.  She'd been half-trained, but the final months of 
training are the most difficult.  The last few months break the 
subject's control, giving it over to us.  But she would not break--
somewhat, but not wholly.  And for it to work, we need all of 
the subject to be ours."  

     "You see, the final training of the subject usually 
involves breaking all ties with self, with the past, with memory 
or sense of ego."

     "We were not as skilled then as we are now, 
unfortunately, and she was rather old.  It has worked out far 
better with our current subject.  It destroyed the adoptive family 
quite willingly."

     "DAEM0327 is a hybrid, though--and therefore a 
special case."

     "Not by much, however.  We used mostly human 
genetic material--it was just enough of a hybrid to enhance 
ability and accelerate growth."

     "Well, in any case, it did not work with MSAT1121 
despite our best efforts.  We worked on the sibling bond first 
and it proved stronger than we thought.  Initially we did minor 
aversion therapy to build the required hatred and antipathy.  She 
was quite strong, though--seems she practically hero-
worshipped the boy.  Then we tried to get her to send him the 
dreams."

     "To make him believe he had killed her."

     "It didn't work, unfortunately.  He too had talent, 
although much less and latent.  He blocked the dreams, 
screamed for a week, and then made himself ill."

     "Stupid kid."

     Another of the men sniffed, examining his perfectly 
filed fingernails.  "A most uncooperative child.  The backlash 
nearly destroyed our subject.  And by the time it recovered from 
that first attempt, the coup was staged and twenty of our 
brightest subjects were gone, trained to hide from us."  A faint 
trace of peevishness.

     The speaker mused for a minute, lost in thought.  "Yes, 
well.  I am very pleased that you have found her."

------------------------------------------------------------------------
New York City
7:20 a.m.

     "Hi, Deb, this is Mark.  Listen, sorry to call you so 
early but something's come up and I won't be coming in today.  I 
may not be back by Monday either--if I'm not, reschedule my 
appointments for Tuesday and I'll call you Monday evening to 
let you know what's happening.  Sorry to drop this on you, but it 
can't be helped."

     "No problem, Mark--is there anything I can do?"

     "No, it's all taken care of.  I'll let you know more later.  
And Deb--thanks."

     Click.

     Deb hung up the phone, sighing happily.  It was great 
to work for someone like Mark. He was so considerate.  And he 
wasn't hard on the eyes, either, she thought with a sly smile.

     She frowned.  She hoped everything was okay, though-
-Mark hadn't in fact been around much alll week--but after all, 
his sister had just died.  

     Even so, he still came and worked; that Kate chick 
hadn't even bothered to come in at all this week.  Guess she 
thought she was special or something.  

     Poor John.  At least Mark called her; John didn't even 
know Kate was taking the week off until he was dealing with 
several irate clients and missed appointments that he hadn't 
known when to re-book.  What a nightmare.  Kate had to be the 
worst person to work for--she didn't know how John put up with 
it.  In fact, in the end it was *Mark* who'd informed John that 
Kate was taking the week off.  

     Hmm, if Mark didn't come in on Monday maybe she'd 
leave early and go shopping.  

     Buttoning her blouse, she turned to the calendar.  
Really, if Mark wasn't going to be in today, there was no reason 
she had to be there all day either, once all the appointments 
were rescheduled . . . and she didn't feel like doing extra work 
for the other lawyers.  More to the point, she thought 
defensively, it was practically December, and she had a lot of 
stuff to buy before Christmas.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Northern New York State
6:10 p.m.

     They didn't find Katherine until almost sunset; a 
pathetic, shivering heap on the forest floor.  She didn't seem to 
be aware of their arrival.  Mulder found her first and approached 
carefully, walking softly and slowly so as not to startle her.  She 
was incoherent and delirious, eyes closed, muttering to herself.  
His heart constricted as he heard her words.

     "Fox", she said, pale and trembling from hypothermia 
and exposure,  "I'm so sorry."  Mulder was stunned, even as he 
motioned for Scully to come, crouching down to soothe her, 
telling her to be quiet while his mind worked frantically to think 
of the right words to say.  Sorry?  For what?  What had she 
done?

     She was still murmuring.  "Didn't mean to, you know, 
didn't want to go, didn't want to . . . hated to leave you, all alone  
. . . we were going to run away together . . . far away . . . so sorry 
. . ."

     Mulder's heart ached for his sister.  His beautiful, 
intuitive little sister.  She had been stronger than him in some 
ways, and so easy to hurt in others.  She had always pretended 
better than him, was all.  Only an act.  And she had become so 
good at it.  What had she been going through for the past 
twenty-four years?

     Then Scully was standing beside him, her shadow 
falling darkly over the woman on the ground.  He reached out a 
hand to touch her cheek, to comfort her, to help her to rise; 
jerking his hand back as Kate--*Samantha's*--head jerked up 
and she opened her mouth to scream.

     Scully immediately crouched down, going into full 
doctor-mode.  "Katherine.  Can you hear me?  You're suffering 
from exposure.  We have to get you back to the cabin where it's 
warm and dry.  It's not that far.  Can you walk?  Good.  Come 
on, I'll help you up.  Here you go."  Scully slipped an arm 
around the taller woman, helping her to stand.

     Mulder watched passively, helplessly, while Katherine 
obediently stood on Scully's instructions, as docile as a small 
child.  Scully began to turn Katherine towards Mulder so that he 
could help support her, but as soon as Kate saw Mulder she 
shrank reflexively back from him.

     Mulder could not stop the instant rush of pain that 
flashed across his face, a flash that Scully saw.  But she did not 
react, merely indicated that he should pick up her flashlight and 
come along.

     And so he did, trailing slowly and quietly after the two 
women in the darkening gloom of the autumn wood.

-------------------------------xxxxxxx----------------------------------
End Part 7 of 21.
__________________________________________________



********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 8:  Kingdom by the Sea (Part 8 of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously rated and disclaimed)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.  BTW, if there is a part you are missing and 
would like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  
********************************
Chapter VIII--Kingdom by the Sea

*I* was a child, and *she* was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea . . .

--Edgar Allen Poe, "Annabel Lee"
_________________________________________________

Federal Safehouse
Upstate New York
November 29, 1997
9:26 p.m.

     They had settled Sam--or Kate, or whoever she was, 
God, he didn't even know--on the couch, pumped full of aspirin 
and liquids.  Scully had handled Kate, and so Mulder had built 
up the fire as asked and had let her do her thing.  An exhausted 
Scully had assured him Kate would be all right for the night and 
had gone to bed a half hour ago with Mulder's blessing--she'd 
been better, here, but he still wanted her to take it easy and the 
last couple of days had been anything but.  A frantic search in 
freezing rain was not very conducive to convalescence, in his 
medically untrained opinion.

     The cabin was silent now, with only the muffled 
sounds of night--soft breathing, wind and gentle rain, the 
occasional bird or animal--to be heard.  He looked across the 
room at the young woman lying on the couch, brow slightly 
furrowed.  Shocked at first, he was now sure in his mind that he 
had found her, more and more sure with every minute.  

     *Samantha.*  Who now called herself Kate, and who 
seemed to have little or no recollection of him beyond her 
dreams.

     He sighed.  What the hell was he supposed to do now?  
He had spent his entire life looking for her, and here she was.  
But this was not the sweet baby sister he remembered; no, this 
was a grown woman, successful and lovely and haunted by her 
own pain.  She might have loved him, once, but now . . . it was 
quite possible that she wanted nothing more than to forget the 
past and the family she had once known.

     It might even be easier to let her do so.

     But she was almost everything he had hoped Samantha 
would be, and finding her gave him a peace he hadn't known 
he'd lost.  Could he just let her go again?

     He sighed and decided to try to sleep.  Maybe, just 
maybe, his mother's words would hold true and this time, things 
really would be better in the morning.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
November 30, 1997
12:18 a.m.

     Mulder ran, heavily, through the woods; not caring 
where he was going, not caring where he'd been.  Crashing 
loudly over dead twigs and leaves, moving branches impatiently 
from his path.

     Mulder remembered his family before Samantha was 
gone.  When his mother would swing him and his sister around, 
and his father would sit in the background and smile tolerantly 
at them all.  When his mother was cheerful, and her eyes were 
filled with energy and mirth.  When he and Sam would fidget at 
the dinner table until his mother screamed at them, and then 
they would both exchange mutual grins of wickedness.  

     Before.

     After she was gone, everything changed.  Had, in fact, 
been changing that entire year.  His father had rarely been home 
that year, and his mother had become far quieter.  She laughed 
less, and more often than not her voice had that edge in it that 
the Mulder kids knew not to try.  Sam and he had become 
closer, spending more time together, asking their parents for 
less.  Had begun trying, in the way of children as they sensed 
the tension, to keep out of the way as much as possible.

     After Sam was taken, Mulder changed too.  He had 
been a popular child at school: he had been on several sports 
teams and, although somewhat unsettled in class, he was the 
delight of his mischief-loving schoolmates and his grades were 
fairly strong.  After, when he was released from the hospital, 
treated for a high fever, he barely spoke.  His friends drifted 
away, not understanding; although a few of them had tried.  

     A scream no other could hear.  A silent scream that 
echoed, over and over, in his mind.

     The first time he was asked to tell what happened; 
when they asked him to tell:  at first he did.  

     Before his father had looked at him with contempt, and 
his mother with disappointment.  Then, he had said nothing.  
Only that she was gone.  Nothing.  

     Nothing to the police, who had looked at him with 
suspicion.  Nothing to the doctors, who had looked at him with 
sorrow.  Nothing to the therapists, who had looked at him with 
pity.  Instinct and experience told him he would not be believed, 
and he could do without their disbelief.   Was, in fact, terrified 
of their disbelief.  

     His friends soon took to open mockery, and that not 
kindly.

     His parents, on the other hand, barely spoke to him at 
all.

     He could not have known, had never known, that his 
parents' contempt and disappointment was directed at 
themselves, not their child.

     Even worse, he was petrified that perhaps he had been 
wrong, that his memory *was* in some way flawed.  In all 
honesty, he could barely believe the story himself.  Especially 
as, if Sam had just drifted out a window, why hadn't he stopped 
her? 

     There had been one other time he had told, one other 
person he had ventured to trust:  a young, kindly nurse at the 
hospital, whose name had been Beth.  He had told her, 
haltingly; told her everything the day before he left.  Desperately 
wanting to be believed, terribly afraid he wouldn't be.

     When he was finished, Beth had gently asked him 
why:  if that were true, then why?  Children do not float out of 
windows.  If his sister had merely floated away, why hadn't he 
stopped her?

     A simple question.  Not disbelieving, not cruel, simply 
pointing out the logical gap.

     But he couldn't figure out why he hadn't.  Maybe he'd 
remembered wrongly, suggested Beth, because maybe he was 
scared of whoever took Sam.  Or maybe Sam ran away?  After 
all, the two of them had been fighting. 

     Except he knew that Sam hadn't run away, and he 
hadn't let her.  Had he?

     The one thing he *could* remember was Sam's voice: 
clear and vivid and haunting, calling his name.  

     Begging for his help.  Help he had not given.  

     Yet Beth's words sounded so reasonable, so believable.  
So he began to convince himself that he did, indeed, remember 
wrongly.  That someone had climbed in the window at night and 
taken Sam, and he had given her away because he was angry 
with her.

     In his darker moments, he remembered long ago 
wishing, petulantly, that his ultra-bratty younger sister *would* 
go away so that he could have the satisfaction of telling her he 
did not particularly care--it was a fantasy he'd often had, 
especially when he'd fought with her.  

     He remembered, that night, fighting with her, and 
wishing, and then . . .  after that, everything was a blur of 
fantastic events, and so he must be remembering wrongly, 
mustn't he?   

     It must have been his fault.
     
     Even though in his angry daydreams, she'd always 
returned, shame-faced and sorry.  That was the best part.

     Only the nightmares disputed their words--Beth's, the 
doctors', the therapists'--but then again, he never could 
remember the dreams clearly when he woke, screaming, in his 
mother's arms.

     He stopped having them in his later teens, and they 
didn't recur until he left home for Oxford.

     His parents changed too, after Samantha was taken.  
His father came home even more rarely, working longer and 
longer hours.  His mother never laughed afterwards, and if she 
ever did, it had a note in it that belied joy.  She rarely spoke 
with him anymore, except to tell him what to do, or only when 
something was wrong, and he missed her.  The only thing she 
wanted from him was for him to tell her what had happened that 
night, the truth he had not told the police; but he had nothing 
more to say to her.

     As for the rest, his doubts and suspicions . . . his 
mother was the last person to whom he could reveal his shame.   
And so he could not give her that either.  In time, her voice 
developed a bitter tone, and he began to try harder and harder to 
please her, knowing he never could.  His parents divorced 
shortly after Sam's disappearance.  

     After the divorce, his mother reverted to her maiden 
name, and had tried to build a new life for herself and her young 
son.  Tried, suddenly, to talk to him but he, not understanding, 
uncomfortable with the abrupt change, withdrew, and one night 
a fourteen-year-old Fox openly revolted.  Made everyone call 
him Mulder, not Fox, and refused to write his surname as Taylor 
on anything.  By high school he had immersed himself in a 
remotely rebellious phase--his grades dropped, he skipped 
school constantly, even smoked a little.  It didn't make much of 
a difference, though--his father yelled at him on visits, and by 
that time his mother had became lost in a world of shades and 
shadows.  He tried not to care.  

     His mother never stopped calling him Fox.

     Eventually he realized the effort was not worth the 
result.  His entire family had fallen apart, and what did it really 
matter, now, what they, or anyone thought of him?

     He did well in university, and received a scholarship 
for graduate work.  He remembered his mother laughing:  a 
genuine, pre-Samantha laugh, when he was accepted at Oxford.  
It was one of his most cherished memories.

     Before she died, Rachael Mulder, as much as he was 
loathe to admit it, lived only in a world of memories she had 
worked for years to forget.

     All she had left, yet all she wanted to rid herself of.  
And again, he had been helpless to do anything about it.

     He'd found Samantha, but, as always, it was too late.

     Selfish, Mulder, he thought--selfish, because she's 
returned and you are still dissatisfied.  

     But he still wished he'd found her earlier.

     And, the ugly, ugly thought--a thought he hated 
himself for--he wished she were different.

     A twig snapped under his foot, and a branch slapped 
him across the face, surely leaving an ugly welt.

     He kept running.  He ran, because he could not sleep.

     He ran, because he dared not do otherwise.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
7:45 a.m.
Back at the safehouse cabin

     "Mulder.  Mulder."  An insistent voice.

     "What?"  he asked groggily, rubbing sleep and foul 
visions from his eyes.  He moved his neck--God, that hurt.  Must 
remember not to make a habit of sleeping on chairs.

     "Did you sleep out here all night?"  

     "Um . . . no?"  He sat up straighter, keeping his voice 
low so as not to wake the woman on the sofa.
     
     "Mulder . . . "

     "Sorry ... if I say ten Hail Scullys will you be 
merciful?"  

     She looked at him.  Whoops, that did not go over well.
     
     He peered at her through hazy eyes.  Why did she 
always look so impeccably, freshly-pressed?  Couldn't she ever 
look less than FBI pamphlet-perfect?  It was annoying, to say 
the least.  Made him look bad.  It was a struggle just to keep up.

     She ran a light finger across his cheek and he shivered.  
"That's a nasty looking mark, Mulder.  What happened?"

     "Nothing, it's fine.  Ran into a tree."  He jerked his 
head away from her touch.

     She sighed.  "You know, Mulder, you're worse than . . 
. than . . . I can't even think of anything that remotely compares 
to you."

     "Why, Scully, are you saying I'm incomparable?"

     She reached out a hand to pull him to his feet, 
conspicuously overlooking his remark.  "Go shower, Mulder, 
we'd better leave soon.  If this woman is Samantha, we should 
go and run tests, make sure.  And I think it would be well if she 
saw a doctor, just to check her out, give her some vitamins, 
something.  Skinner called this morning; we're wasting our time 
here anyway.  The deaths have stopped, although there was one 
more found after we left--a Conrad Murray, 26, and a student at 
Ohio State."

     "Notice, Scully, how all of them have names that start 
with C or K?"

     "Point being, Mulder?"

     "As well, a lot of them have been in foster care, or 
adopted."

     "It's just coincidence, Mulder.  Or a serial killer with a 
fixation.  Mr. Murray was the last.  He had been dead a while 
when they found him.  No family, and he lived alone, so it took 
a while for anyone to notice him missing.  He'd been away on 
vacation, and was apparently notorious for skipping class, but 
when he didn't show up for an exam, people started looking.  In 
any case, since the Murray death, no other bodies have been 
found."

     She just looked at him, and the protest died in his 
throat.  

     "It's over, Mulder.  And the trial, which she was never 
in serious danger for anyway, starts next Monday.  We'll go to 
D.C., do a DNA sample, and get her off to New York in plenty 
of time.  She can stay at Quantico for a few nights."

     "Or with me."

     "If, Mulder--if she's your sister, if she wants to.  *If* 
you trust her."

     "Scully!"

     "Well, *do* you trust her?  I'm not so sure I do.  For 
God's sake, Mulder, she's not even the right age!"  She sighed.  
"Look, we don't know anything yet.  No," she held up a 
forestalling hand, "don't even try.  I haven't yet had any coffee, 
and I don't want to discuss it.  Get ready, and we'll deal with 
whatever when it occurs."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
3:20 p.m.
Quantico, VA

     He had given her photographs.  Photographs of a little 
girl with dark plaited hair, of a boy with hair just as dark.  A 
boy with hazel eyes.

     Her mind flashed back.  

     Fragment of a dream. 

     Kate looked again at the photographs.  Looked at them, 
took a breath, and tried again to deny.  Although the evidence 
was so clear, and it felt so right.  But she didn't want this.

     Looked at the pictures of the house, of the cottage, of 
the couple and of the children.

     Of herself, as a child.  An intense little girl with a 
serious young face and two long dark braids on either side.

     She was too young to have been this child.  She 
remembered not having a family.  She remembered her own 
voice talking to another about the past, telling them she did not 
remember, being told her name was Katherine Grayson.  She 
remembered, at sixteen,  running away from the institutions, 
telling anyone who asked that she was twenty, later changing 
her name to Jacobs.  Katherine Sarah Jacobs, because it was a 
pure name:  good.  Loving and beloved.  

     But sometimes . . .  

     The pictures, the pictures told another story.  Showed a 
little girl of about eight or nine; a little girl:  herself.  Or was it?  
Was her entire life a lie?

     To believe that once, once she had been called 
Samantha Anne, and had had a life filled with everything she 
could ever want:  a privileged, perfect childhood that truly 
belonged in a picture book of fairy-tales.  A life that she 
occasionally dreamt; a life she could no longer believe in.  A life 
that over the years, began to mist into a mythical subconscious, 
so that by the time she turned thirteen, she was no longer sure 
whether she actually ever lived it or merely wished that it were 
so.

     She used to tell others it was so.  She remembered . . . 
the group home.  Ten children, various ages, sitting, sharing 
tales.  Her own voice, spinning a tale.  The others would gather 
to listen to her tale:  rapt  attention.  It was a tale that every child 
there wished were true, a tale they all wanted to believe.  A tale 
no less fantastic than those in faerie-stories and fantasy novels.

     A life she did not truly believe in, a life that nightmare 
glimpses disproved.  

     "As for myself, I once had an arrogantly amazing older 
brother, a vivacious, fun-loving mother, a father with a deep 
voice and strong hands.  I had a home on a beautiful seashore, 
and a family that went on vacations in the mountains.  Parents 
who loved me, and a brother who teased me carefully, whose 
face fell in concern when I cried, who commiserated with me 
when I got in trouble.  Well, when we got in trouble.  I had a 
way of embroiling him in my escapades, and, being a few years 
older, he had a way of working out my wild ideas so that we 
could attempt to carry them out.  We were always caught, but it 
was fun while it lasted."  The child's face grinned at the 
recollection, and answering smiles were reflected in the faces of 
the others. 

     And the unspoken corollary, "They are coming to get 
me.  And when they find me, I'm going home."

     Sometimes, more often than not, she'd had nightmares 
about her time before, and although in her waking moments she 
could never clearly remember these dreams, on occasion she 
would wake, her face wet, her thoughts confused.  Vague 
memories of her beautiful laughing mother a silent ghost; her 
strong father a frightening, angry monster; the adored, all-
knowing brother a pathetically weeping heap whom she could 
not help, could not protect.  But these faint images faded with 
the light, with awareness, with conscious thought.  She held on 
to the memory of a perfect lovely life, because, more and more, 
it was all she had.

     But even when she grasped it, she knew, in her heart, 
that it was only a fantasy.  But now . . .

     A dream, or a memory?  Katherine did not know the 
answer.  Still.  She looked at the last photograph.  The boy and 
the girl, on a beach.  Smiling at the camera.

     As if everything in the universe was, and would always 
be, perfect.

-----------------------------------xxxxxx--------------------------------
End of Part 8.
______________________________________________

Date: Sat, 1 Nov 1997 19:54:42 -0500 (EST)
From: Euphrosyne 
Subject: NEW:  Fallen Cards (Part 9/21)


********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 9:  Where Shadows Lie (Part 9/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(*as previously rated and disclaimed)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude.  If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  
********************************
Chapter IX--Where Shadows Lie*

-- A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death?

--William Wordsworth (S. Coleridge), "Wee Are Seven"
*from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings
__________________________________________________

Elsewhere
Monday, December 1, 1997
3:53 a.m.

     Two persons in white coats stood in front of a one-way 
glass, observing the bound and screaming child.  

     "How is the subject progressing?"  The man had to 
raise his voice over the cries emanating from the speaker.   
Bending, he peered intently at the monitors which carefully 
measured and regulated temperature, humidity, and several other 
factors within the room containing the convulsing girl.

     The woman turned down the speaker before answering, 
and the piercing sound faded behind the soundproof glass.

     "Quite well, in fact.  Its control is increasing; we have 
kept its companion in stasis.  This model shows far more 
promise than any previously.  In fact, this particular subject has 
been instrumental in eliminating several of the rogues, and soon 
will be quite a useful tool on its own."

     "Hmph.  Quite an unassuming little thing, isn't it?"

     "Yes, and that is what makes it all the more effective.  
It is unique, there is only one other similar.  Each has been 
custom-made--first time we've tried this--we crossed it with 
some of the tailored DNA and used one of the second stage 
subjects for the main material. "

     "Really.  Very interesting--which?"

     "For this subject ... I can't remember--we had to store 
the material for a while, as I recall.  We weren't quite ready for 
the process--we had used one of the other subjects to assist--
BDR0808, as I recall--and it erroneously brought the subject to 
us early.  As a result, we had to work prematurely, and the 
original subject was almost destroyed, which would have been a 
pity, although it seems that they had intended such.  I had hoped 
to preserve it for later use, and was saddened to learn that it was 
not to exist past the initial testing.  However, I was informed 
that it did survive, had I any further use for it, and arrangements 
are being made in that quarter.  We've been quite pleased with 
the success of this derivative.  It was unfortunate that we were 
only able to obtain such few derivative subjects at the time--
although, with the time frame and lack of preparation, we were 
fairly lucky to get even the one.  Perhaps this time--I have been 
given freedom to do as I will, provided at the end of the year it is 
destroyed."

     "So what have you done with the original?"

     "I am unsure of its present location--I had asked for it 
to be brought back for final tests--I like to run a full battery at 
the three-year mark, if the subject still lives--and indicated that 
afterwards it should be slated for termination, as per usual.  
After the tests are completed, the subjects don't usually last long 
anyway.  They've brought it in a few times, but I still have some 
tests outstanding before it can be terminated.  Doesn't matter--
my job is to merely requisition the subject, whether or not it is 
provided is not my concern.  I do not deal with the procurement 
aspect, you know."

     "Yes, of course."

     "As for subject DAEM0327, we are planning to send it 
back out into the community with an alternate foster family.  
The Greys; seems appropriate."

     The other man grimaced.  "Cute.  Clones, then.  But I 
thought this had already been set up?"

     "Well, it was sent out a few years ago, we aged it at 
one year and had it adopted, through somewhat regular 
channels, in New York.  We paired it with another of the 
experimental subjects--one of our genetic experiments--that was 
turning out to be a failure.  We think the others had gotten a 
hold of it, perhaps.  This time we'll have more control."

     "That was the test, wasn't it?"

     "Yes, and it performed well--some initial resistance, 
but it responded well to the aversion therapy and persuasion--
chemical therapy was not even required.  Pity about the other 
subject, but it was not doing very well and was due to be 
terminated.  We were using it as the control, for a while, but it 
was starting to throw off its training."

     "Which was that?"

     "Oh, that was subject DCR0617--it was one of the 
more recent of the genetic experiments, derived from one of the 
failures of years ago."

     "A rogue?"  The man was startled.

     "Yes, but they felt the genetic material was exceptional 
enough to justify storage. I had reservations, but no one would 
listen.  Rogues rarely have successful derivatives."

     "And you had no problems with this one?"

     "Some, there is no way to prevent it, but nothing like 
with the Eve series.  This one is far more advanced than that 
crude model.  And, in the end some freedom of mind  is also 
necessary in order to maintain the deception.  At this stage 
though, the subjects can be unpredictable--and this subject is 
not yet three years old . . ."

     "But it looks just as old as my four year old."

     "Tessa's already four?"

     "Yes, Tess'll be five in January--she's in kindergarten 
now."  The man grunted and cleared his throat, uncomfortable 
discussing his family in this place, removed from all vestige of 
humanity, especially with this pale, shallow-eyed scientist.

     Terrible things could happen if the Syndicate began to 
pay attention to your children.

     But the scientist was more concerned with her 
experiment.  "Let me show you what we have done here--as I 
indicated, we have been very pleased with our success . . . oh, 
just let me stop this for a minute . . ."

     The woman turned a switch, causing the child's body to 
jerk once and then lay still.  Satisfied, the two observers 
prepared to leave as the child stopped screaming, opening dull 
blue eyes in the unnatural silence.

     And Anais lay there after they had left, lay absolutely 
quiet and still as she stared despairingly at the cold uncaring 
glass:  barred glass that showed her nothing other than a broken 
reflection of her own image.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
11:21 a.m.

     Katherine woke in an uncomfortable bed.  She didn't 
remember where she was, or why she was there.  She only knew 
that she was cold, and weak, and ached all over. Then 
realization flooded back.  She opened her eyes, and he was 
there, looking down at her.

     "Mark?"  He's alive! was her first relieved thought.  
And pleasure at his presence; she felt joy and relief and comfort 
to see him--it scared her, a little, she hadn't realized that she 
needed him that much.  But--how?

     "Can't I leave you alone for a minute?" he teased, 
concern shadowing his smile.

     "What are you doing here?"

     "I heard you needed some help."

     "How did you know I was here?"

     "I always know where you are--it's my job."  He 
grinned playfully at her.

     But a dreadful suspicion had begun to plant itself in 
her mind, and the well-loved smile had begun to assume sinister 
connotations.  How had he found her--and why?  Where were 
the FBI agents?  He had always kept tabs on her--and she didn't 
know very much about him, when she really thought about it.  In 
fact, no one did--it had been a bit of an office joke that he was 
such a mystery.  Oh God.

     Panic rose to gorge itself in her throat, and she dug her 
nails into the palm of her hand.  But she was too weak to escape 
and had few resources left with which to fight him.  She was 
trapped.  

     He was yelling at her. 

     "Katherine!  Kate!  Listen to me!  Don't!  I'm the one!  
Look!  I have the mark!  I'm the one!"  And he held out his hand 
to her, where a card bearing a faint pentagram glowed blue-grey 
upon his palm.

     "Lord in the night", she whispered.  "You know.  You 
know."  Panic was in her eyes, he held out a hand to forestall 
flight and sighed.  When had this become so complicated?  He 
hadn't meant to tell her like this.

     "Yes, I know.  I've known for a while--I was assigned 
to protect you for the last few years.  Unfortunately, 
circumstances have conspired against us."  Again that 
irresistibly crooked smile, and she relaxed a very little.  "But 
we'll talk about that later, shall we?  I think you need something 
warm and something medicinal, and we'll sort out the details 
later.  All right?"

     She could not agree--everything was happening too 
fast.  

     But then, she had never been given a choice.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
3:40 p.m.
Upper West Side, NYC

     She woke this time on a familiar couch, warm and 
comfortable but not at peace.  She could not stop remembering.

     Katherine closed her eyes against the memory.  A past 
she had tried to forget.

     She had been picked up, seventeen years ago, from the 
streets of Queen's Jamaica Heights, lost and shivering in a thin 
cotton shift.  Turned in by one of the wealthy housewives of the 
area, a woman who both pitied the pale, scrawny-looking child 
and who was simultaneously appalled and revolted at this 
reminder of lower-class humanity cluttering up her street.  She 
had called social services, and the child welfare authorities had 
picked her up.  She remembered that the woman had given her a 
cookie with a condescending smile on her face, clearly feeling 
proud of herself while relieved to have someone else to blame 
for the plight of this child.

     She had not even been able to recall her own name.  
Confused, dazed, she had sat silently through questions and 
reassurances and medical proddings.  But she had a tag around 
her wrist, a tag declaring her to be Katherine Anne Grayson, 
aged 12.  A thin, miserable looking child, though tall for her 
stated age.  They had put her in foster care.  

     For over two years she had surreptitiously begged on 
inner city streets; forced by foster parents who treated her, and 
the two other children in their care--sickly Robert, about her 
own age, and little Patrick--as commodities and servants.

     Flashback, to a time of survival and necessity.  

     "A dollar for my invalid brother?  A dollar, please, sir?  
How about you, miss?"

     The men who rushed by without stopping, the women 
who shook their heads in irritation.  But Katherine dreaded, 
more than pride, the consequences if she were to go home 
without enough.

     "Why not miss?  Such a good cause."

     Robert was far wiser than I, she thought.  He told me, 
once, that he never dared to wish for more than he had.

     She had been more foolish.  In her earliest memories, 
she thought that if she dreamt of something long enough, 
wished hard enough; if she could just believe, then everything 
bad would go away.  She had loved fairy tales, finding in them 
hope.  But nothing ever changed, and eventually, it hurt too 
much to hope.  Hurt too much to believe in anything but the 
bleakness surrounding her, the struggle that was her daily 
existence.

     She eventually learned to appreciate the little things:  a 
loaf of fresh, warm bread, bought covertly for fifty cents at a 
grocer's sale; a smile from one of the well-dressed, rushing 
people on Fifth Avenue; Robert's laugh on a good day when the 
pain faded.  In more she dared not believe.  Sometimes it 
frustrated her, but usually she was simply grateful to keep the 
nightmares at bay.

     And she no longer wished for what she could not have.

     Robert, who had died within the year.  

     That was the first foster home.  Eventually, with 
Robert's death, the truth was discovered and the placement 
changed.

     The next one was better, a rich, elderly couple whose 
own children had grown up and moved across country and 
abroad.  The Jacobs.

     Katherine remembered, at fourteen, wishing just a little 
that she really could have been their daughter.  That placement 
had lasted a couple of years, until the wife had a heart-attack 
and had to go to the hospital.  The husband could not cope, and 
she had been moved again.  Mrs. Jacobs' name had been Sarah, 
said lovingly over and over by the man who waited at her 
bedside day in and day out.

     She had visited the elderly Sarah only twice until 
another home could be arranged.  It made her teeth ache to see 
love and devotion like that: the waste of it all, as the woman in 
the bed slipped slowly and slowly away.

     The realization that such love would never be directed 
at her.

     When she was sixteen, Katherine ran away from the 
group home and never looked back.  

     She changed her name, turning her back on both 
childhood and forgotten past.  And she had vowed then never to 
think of them again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere
4:06 p.m.

     "Well, they've returned."

     "That should make matters easier."

     "Yes, indeed.  We are initiating phase one of the test 
within the hour.  We cannot locate MSAT1121, however.  But 
her absence fits in well with our plans."

     "Excellent."

     Papers shuffled and chairs shifted before the room 
became once again dark and silent, save for the garish red glow 
against the obsidian depths of the ash tray.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Upper West Side, NYC
4:59 p.m.

     "I'm sorry, Kate."

     "You have no right, no right at all!  You can't .  .  . "  
She could not seem to control her anger.  She didn't care about 
his reasons; she was tired of being used.

     "We are all sorry you had to find out like this, Kate.  
That we need to do this at all.  But it was necessary."  He looked 
at her.  "How much do you remember?"  

     She tried to relax, to calm down.  There was no time 
for this.  

     Mark, this was Mark.  She trusted him, she did.  There 
was no question.  She just did.

     She swallowed and spoke.  "Enough.  Not all, but 
enough.  I--" and she took a breath, "I remember Deirdre."  
Deirdre, whom she had later known as Kara.

     "Oh, Kate."

     "Yes, well."  And she told him about a dark November 
wood and the vision that she saw there.  

     "There is more.  Ben and Jimmy are both gone--as well 
as young Caroline."

     And Katherine closed her eyes against the tears as 
Mark told her all of it.  For the child, who They had named 
Caroline Rachael--a sick play on her mother's name, had been 
partly hers.  Her genetic makeup; as close to a daughter as was 
possible for her now.  So much promise, so much hope.

     But Ben had hoped to salvage the last child, Anais, 
and that had been his downfall.  Anais Evadne Margaret 
Davidson, as she now was, had been too far gone--was too much 
theirs to ever be a child again.  An engineered creation, there 
was little to salvage in the first place.  She was a pawn, a tool:  
no more.

     Even her name, Anais Evadne:  an uncertain sacrifice.

     Tragically, completely, and utterly theirs.  Anais, for 
all she looked like a baby girl, was deadly dangerous.  And Kate 
was assigned to destroy her.

     "I have a note from Deirdre.  It may give you strength, 
it may not.  But she wrote it for you, for this contingency.  She 
knew, as she always did.  Here.  I'm sorry, I can't stay.  I must go, 
it is too dangerous for me to be here.  Tell those agents that you 
should leave too--you've been in one place too long.  I'll join 
you later, as soon as I am able.  And Kate?"

     "Hmm?"

     "Good luck."  And in moments he was gone with 
merely a warm draft to mark his passing.

     Kate unfolded the note.

     *Kate, if you are reading this, it means that time has 
caught me up and I did not tell you what you should have 
known.  But although I appeared young, I was in fact older than 
you by many years.  I regret that it must fall to you to do this, 
although I am not sure as I write what it exactly it will be that 
you'll be asked to do.  I only remember, years ago, when I was 
first told.*

     *I felt that it was too long, but at the same time I was 
strangely ready.  Too long, too much denial.  I am here as I write 
this, preparing to prosecute the murder of a teenaged boy, a boy 
I could have saved, had I only cared enough to do so.  And the 
deaths weighed upon my conscience, a conscience I had in so 
many months, so many years, barely deigned to acknowledge.  
But I can hide no longer; I can not stop thinking of my mistakes:  
I have so little else to fill my days.  Long since have I refused to 
face what I see, if only because refusing to see was easier.  And 
if I was grateful for the first, I was both frightened and enraged 
by the other.  I thought that I could almost have been happy.*

     *However in the end, although I did not believe it at 
the time, I was happy, later.  I was, Samantha, and so will you 
be.*  

     Far too cryptic to understand.  But then she heard his 
voice then, faint and distant.  "See, Kate?  It is hard for us all, 
but I believe in you.  You'll be fine.  It all will."

     She could hear the smile in his voice and, in some 
small way, was reassured.

----------------------------------xxx-----------------------------------
End Part 9 of 21.
__________________________________________________



********************************
T h e  X - F i l e s
Fallen Cards
Chapter 10:  Dust of Snow* (Part 10/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized--'cause I still 
vehemently deny any knowledge of ever having owned the 
recognizable characters herein.  So there. )

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter X--Dust of Snow*

As merry Margaret, 
     This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.

--John Skelton, "To Mistress Margaret Huussey"
(*from the R. Frost poem of the same name)
__________________________________________________

Washington, D.C.
Monday, December 1, 1997
5:16 p.m.
J. Edgar Hoover Building

     "Scully, Samantha's missing."

     "What do you mean, Mulder?"

     "I mean, Skinner just got a call from Quantico; they 
were taking her dinner and she wasn't there."

     "I'll bring the car 'round front and meet you."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
7:18 p.m.

     "I'm sorry, Agent Mulder--I don't know how this could 
have happened."

     "No one saw *anything*?"

     "I've told you--I checked on her, she was sleeping.  I 
checked on her, she was gone.  That floor is security coded; no 
one gets in or out without being noticed and cleared.  There is 
no record of Ms. Jacobs--sorry, Ms. Mulder."  The agent looked 
sheepish for a second.  "She asked us to call her Ms. Jacobs.  
Sisters, eh?  They're always trouble."

     Scully put a warning hand on Mulder's arm, feeling the 
tense muscles beneath.  "Thanks for your help.  If you find 
anything, call."  She turned to Mulder.  "C'mon, Mulder, there's 
nothing else we can do here.  I'll take you home.  She's a grown 
woman;  I'm sure she can take care of herself."

     But they both recognized the fallacy in her statement.

     Mulder did not respond.

     And looking at his face, Scully bit down on her lower 
lip hard enough to draw blood.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Washington, D.C.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of Special Agent Dana Scully
Tuesday, December 2, 1997
1:29 p.m.

     "Dana Scully."

     Silence.

     "Hello?"

     "Ms. Scully."

     "Yes, hello?  Who is this?"

     "We believe we have something you need."

     "Who is this?  What do you mean?"

     The world telescoped to the voice on the phone, 
disembodied and distraught, and yet she saw everything around 
her in the clearest detail.

     "We have the sister.  And we want to trade."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, December 3, 1997
10:04 a.m.

     "Hello?"

     "Mom?  It's Dana."  She hated doing this.  But she had 
no choice.

     She had spoken with them for only a few minutes.  A 
few minutes that had seemed like an eternity in living hell, 
ripping apart her known life and replacing it with something 
terrible and ruined.  A deception, a destruction, a parody of all 
she held true and sacred and real.

     They confirmed that They had been using her for 
experiments, would go on using her as They would.  Because of 
her circumstances they had been able to go farther, try tests and 
perform experiments they could not have done on the other 
subjects.

     All the other women had died.

     She yet lived.

     But now They would prefer her to be willing.  Due to 
the nature of their experimentation, the final run of tests 
demanded compliance.  A certain degree of cooperation.  An 
active, willing participation by the subject would vastly increase 
both accuracy of results and would remove limits to certain of 
the tests.  So They had waited, left her alone for the last few 
days until they could provide a suitable offer for that 
cooperation.

     Make no mistake, They had assured her, if she did not 
agree, the experiments would continue--in a modified form, of 
course, for they would have to use certain drugs to ensure 
compliance, and these would skew the results.  Drugs would 
make her less aware, and certain of the procedures were 
perception tests, neither more nor less.

     The kind run by psychologists on their patients every 
day.  "Not harmful, really," they murmured.  "Just tedious."

     The price They had decided to pay for her compliance 
would be the return of Samantha.  They would have either or 
both, anyway, but if she said yes . . . They would not harm 
Samantha.  They would return her, safely, and take Scully in 
return.

     Could she trust Them?  Of course not.  But then what 
choice did she really have?

     "In truth," they said, "we are offering you an 
opportunity to be a part of something monumental.  You should 
be honoured." 

      Two full days, They had said.  

     "We'll give you two days.  And then, you will come to 
us, willing and free, and be ours.  Say yes, and the deal is 
struck."

     Midnight, December 5, 1997.  The day her life would 
end.  

     Oh, dear Lord.  Please.  Please, please not ...

     "Yes."

     So she agreed.  The only possible choice.  The only 
choice she could make.  The only thing that felt real, that gave 
her some control.  It was all a farce anyway, and she a puppet 
following only to say that she chose to follow, despite knowing 
she could do little else.

     She hit the speaker phone button as she sat on the side 
of her bed, arms wrapped around her waist to fend off the 
nausea she felt.

     "Dana.  How are you?"  Scully winced at the love in 
her mother's voice, but there was no other way, and so she held 
to her resolve.

     "Just fine, mom.  Listen, I need you to do me a favour."

     "Sure, honey, what can I do for you?"

     "I know I'd promised to come over for dinner this 
weekend and unfortunately I can't.  I'll be out of town on a case, 
and I won't be coming back for a while.  I was wondering also, 
if, possibly, you would mind taking care of a couple of things 
for me this weekend.  I wouldn't ask except that I'm really in a 
jam, mom."

     "Of course, sweetheart, I'd be glad to."  Scully could 
almost read the subtext, *I wish you would take better care of 
yourself, dear; I wish you wouldn't work so hard, dear; I wish 
you would get a life, dear.*

     Although that was unfair; her mother had never said 
anything of the kind; had in fact always been supportive of her 
only remaining daughter.  Even when she didn't quite approve.

     "Thanks, mom, that'll be great.  I'll leave a list of stuff 
on the dining room table before I leave, so if you could come by 
Saturday or Sunday that would be great.  I'll drop the extra key 
off day-after-tomorrow."

     "What time are you thinking, Dana?"

     "Late morning?"

     "I'll have lunch waiting."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
Wednesday, December 3, 1997
10:52 a.m.

     Mulder had wanted, that morning, to check the room 
one last time.  There was a despair in his eyes that Scully could 
not defend against, and so she'd agreed, knowing they wouldn't 
find anything.  Silently, painfully, they had driven out together, 
Scully not trusting Mulder to drive.  Not really trusting herself, 
in the end, either.  She drove anyway. 

     On the security level, they waited as they went through 
an elaborate security clearance, stepped up in the wake of the 
disappearance of a protectee.  As they gathered their stuff and 
the door to the floor was opened, they heard voices.

     "Scully!"  And Mulder, without a thought, grabbed his 
gun from the table and dashed off down the hall, Scully only 
moments behind him.

     "Hands in the air!" 

     Both Mark and Kate looked towards the doorway to 
her room where the FBI agents were both standing, weapons 
drawn and cocked, faces stern.  Mark looked apprehensive and, 
for a split second, the room was filled with crackling tension.  
All of a sudden the sheer absurdity of the situation struck Kate 
and she couldn't help it.  She giggled.

     And while Scully looked both relieved yet strangely 
saddened, Mulder looked like she'd always remembered her 
brother looking.  He looked a little sheepish and mostly 
disgusted.  And quite a bit put out that he'd been wrong.  

     "Agents Mulder and Scully, may I introduce you to my 
supervisor and good friend, Mark Stephen Matthews.  Mark, 
these are the agents assigned to watch me, Mulder and Scully.  
More than that I do not know, and could not begin to tell you."

     Scully, watching from the sidelines, looking at the 
scruffy-looking man and the cheerful, happy Samantha, could 
only think one thing.  *Bargain struck.* 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, December 4, 1997
Washington, D.C.
4:15 p.m.

     Margaret sat on the park bench, contemplating 
peacefully in the late afternoon sun.  Dana had come over for 
lunch, and it had been lovely.  She hadn't seen Dana in so long, 
but she'd stayed for three full hours.  She was flattered that her 
daughter had taken time off work to visit.  She knew how 
important career was to her baby girl.  She closed her eyes and 
turned her face up to the sun.

     A child's voice spoke to her, and Margaret smiled 
automatically, opening her eyes before she gasped in shock.   
Because this was the child from her dreams.  She shook off her 
sudden chill, and smiled again at the little girl.

     "Hi."

     "Hi."

     "And what's your name?"

     "Anais Evadne Margaret Davidson.  What's yours?"

     "Margaret."

     "That's it?"

     Margaret laughed.  "I'm afraid so."

     "Even my sister's name was longer than yours."

     "What's your sister's name, honey?  Is she here with 
you?"

     "Caroline.  Caroline Rachael Davidson.  She didn't 
look like me, though."

     "Doesn't she?"  Absently, Margaret corrected the child.  
The child, in the manner of all children, did not seem to notice.

     "No, she didn't.  She had brown hair.  She's dead now.  
I killed her."

     Shocked, it took a moment for Margaret to find her 
voice.  "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sure you didn't do anything of the 
kind."

     "I did."  The little girl stamped her foot.  "I did, I tell 
you, just like I was supposed to.  I did a good job, too.  She 
couldn't do it, and so she had to be killed.  They told me, and I 
did.  I'm a good girl, I do what I'm told.  I'm the best.  Everyone 
says so."  And she ran off to the swings.

     And Margaret could only look after the distant child in 
horror.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement
10: 18 p.m.

     She looked around the office for the final time.  She 
would not be returning.  That was the deal.  

     You're not even sure she was taken, a voice whispered 
in her mind.  She said she went willingly.  Maybe . . .

     But the proof was incontrovertible.  There was no 
other way.  They really were that powerful, and she had never 
been one to hide from a truth.

     She looked around his office one last time.  Two days 
had not seemed long, at the time, to finalize all her affairs.  But, 
when it all came down to it, two days was really plenty of time.  
There hadn't, sadly enough, been that much to do.  Her 
apartment rent was taken care of--she always gave her landlord 
post-dated cheques on the first of the year.  Her will was up to 
date--most of her stuff would go either to her mom or Mulder, 
with legacies and bequests to her godson, nieces and nephews.  
Her brothers got a mention as well, but there really hadn't been 
anything extra to update in the past three years.  Her life was 
pretty static.  

     As for work, her resignation lay, in triplicate, on the 
top of Skinner's desk, with an extra copy on Kim's, just in case.  
Mulder, too, received the benefit of a copy.

     Mulder.  She'd wanted to call him, but simply couldn't.  
Instead, she had been doing a pretty good job of avoiding him 
the last couple of days.  Fortunately, with Samantha's 
disappearance and reappearance, he'd been too distracted to pay 
it much mind.  So she'd taken the coward's way out and left him 
a letter.  Neat and perfect.  Sitting gracefully on his desk, a 
piece of cream linen bond covered in sharp black ink.

     A letter of farewell.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Office of Special Agent Fox Mulder


Mulder,

Undoubtedly you will be alarmed by my resignation, and upset 
that I have not heretofore discussed this with you.  However, 
circumstances have precluded such a discussion, and I can only 
imagine how such a conversation might have played.  Suffice to 
say that I think we are both better off without.

They have called me and made me an offer.  My willing body for 
your sister's.  They will do what They like regardless, and I have 
made the only possible decision in this world where the rules 
have been devised by those without morals or conscience.  The 
only choice that affords any degree of certainty.  It angers and 
grieves me equally that this is so, but if I have learnt anything in 
the past five years, I have learnt that we cannot deny the truth.

Mulder, I have never doubted the strength of your convictions or 
of your faith in the existence of the truth.  I have felt this faith 
and it has become, in its own way, a truth in my world as well, 
becoming something I have, over the years, learned to recognize 
as pure and good and this has lent me its own strength.  I hope it 
will continue to do so now, today and in the days to come.  As 
such, I rely on you to find that truth, and only regret that I 
cannot find it along with you.

I know that you will feel in some way responsible, and I beg that 
you will not.  Know that this was my choice, mine and mine 
alone.  If there was some other way, some way that you could 
have changed events, I know that you would have done so 
without a second thought.  Please remember that I trust you 
enough to have asked, had that been the case.  But it is not.

I also know, had this been your choice, or had I asked your 
opinion, my decision may well have been different.  But I chose 
*this* way, weighing all the evidence and thinking through the 
situation as carefully as any good analyst would do.  I hope that 
you will, in time, come to respect this decision and realize that 
it is the best way, the only way, for us all.

For myself, I am happy to have seen you put to rest a quest that 
began so long ago and that has ended with such success.  I trust 
that you and Samantha will get to know each other and that you 
will begin to know the happiness you have always sought.

Finally, Mulder, as a friend, I would ask that you watch over my 
mother.  I know she loves you as much as she ever loved me, and 
it would lend me some measure of peace to know that she could 
depend on and trust you as I have learnt to do.

Be well.

All my love,
Dana K. Scully

-------------------------------xxxxxx-----------------------------------
End of Part 10.

How gauche is it to beg for feedback at the end of the part as 
well?  Nevertheless I whine at you.  I snivel at you.  I grovel at 
your feet.  Please write me?
_____________________________________________





********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 11:  When Rivers Rage (Part 11/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter XI--When Rivers Rage

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold.
And Philomel becometh dumb.  
The rest complains of cares to come.

--Sir Walter Raleigh, "The Nymph's Replyy to the Shepherd"
______________________________________________

Friday, December 5, 1997
At a prearranged classified location
12:01 a.m.

     "Welcome, Ms. Scully.  We are most pleased to have 
you join our Project."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of Asst. Director Walter Skinner.
7:57 a.m.

Dear Sir,

I have tendered my resignation with regret, sorry I cannot give 
you proper notice or explain the matter to you in person.  
However, the situation has been created not of my own doing 
but by the same men that you and I are both aware of:  men 
without conscience, without morals, without consequence.  Men 
outside the law and beyond justice; men who take power and 
use it without thought of repercussion.  

     I have recently learned that these men want something 
that I have.  They have the means and ability to take this from 
me, or I can choose to give it to them.  For the latter they will 
give me something in return.  A guarantee.  A guarantee of the 
life of another.  Given these alternatives, my choice is clear.  I 
trust that you will understand this, and will make the 
appropriate arrangements for my resignation.  Severance pay and 
benefits should be sent to my mother, if you would.

     Sir, in the years that I have worked at the F.B.I., I have 
always had a great respect for you.  Thank you.

Sincerely yours,
Dana K. Scully.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:02 a.m.
Basement

     Mulder stared at the piece of paper in his hand.  He 
had read it over, carefully, after his first panicked glance, and 
then read it again.  The words did not change, did not alter but 
remained in their same precise, black gouges marring the pale, 
thin sheet.  This was not happening.  

     His hand was shaking; he thrust it in his pocket with 
the letter crunched in his fist.

     The phone rang, and he reached for it from force of 
habit.  "Mulder."

     "Agent Mulder, I'm glad you're in.  Assistant Director 
Skinner wants to see you as soon as possible."

     "I'll be right there."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
10:13 a.m.

     "They've taken Scully."

     "Oh, God.  Oh, Fox."

     "She agreed.  She traded.  A fair deal."

     "Agreed?  She gave herself to Them willingly?  Why 
would she do that?"  Kate suppressed a shudder.

     "They offered her a life."

     "A life?"

     "There is only one person who was missing this week.  
Only one."

     "Oh, God Fox.  You think it was me.  You think she 
traded herself for me."

     "I think They told her They would return *Sam*."  His 
eyes blazed, bored into Katherine, then Mark.

     "But I was . . ."

     "They lied. Dammit, They lied!   Samantha was with 
me.  They never had her at all."  Mark's rage:  quieter, slower to 
rouse than Mulder's.

     "Oh my God, Fox," Katherine's shocked whisper.  "Oh 
my God, do you know what she's done?  Oh my God."

     But Mulder's eyes had narrowed, and his voice grown 
deadly quiet.

     "How do I know that They lied?"  The voice of danger.

     "Fox . . . "

     "What do you mean?"  Confusion on Mark's part.  He 
did not understand her brother as she did.

     "I mean, how do I know that you're not part of it.  One 
of Them."  He paused, took a step forward.  "Maybe.  *They*.  
Didn't.  Lie."  

     The voice was even, brittle, measured.  A blade poised.

     "You can't seriously believe that I . . . I can assure you . 
. ."

     "I don't *trust* you!"

     "Fox."  She laid a conciliatory hand on his arm.  "Fox.  
I trust him.  You can too."  Momentarily halted by the touch, he 
gazed down at this new distraction with suspicious eyes.  A 
strange woman.  Katherine.  Katherine's voice.  Katherine's face.  
Not his sister.  He barely trusted *her* either.

     He had been duped before.     

     The only one he trusted was gone.

     But . . . but this *was* his sister.  His *sister* . . . 
Samantha . . . Samantha.  He smiled and relaxed.  Of course he 
trusted her.  He could not doubt *her*.  

     Samantha.

     "Okay.  All right."  He took a deep breath.

     So then the only thing left to do was find Scully.  
Because he couldn't lose her.  Not yet.

     He *wouldn't* lose her.

     "We're going to find her."  Echoes of the past.

     They settled down to make plans.

     After Mulder left, Mark turned to Kate.  "Katherine.  
Katherine, he *cannot* know." 

     "I know."  But her voice betrayed doubt.

     "He will not understand.  This must be done, but it can 
only be done by you and I.  Just the two of us.  And in the end, 
it will be done by you alone.  I haven't the ability.  It *must* be 
so."

     Mark forced belief, forced conviction into his voice.  
They must not falter.  

     She could not fail.  

     He paused, and she was silent.

     "Katherine.  We must be cautious.  It is imperative.  I 
know it is hard."

     Could not risk failure.

     She nodded again, and spoke.  "I know.  I will not tell 
him."

     Kara had failed.

     He caught her eyes.  "It is better this way."

     Kara had failed, and had paid. 

     He held her gaze.  "It is not a truth for him."  

     They had all paid.  

     She did not flinch.  "I know."  Blue eyes burned into 
his.

     He lowered his gaze.  He could not look at her.  He 
hated himself.  Compassion would weaken her.  It had 
weakened Kara.  

     She spoke again.  Her voice was small, but she did not 
flinch.  "Mark.  She gave herself up for me.  Knowingly, freely.  
She gave herself over . . . to *that*.  For me.  For me."

     "She gave herself over because you are his sister.  
Because he loves you.  Not only for yourself, but for him.  
Because of him."

     Could he not give her that little?

     "How does that make it better?  She has given herself 
for me, and I am betraying them both."

     He looked at her again, searchingly, before placing his 
hand over hers as it lay clenched on the rough wood of the table.  

     And looking at her face, cold and set, he could find no 
further words to speak.

     So he was silent, with only the lights buzzing overhead 
and the harsh sound of Kate's gasping breath to break the quiet.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fairfax Mercy Hospice
Subbasement
Restricted Access Only
12:03 p.m.

     "Agent Scully, welcome, we are quite delighted that 
you have chosen to join our little project."  Large white teeth 
bared in a smile.  

     "It is not often we get a willing participant."  Another 
smile flashed.

     "We have great hopes for you, Dr. Scully.  Great 
hopes.  You should be honoured to be a part of something so 
monumental, so immortalizing.  You have made a wise decision.  
This, of course, is a temporary facility.  We will be moving you 
to our main site soon.  We just wanted to introduce you to 
certain members of the project beforehand, as some of them are 
not able to attend at the main facility.  Obligations and the like, 
you understand."  Her 'host', the tall mustached man.

     Ten pairs of eyes turned and glittered expectantly at 
her.  Scully wanted to scream; instead she swallowed and 
managed against the constriction in her throat to speak.  "Of 
course."  

     To say anything more was beyond her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of Asst. Director W. Skinner
2:48 p.m.

     Skinner turned in his chair. "I called this meeting for a 
very specific reason."

     "Of course you did.  But I can be of no help to you."  
Ash fell upon the desk, marring the smooth surface.  

     "Don't lie to me, you son of a bitch."  Fingernails 
digging into the soft leather arms of the chair.

     "Temper, temper, Mr. Skinner.  However, in this case it 
will avail you nothing.  It is out of my hands, even had I wished 
to assist you.  I may have helped you, had I been able.  I liked 
her, but this time there is literally nothing I can do."

     "Then I have nothing further to say to you."

     "Well, Mr. Skinner, as always, it has been a pleasure."  
And he stubbed out his cigarette slowly before turning and 
leaving the room. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time:  Unknown
Location:  Unknown

     She woke, lying and covered in a dimly lit room.  
Alarmed, she jerked awake only to find that she could not move, 
could not sit up.  Bound to a hard surface.  No concept of time.  
Everything hurt, but she concentrated on the pain.  Pain kept the 
mind blank.  Pain forced away the horror of realization.

     A voice spoke.  "You are fighting.  These are not the 
terms--remember, your compliance has been bought and paid 
for.  You will not be punished, for now, but if you cannot 
control yourself, the deal is off.  Keep in mind that this was by 
your choice.  You are not now permitted to renege without 
consequence."

     Her clouded mind tried to remember.  The voice was 
right.  She had agreed . . . . couldn't recall exactly, but she did 
know she'd agreed.  But the pain . . . she just wanted it to stop.  
She'd change her mind.  She would . . . what . . .

     Slowly, she remembered.

     Mark. Katherine. Samantha. 

     Mulder.

     She must hold to the bargain.  

     But she prayed for the release of Death.

     The only possible release she had left.  Her only hope 
for escape from this nightmare.

     "Another such incident will not be tolerated."  The 
white light over her head clicked on, was moved into place, 
shone mercilessly down.

     Lying quiescent on the table, the former Agent Scully 
concentrated on trying not to shudder visibly.  Or scream.

     Because, once begun, she'd be beyond stopping.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, December 24, 1997
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement
6:18 p.m.

     It was dank and cold in the basement.  The heating 
down here was not the best.  He knocked on the door.  Mulder 
had been missing appointments or simply not answering the 
phone.  It was time to put an end to this.  He would not have it 
continue.  There was no answer, and he opened it to see Mulder 
slumped at the desk, staring sightlessly at the file opened in 
front of him.

     The agent looked up.  "Sir."

     "Agent Mulder, you're being reassigned."

     "Reassigned?!"

     "Yes."  

     "You can't mean that.  Scully is still missing!  I've still 
got . . ."

     "What do you have, Agent Mulder?  I'll tell you.  
You've got *nothing*.  Nothing, Agent Mulder.  It's been over 
two weeks and you don't have even the slimmest lead.  You've 
had ample opportunity to explore all your resources.  Mulder, 
there is nothing left to do."

     Skinner paused before continuing in a somewhat lower 
tone.  "I mourn her too.  But she's gone.  She chose her path, 
Mulder.  Freely and openly.  I want Them to pay also, but I will 
not destroy myself and my work for revenge.  In this case, They 
have won.  And life goes on.  Let it go, Agent Mulder, let it go.  
It's Christmas Eve.  Go home, enjoy, and when you return, you'll 
start on this case."

     "Here's the file.  Your flight leaves at 9.a.m. sharp, 
Monday morning.  Go home, Agent Mulder."  And Skinner 
threw a file onto the cluttered desk before leaving the freezing 
office.

     End of discussion.

     He was right, Mulder thought bitterly.  He had tried 
every option.  Begged on Senator Matheson's doorstep.  Called 
in every contact, every friend.  Begged his blonde informant for 
any scrap of information.

     "I'll do anything", he said.  "Anything," he told them.  
"Anything at all.  Just give me something."

     Across the board, unilaterally, unanimously, he'd been 
refused.  Harshly, firmly, sympathetically.  

     Undeniably refused.  And now he was reassigned as 
well.  Skinner had been his last, his final support.

     Mrs. Scully had called him, once, asking if he had 
known anything, looking for answers.

     He had none for himself, and none to give anyone else.  

     She had called at a bad time.  Selfishly, he had not 
been able to say anything that could give her hope, would give 
her comfort.  Only the bare and bitter truth:  nothing.  She had 
not called him again, and although he longed to, he was afraid 
to call her.

     So he had not spoken with her since.

     He wanted, more than anything, to be able to freely and 
honestly give her the answers.  If only there were any to give.

     But in this instance, Mulder would not, would never, 
accept defeat.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time Unknown
Location: Unknown
Solitary confinement room

     "Mulder?  Mulder, I'm tired.  I don't want to stay."

     "So come home."

     "I can't . . . . "

     "Why?"

     "I . . . I don't remember."

     "Of course you do."

     "No . . . I don't.  I don't."

     "Because of Sam.  Because They are who They are.  
Because They will do what They will."

     "Yes."

     "Because you bought a guarantee, the only guarantee 
you could."

     "Yes."

     "Mulder, will you stay?"

     "I can't, Scully."

     "Please, Mulder.  Please."

     "I'm not really here."

     "Mulder?"

     No answer.

     "Please, don't go . . . come back . . ."

     Her voice was a whispered breath in an envelope of 
silence.  She struggled to make it stronger, stronger so he would 
hear.  He *had* to hear . . .

     She was in a cell, chained to a hard pallet.  Chained for 
punishment, because she had not been fully cooperative.  
Although she had tried.  

     Alone, and Mulder could not come.

     There was a sound at the door, and then it swung open, 
and she squinted her eyes against the light.  They were back, Oh 
God, They were back.  Too soon.  Too soon.  She wasn't ready . 
. .

     "Please", she moaned, "please.  Not now.  No more."

     "Tsk, tsk, Ms. Scully.  Such a display.  I had expected 
more from you than this."  The tall man entered, slim and 
impeccable, wearing a long dark coat.  Under the perfectly 
trimmed mustache, his lip was curled in derision at the sight 
before him.

     Scully had not showered in days, although she had the 
option.  Her hair hung lank and limp, tangled.  She had not 
bothered to change her clothes for the past three days either.  
Her voice was weak, and she smothered a hacking cough.

     God, she was just like the others.  Weak and pathetic, 
instead of noble and brave.  A sad state of affairs when the 
subjects to the Project had to be . . . *this*, instead of the kinds 
of subjects he would've liked to see.  Strong.  Honourable.  
Willing to sacrifice their very being for the Good of All.

     Not this reprehensible scene.  

     He spoke again.  "Pray do not whimper in that fashion.  
I cannot abide it.  I sincerely hope that this . . . this tendency to 
wretchedness is not hereditary.  But as it happens, I merely 
wished to introduce you to someone; testing is over for today.  
Come with me then."  

     She shifted slowly, sat up.  She knew she deserved his 
scorn.  She would try, however, not to incite it further.

     She looked up.  "I know you . . . I can't remember . . . 
who . . ."

     "Do let us go, Ms. Scully.  I have a schedule to keep."  
The voice was impatiently contemptuous.

     She stood, clutching the wall, nearly crying out, 
closing her mouth against it.  A small mewling noise escaped 
despite her efforts; she bit her lip against it.

     Carefully, silently, she shuffled behind him down the 
hall, staring at her feet.  No point in looking up, dreaming of 
escape.  There could be no escape.  Not this time.  Not for her. 

     He took her to a room.  An empty room.  An 
observation room, with a large one-way glass looking into an 
adjacent playroom.  A little girl sat in the other room, giggling 
by herself.  Hair in ringlets, dressed impeccably in a smocked 
white cotton frock.

     Alone.  Lonely, in a room piled high with every toy a 
child could wish.

     "See that child?"

     "Yes."  

     "She's yours."

     No response.

     "That's your daughter, Ms. Scully.  Do you not see the 
resemblance?"  Was the woman dense, or just stupid?  He 
shrugged and continued.

     "From what we can tell, she looks remarkably like you, 
or perhaps more like your sister did as a young child.  You may 
go in to see her now, if you like, or we can bring her to you 
later.  As long as you do not upset her.  Her environment is by 
necessity carefully controlled.  We thought today might be apt--
it's the 25th."

     He paused; the woman's blank stare had not wavered.  
"Christmas Day."

     She spoke, a shallow gasp.  "My daughter?"

     A spark of interest.  He had begun to despair of her 
reported intelligence.

     "Yes.  She has done well, one of our finest creations to 
date.  We promised her a visit with her mother, as a reward for 
good behaviour."  

     "You're lying."  The barest thread of whisper.

     "You do not believe me?  Well, here is the file.  All the 
proof you need.  Blood tests, D.N.A. the works, as it were."  

     Shaking hands tore open the file, examined impossible 
evidence, lying documents, doctored test results.  She would not 
believe it.  Could not.  Refused to believe.  

     "Really, Ms. Scully, control yourself.  Why would we 
lie, now?  What purpose could it serve?  We have all we want 
from you.  We have all of you now.  There is no reason for us to 
create such an elaborate deception.  No point in wasting the 
resources.  We would not bother to show you this, except that 
we told her she could see you.  The child *is* yours, whatever 
you choose to deny.  Your daughter, your flesh and blood.  
Your own."

     "My daughter?"

     "As much as she can be said to be anyone's child.  She 
carries your basic genes, your D.N.A.  Thus, she is yours.  In 
fact, you should be proud.  She is special.  There is no other like 
her in existence."

     "My daughter.  Oh  God."
 
     "Honestly, Ms. Scully."  The man made a disgusted 
noise, somewhere between a sniff and a snort.  "Here, take this 
handkerchief.  This is truly unsightly.  Please do try and control 
yourself.  Every woman wants a daughter.  Here you have one.  
You should be happy."

     She looked down at the child, playing happily in the 
room filled with toys.  Laughing, running, giggling.
  
     Her daughter.

     A child she did not remember.  But They had proof.  
Had shown her proof.  Why would they lie?

     A child, therefore, that was nevertheless hers.  

     Too much to bear.

     My daughter.

     Dearest Lord.

-----------------------------xxxxx--------------------------------------
End of Part 11
________________________________________________



********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 12:  Heart's Desire (Part 21/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter XII--Heart's Desire

O mother, mother, make my bed, 
O make it saft and narrow;
My love has died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow.

--Barbara Allen (English Ballad)
__________________________________________________

Fairfax Mercy Hospital
Subbasement
December 26, 1997

     "Well, the trap has been set."

     "Do you think she'll buy it?"

     "We did not expect the first phase to go as well as it 
has.  And she has been broken.  Most thoroughly."

     "It is your responsibility to ensure it goes well."

     "MSAT1121 has become dangerous.  She has become 
allied with some dangerous factions.  She must be contained.  
We cannot afford any errors at this point."

     "Explain, once more, exactly how this will work."

     "We have introduced her to the child.  Supervised, a 
brief five minute meeting.  They greeted each other, the subject 
behaved herself.  It can be unruly, but it has been taught 
etiquette.  In a few days we hope to leave them alone, observed 
for a longer period.  In time, we are hoping this situation will be 
enough to incite SDK0223 to escape, because then the deal will 
be off.  Unilaterally breaking the promise we have made makes 
certain of us . . . uneasy.  However, if she does attempt escape, 
the deal, naturally, will terminate and not by our hand.  That 
will take care of the first part of the problem."

     "We also plan to leak the information to Agent 
Mulder.  By this, we hope to lure MSAT1121 to us as well.  
Once here, DAEM0327 will destroy both the Agent and 
MSAT1121 and we can finish the experiments on SDK0223 in 
peace."

     "It seems too easy."

     "You have not seen what it can do.  It is our best 
creation yet."

     "See that it is so."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
Unknown Location
Unknown Time

     She shuffled down the hall.  She'd had daily visits with 
the child all week.  They'd let up on the tests as well, and she'd 
been feeling a little stronger.  Except for today.  Today had been 
bad.  Today had been worse than she'd ever remembered.

     But her memory was not great, these days.

     She was having trouble seeing.  Having trouble.  But 
they were taking her to see Anais.  And she wouldn't miss the 
visit for the world.  An hour, an hour a day for the last five.  The 
only bright spots to her existence.  She stumbled, gasped, took a 
breath a trifle too deeply and gasped against the burning in her 
throat, stifled the painful cough that ached in her chest.

     Kept moving.  Slow, difficult steps.  Ignored the 
derisive snort.

     They were there.  This room had a window, though.  A 
real window.  A window to the outside world.

     Scully gasped.  Sunlight and shadow.  

     She'd forgotten what it was like, outside.  

     Someone had taken extra care to dress the child, today.  
She wore a pale cream dress with ribbons and lace, and the 
bright gold hair was in perfect ringlets.  "Oh, sweetheart," Scully 
breathed as the child ran up to hug her, "you look like an angel."

     The child smiled in response to Scully's, then, head 
cocked, asked the question.  "What's an angel, mama?"

     Tears sprang into Scully's eyes.  She would do 
anything to not be here.  To not have her child here.  Anything.  

     But Samantha . . . and the bargain.  There was nothing 
she could do.

     Nothing.  

     But this was her *child* . . .

     She turned her mind away from the thought; she 
smoothed her hand over fine copper hair in an half-hearted 
attempt to recover herself and bent down to explain to her baby 
about angels.

     A conversation as normal, as ordinary, as natural and 
wholesome as everything in this place was not.

     And Scully grieved for the unimaginable horrors 
exposed to her child.

     Her daughter.

     Her baby.

     Oh God.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, December 29
Along the I-95
5:17 p.m.

     Stupid traffic wasn't moving.  Mulder rubbed a hand 
across his eyes.  This last case was going nowhere.  A true X-
file, and he didn't even have Scully off of whom to bounce his 
ideas.  

     Focus, Mulder, on the case.  Don't think about that.

     Three high school math classes in Washington had all, 
in succession, within a single week, committed mass suicide.  
No explanation.  Just average city high schools, average high 
school math classes.  One sophomore class, one senior class, 
one junior class.  Each averaged about 20 kids, all as normal as 
could be, some more than others.  No connection between the 
victims.  No connection between the schools--two private, one 
public.  Seemingly random.  Shit.

     The first school, a very exclusive, very expensive 
academy, had tried to hush up the whole affair.  The second had 
"chosen not to publicize", although the Board had decided to 
investigate.  The third, a small public school in an affluent part 
of Georgetown, had immediately reported the incident to the 
local police, fearing some kind of drug influence.

     He had checked, but there was no way to trace the 
incidents to hysteria or drugs.  One class had been an 
accelerated academic one, one was remedial, and one was just 
your regular math class.  Some of the kids had been involved 
with drugs, other students hadn't been and had never been.  
Some of the students were known troublemakers, others were 
just this far removed from the angels.  There was no correlation 
there at all that he could find.  

     Upon digging, he had found that each class had 
contained the child of a prominent politician.  One, Amanda 
Torrance, the daughter of a Congressional Aide; another, 
Gregory Ashford, the son of a Senator, and the third, Emily 
Sinclair, the gifted and talented daughter of an affluent 
diplomat.

     But this was D.C.  Nothing unusual in that.

     Except each teacher remembered seeing, that day, a 
small child wandering around in the hallway before class, or 
interrupting in the middle in one case.  A small child.  A pretty 
little girl in blue, in violet, in pink.  With red-gold curls and 
wide blue eyes.   

     The only connecting factor.  The only clue.

     A child identified, unanimously, as the very same child 
appearing in the photo of the missing girl from New York.

     Anais Evadne Margaret Davidson.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Unknown Location
Unknown Time
Observation Room

     "Mama?"

     "Yes, sweetie?"

     "I want to go outside."

     "We can't, Anais.  Not today."

     "But I want to *go*."

     "Anais . . ."

     Behind the glass, the men were agitated.  The little 
girl's eyes had begun to shine.  One of them spoke, a loud 
booming voice through the speaker.  "Anais, behave yourself."

     Scully shivered.  Yet another sign that her life was no 
longer hers.  She had given it up, given it over.  To Them.

     "C'mon, Anais, let's play a game."  And, in one of those 
mercurial changes of mood so common in young children, the 
child brightened. 

     "Okay.  Can we play Snakes and Ladders?"

     "Sure."  Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit Scully.  The 
aftereffects of a test.  She swayed, and the world went black.  
She sat down abruptly, eyes closed.

     Distantly, she heard the child's voice.  "Mama?  Mama!  
Are you okay?  Mama!"

     She gathered the strength to answer, breathing deeply 
for a moment.  When she spoke, her voice was calm, reassuring.  
"Yes, sweetheart, everything's fine.  Come, let's play."

     But the little girl came up to her suddenly and threw 
herself in Dana's lap.  Hugged her, and whispered, "I don't like 
to see you hurt, Mama, who hurt you?  I'll kill them."

     Her arms came up to wrap around the small child, 
breathing in the baby scent.  "Anais, no, it's wrong to kill 
people.  It's bad."

     "But . . . They said . . ."

     "No.  Anais, listen to me.  It's wrong."

     "Mama?"

     "Yes, Anais?"

     "I love you, Mama."

     And Dana pressed her lips to the fine strands of bright 
hair, and whispered softly, "I love you too, sweetheart.  I love 
you too."

     Behind the glass, two men turned to each other, and 
smiled.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
New Year's Eve
6:31 p.m.

     He walked up to his apartment, considering.  The 
child?  How could she be involved.  A baby, for Christ's sake.

     Even after all he'd seen, he had trouble believing a 
child so young could be part of anything so . . . evil.  Although 
in the past he'd seen evil prey upon the innocent.  Seen evil in 
the guise of innocence.

     Even so.

     He needed more information, he sighed to himself as 
he unlocked the door.  Step one, find the child . . .

     The incredible vanishing child.

     He'd spent all day interviewing families grieving for 
their children.  He was drained.  He threw his coat onto a chair 
and ran a hand through his hair, loosening his tie and walking 
into the kitchen.

     Someone had been here.

     The note was left for him on his kitchen table.  White 
against the darker wood grain.  Blue ink dark against the 
starkness of the ripped page.

     Three lines, no more.  10 words.  All he wanted.  All 
he needed.  He remembered to breathe.

     Rainier's Park
     2:30 tonight.
     The envelope on the park bench.

     He did not ask questions.  His U.N. contact finally 
came through.  If there was any word, anything at all, he had to 
be ready.

     He picked up the phone and dialled an unlisted 
number.

     This time, he'd make damn sure they turned the 
recorder off.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
January 4, 1998

     Mulder looked over at Sam, sitting beside him in the 
car.  She had insisted on coming.  He hadn't even known why.

     She'd come over to his place, just as he'd been about to 
leave.  Uncanny, that.  She'd simply said she was coming.  No 
preface, nothing.  

     Just said she was going.

     He'd been too stunned to argue properly.

     Silence had reigned between them on most of the drive 
out to Aberdeen.  Despite the need for urgency, he'd opted to 
drive.  Less trace of his tracks, that way.  More places to hide.  
More opportunity to figure out if hiding was necessary.

     Sam had nodded when he told her that, as if she had 
knowledge of this kind of thing.  As if she approved.

     She spoke suddenly although her head, turned to 
where she'd been staring out the window for the entire trip, did 
not move. 

     "Mark will meet us there."

     "God, Sam, this isn't a pool party!  How will he know 
where we're going, anyway?  You don't even know where we're 
going."

     "He'll know."

     And silence reigned again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a solitary cell
Time:  Unknown 

     "Mulder?  I . . . I'm going to leave."

     "What about Samantha, Scully?

     "I'm just not strong enough, Mulder."

     "What about Sam, Scully?"

     "I can't take it anymore, Mulder.  I have to get out.  As 
soon as I can."

     "What about my sister, Scully?"

     "They have my daughter, Mulder."

     "They'll take my sister, Dana."

     "Oh, God, Mulder.  I can't, I'm sorry, Mulder.  I can't."

     "You're breaking your word, Scully."

     "Please, Mulder.  I'm so sorry."

     "I trusted you, Dana."

     "Mulder, don't go . . ."

     But he was gone, and she was alone.  Again.  Maybe . . 
.

     She shook herself.  He was not here.  And he would 
not return.  Because she could not stay.

     Not for Sam.  

     Not for herself.

     Not even, when it came right down to it, for Mulder.

     Because they had her daughter.  And in the end, that 
was all that mattered.  That was all she cared about.  

     This morning when she'd gone for tests, Scully had 
managed to steal a hypodermic.  A sedative, powerful.  She 
knew, it had been used on her several times, because the point 
would always come, lately, when she was past control.  They 
knew that; didn't bother to blame her for it anymore.  The tests 
were getting worse.

     She had to take the next opportunity.  The side-effects 
of the testing were leaving her less and less able to function, to 
think.  Pretty soon, she would be too weak to do anything of 
any use.  It had to be now.  Anais was young, she could move 
quickly.  And bright.  Once outside, Scully had no doubts that 
Anais would be able to find the road, if Scully explained how 
and what to do.  

     Because it was very likely she herself would be caught.  
She hadn't the strength, lately, even to scream.  Escape might be 
more than she could manage.  But at least one of them would 
escape, if not both, Scully vowed.  At least one.

     Her baby girl.  No matter how she had come about.

     She would do anything to save her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
January 5, 1998
8:19 p.m.
Outside of Aberdeen, PA
Off the I-83

     "That's it, Fox."

     "What?"  he snapped in annoyance.  He was tired and 
irritable.  The clues had led him to Aberdeen, but beyond that, 
he was at a loss.  He'd already been through the town.  Scant 
miles outside of Aberdeen now, he'd been driving around 
aimlessly this night, knowing he had to give up if he couldn't 
find her.

     He didn't know what else to do, where to go.  Was 
hoping for something, anything.

     "Take this road."

     "Sam, it's a dirt road.  It's not even a road.  We'll get 
stuck.  This is a rental, and I rented it on a forged I.D."

     She didn't even blink, didn't even respond.  "Take the 
road."

     Looking at her, determination and certainty in her eyes, 
he turned the car onto the lane, praying that this foolishness 
wouldn't kill them both.

     Taking her words, illogical as they sounded, on faith.

     His heart ached for the reverse situation, when he was 
the one who believed and there was another who believed in 
him.

     He would find her.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eve of the Ascension
In an enclosed compound

     They had let her take Anais outside.  For a time.  It was 
late.  The sky overhead was dark, shining with stars:  
innumerable points of light.  Of hope.  

     The first time she had been outside in God only knew 
how long.

     And Scully knew.

     Despite Sam, despite Mulder.

     She was going to run.

     And she was going to take the child with her.

-----------------------------xxx-----------------------------------------
End of Part 12.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------


********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 13:  Quaecumque Vera (Part 13/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter XIII--Quaecumque Vera*

"So young, and so untender?"
     "So young, my lord, and true."

Lear, Cordelia, "King Lear"
__________________________________________________

Tuesday, January 6, 1998
Ravenspeak Centre for Adults
4:40 p.m.
Day of the Ascension

     They had let them out into the compound again.  One 
more time.  Snow, and sun; a mother and her child.  It seemed so 
natural.

     Everything inside her screamed with tension.  She was 
going to make a break for it.

     Suddenly, an alarm sounded, shrill and piercing, 
cutting through the stifling quiet.  Voices, shouts, footsteps.  
And Scully saw her chance.

     A guard rushed up to them, and she kicked him back, 
jabbed him with the needle, grabbed Anais' hand.  

     Began to run, she knew not where.  She had no plan, 
no strategy.  She only hoped that whatever happened, worked.  

     End of the compound.  No gate.  Had to go inside.

     Running down a corridor, turn, another hallway.  All 
the same.  No idea where she was going.  

     A staircase:  no.  Need to stay on ground level.  Good 
to hide behind, though.

     Then suddenly she saw him, standing there, clear as 
day.  Could not stop the cry from her lips.

     "Mulder!"  

     Shit.  She shook her head.  She'd given herself away 
for an illusion.  Maybe, if she moved fast enough . . . 

     Eyes startled, turned towards her, finding her.  Finding 
Anais.

     "Scully!"

     Wait.  No illusion.  

     He began to move towards her.

     Then all hell broke loose.  A keening alarm sounded, 
the sound as shrill as the squall of drowning kittens.  The 
guards in the vicinity--only three--came to their senses.  An 
evacuation warning was announced, and the alarm changed in 
intensity.

     Everything after that was a blur.  A guard came up 
behind Scully, and one grabbed Anais, without warning 
dragging both off and through an exit.  Scully was dragged to 
one side and held, kicking, screaming, it did not matter any 
more . . . beaten and dragged, dragged and beaten--all the 
training in the world could not compensate for a slight figure 
weakened through weeks of imprisonment.  Dragged into a side-
chamber, where her captor stopped and waited, gun drawn, 
trigger cocked.     

     And, despite the hand clamped over her mouth, despite 
the pain and nausea and despair, she could see.

     A boardroom.  Full of dark-suited persons, who sat, 
and waited.  There were women, and men.   Calmly; a few were 
even smiling.

     She turned her head, a window:  saw trees, grass.  A 
room on the main floor then.  How had she gotten here?

     Sound of gunshots from the hall; Scully's body jerked 
with every one.  Please, she prayed silently, please.  Thuds and 
movement.  Then eerie quiet.  The place was as noiseless as a 
cemetery.  Evacuation.  All but them.  What was to happen?

     Scully heard voices, nearing, and the hand gripping her 
hair tightened.  Shock and illness combined, Scully struggled 
against her guard, but was impotent against the strength of his 
200 pound, 6 foot frame hold.

     The suits rose, as a unit, and began to exit the room 
from the other door.

     One of them beckoned to Anais.   Unlike all the rest, 
this woman wore a lab coat, spotless white in contrast.

     Anais was released.

     Scully bit her guard, who relaxed his hold for just a 
moment so she could scream. 

     "Run, Anais, run!"

     Unceremoniously Scully was shoved to one side, gun 
pointed straight at her as the guard flattened himself beside the 
doorway.  She drew a breath.

     Didn't hear anything, but felt the pain blossom in one 
shoulder.  A silencer, then.  Fell, crumpling, to the ground.  She 
looked up when her vision had cleared.

     The guards were standing in front of her, back to her, 
blocking her view of the room.

     Scully could hear reassurances from the guard that her 
"mother" was fine, admonishing the girl gently against 
disobedience, telling her that she mustn't be willful or naughty, 
now.

     Anais sent a concerned glance towards Scully, but she 
could not see through the guard, who smiled at her 
encouragingly.  Taking her by the hand, he led her towards the 
woman.

     After a moment, the child skipped lightly towards the 
woman of her own accord.

     The guard crossed back towards Scully, and cocked the 
rifle again.

     The woman spoke.  "She is coming, Anais.  You know 
what you must do."

     And the child, the child with the glowing eyes, 
nodded.

     *Yes*.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
6:42 p.m.

     Out in the hall, they both heard it:  a voice, sharp and 
high.  "Run, Anais, run!"

     A warning, enough.  Samantha burst into the room to 
find a man with a gun trained on Scully.  Her aim was true, and 
he began to fall just as he pulled the trigger.  Not enough, 
maybe, to stop him, but enough to divert the bullet.  Her brother 
was a second behind her, already into the room, already at the 
side of the woman lying on the ground, collapsed in a pool of 
her own blood.

     The room was empty, save for a single unconscious 
guard, a child, and Scully.

     The child he'd been searching for.

     He ignored her entirely.

     Mulder crossed the room to Scully, pulling out his cell 
phone and dialling rapidly, kneeling by her side in one fluid 
motion.  His brain was practically numb with panic and his 
thoughts were jumbled, yet at the same time his mind noted 
everything with an almost dispassionate clarity.

     As he reached out to her, Scully began squirming away 
from him and began moaning painfully, "Stop, please don't, it 
hurts, please.  Mom, it hurts; please mom, make it stop."

     She pushed his hands away from the wound in her 
side, the gaping hole that bubbled frighteningly with blood, 
covering the wound with her own hand and trying at the same 
time to inch weakly away.  All the while he kept talking to her, 
automatically, keeping his voice low and even, although it was 
apparent she was not hearing him.

     She was barely aware, her eyes were open but dark and 
unfocused.  He could not get a grip on her properly without 
hurting her further, and at present, it was frustrating; her 
movements prevented him from getting a good look at her 
injuries.  The fever he could feel on her skin was adding to her 
confusion, he knew, and so he slapped her face, slightly more 
harshly than he intended.  But, for a moment, her struggles 
ceased sufficiently that his soothing tone could reach her, calm 
her, let him try to help.

     Or so he chose to believe--he knew, intellectually, that 
her comparative relaxation was probably due to the onset of 
shock.  Despite her fever Scully, though calmer now, was 
shivering.  She still plucked at his hands, but she was no longer 
actively moving away, and so he merely captured her wrists and 
held them off to one side, taking off his jacket with the other 
hand to cover her.

     It was worse than he'd expected.

     She was looking at him now, and her eyes were a little 
clearer.  "Mulder . . . I'm sorry.  I couldn't . . . I  . . ." she shivered 
violently, gasping against the pain. 
 
     "Shh, take it easy, I know, it's okay," he mollified, not 
sure what she was trying to say, as he stripped off his shirt and 
rolled it into a ball, intending to apply pressure to the wound in 
her side.  The shoulder injury was less serious; it could wait.

     "You don't understand . . ." she began, face twisting in 
pain as he pressed his still-warm shirt to her abdomen.  She 
inhaled sharply at the pain of the pressure he inexorably 
applied; the effort it took to speak was overwhelming.  She 
closed her eyes without completing the sentence.  

     "Scully?  Scully!  Dammit, Scully, stay with me here . . 
."  

     She did not respond, although her chest still rose and 
fell, faintly.  He wanted, irrationally, to shake her, to make her 
finish what she was saying.  To keep her with him.

     Helplessly, Mulder sat rigidly and watched her breathe, 
irrationally grateful every time her chest rose and fell, praying 
for the ambulance to hurry.

     With effort, Scully opened her eyes again to try to tell 
him, searching for her child.  

     Her child, the woman, a fallen guard, Mulder.

     Alone, somehow, in a room just now filled with 
people.  Where had they all gone?

     She raised her head a little to see better, cursing her 
blurred her vision, trying again to explain.  

     Then she looked at Anais, and the words died on her 
lips.

     Anais, who mere moments ago had giggled sweetly in a 
voice high and clear and innocent, who had asked where stars 
came from and how angels lived, turned to face Katherine and 
announced, in a voice of darkness and depth:  "I am the maker, 
the eater, and the controller of dreams.  And with this, I have the 
world, and all in it, within my two hands."

     But the hands she held out were those of a frail child, 
impossible to believe that they could harm a butterfly.  

     Yet the woman Mulder thought to be his sister had no 
such compunction, no such doubt.  Her face was cold and set.  
The hair she usually used as a shield she pulled back with stiff 
hands.  She looked at the tiny, perfect child before her and 
spoke in a voice of glacial dispassion.  

     "No longer", said the woman Mulder once knew as 
Sam.  "No longer."  And she raised a hand, and her eyes blazed 
deepest blue.  Shone, and shone again.

     Anais raised a hand.

     Kate raised her hand a fraction higher.

     Scully screamed suddenly; a denial into the silence.  
"NO!"

     Anais turned to look at Scully.  Turned back, and faced 
the glowing eyes of the woman.  

     But this time, when Anais looked at the woman, her 
eyes were clear and innocent, the eyes of any child.  And the 
tiny hand dropped.

     Kate's did not.

     And Anais, whose eyes had once also glittered blue, 
crumpled and fell.  Blue eyes focused again on Scully, who, still 
lying on the floor, had raised her head to look back, frozen in 
horror.

     A whispered word from the child as she lay, "Mama?"

     The universal cry of an injured child.  An instant 
passed, then another.

     The small body arched in pain.  A tiny noise emerged, 
high and agonized, was cut by abrupt silence.  And the child's 
eyes faded to dull grey.  

     The child, who was not yet five.

     Scully, wrenching herself away from Mulder, dragging 
herself across the floor, finally reached the child.  Placed a hand 
at throat, at wrist.  "Mulder," the rasping thread of whisper, 
"she's dead."

     Mulder turned shocked eyes towards Kate.  "Oh my 
dear God," he said, and his voice was strangled.  "Sam," and his 
voice raised in disbelief and revulsion.  "My God, Samantha, 
what have you done?"

     "What was necessary, Fox, what needed to be done.  
What I was meant to do."  And the voice had ages of weariness 
etched into every syllable.

     Scully closed her eyes.  Tears seeped from under her 
closed lids, and Mulder was powerless to watch as she faded 
further from him.

     In the background, the faint sound of sirens drew 
nearer.

     Kate spoke again, exhaustion blurring the words, 
sinking to the ground bonelessly, shaking uncontrollably.  He 
turned his head.

     "Please," she whispered, her face composed, her eyes 
tortured below their lids, "please ask Mark if he would come."  
He could detect no wavering of the low voice, but knew it well 
enough to sense the pain in it.  It was almost his own. 

     She turned to him, her eyes focusing on him briefly, 
meeting his:  smoke into amber.  An onslaught of anguish, of 
misery; of devastation and guilt and self-hatred and grief, 
repeating endlessly in the silence until she spoke again.  
"Please."

     He hesitated a moment, thought he would go to her.  
"She's your sister," the voice in his mind said.  "She needs your 
comfort.  Your baby sister."

     But then he looked around and saw again the broken 
body of the child once known as Anais, the child who looked so 
like a younger version of Scully, and the brief flash of insight 
into this woman he could not understand vanished like grains of 
sugar on a death-bright coal.

     For her, he had no comfort to give.
     
     The sound of sirens, loud and annoying, drew even 
nearer and then mercifully stopped.  

     "Watch Scully."  The tone curt as he transferred the 
ineffectual rag to her hands and quit the room.  Unable to look 
at the child, dead and motionless; escaping the sight of the 
woman lying on the cold floor, pale and over-still.  He went to 
direct the EMTs, to give them the information they would need.

     As he ushered in the EMTs, he wondered why she had 
asked him now, of all times, to call Mark.  

     Kate felt Mark come in, felt him stand behind her, and 
did not wonder how he came to be there.  She had expected him.  

     Mark crouched down, and she could feel his breath, 
warm against her ear, repeating her name.  She could not even 
turn to him; could, in fact, barely move.  But then he put his 
arms around her, and she could no longer stop the tears.  She 
turned a little, and felt the rough collar of his woollen coat, and 
began then to sob helplessly into it, letting go of the blood-
soaked shirt she futilely clutched.

     And then her brother was back, and the EMTs were 
there, trying to get Kate's attention, asking if she was all right.  

     The EMTs and police were both trying to get his 
attention.  Did Scully have any allergies?  Any medical 
conditions they should know about?  An officer was motioning 
to Mulder to come and elucidate upon exactly what happened.  
Absently, he finished giving the paramedics the vital stats they 
needed, walking mechanically across the room towards the 
officers, bent over the body of the guard, of the child.  
Anyone to notify?  What had happened here?

     Distracted, Mulder tried to concentrate on giving the 
officers the information they needed, tried not to think about the 
agonized gasps from the other side of the room as the 
paramedics loaded his partner onto a gurney.  A small part of his 
brain registered Mark's presence and was startled by it--where 
had he come from, and why?--but the information did not add 
up and so was filed away, to be considered later.  

     The commotion caught all their attentions, and then 
Mulder was across the room.  To hell with procedure.

     Scully was thrashing and the medics were having some 
difficulty giving her a sedative.  They had done so by the time he 
reached her, intending to calm her with his presence.  He caught 
her eyes and held them, willing her to recognize him through the 
haze of pain.  And the clouded eyes cleared, and saw him, and 
calmed.  She opened her mouth to say something, starting to tell 
him, but the sedative had kicked in and she drifted off instead, 
the thought unspoken.  

     He looked down at her sleeping form, pain lines still 
etched deeply into her features.  Then he turned his head 
towards his sister, who sat against one wall, hugging her knees.  
Mark was sitting beside her, saying nothing.

     Mulder looked around the room.  He spoke slowly, 
slowly as the medics loaded his partner into the ambulance.  
"She was a baby.  Kate, she was a mere child."

     And the woman who called herself Kate looked at him 
in disgust.  "How can you say that, knowing what you know?  
How? "  Her voice rose in volume and then the tirade stopped 
suddenly.  She began to talk again, now in a lower voice, almost 
as if to herself.  A voice of defeat, of resignation, of 
indescribable exhaustion.  "God, Fox, you really are as naive as 
a grade school child.  You know what they are capable of.  It 
was too late for her before she was ever born. I had no choice.  
No choice in the matter at all."  And she raised a hand to cover 
her eyes, briefly:  blocking out the child, the woman, her 
brother's eyes.

     The hand shook and she could not make it stop.

     And Kate repeated to herself, as if to remind her own 
conscience, her own heart.  "I had no choice at all."  And so low 
Mulder could barely hear it.  "I never did."

     They let him ride with Scully to the hospital.

     And briefly, Mulder remembered back to a night of 
darkness and light, when a child was taken, screaming, from the 
only home she had ever known. 

--------------------------------xxxxxx----------------------------------
End of Part 13.

(*"Whatsoever things are true" or, more literally:  "And with 
this, Truth")
__________________________________________________




********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 14:  Carving the Stone (Part 14/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter XIV--Carving the Stone

Dost thou remember the promise made me?
When thou wouldst cla'd me in silken gown.
The golden ring gi'en me ere we parted--
That gown and ring I shall ne'er don.

--Scottish Ballad
__________________________________________________

John Hopkins' Medical Center
Wednesday, January 7, 1998
3:53 a.m.

     They let him ride with her to the hospital.

     He had not left.
     
     Scully was still in surgery.  She had been in surgery for 
the last few hours.  Idly, he wandered the hospital corridors, not 
thinking of the child, of the lawyer, of the investigation or the 
Syndicate.

     Not thinking of Sam.  Not thinking of her.  

     Scully, pale and fragile on a flimsy looking gurney.

     Scully, his mind shrieked, O Dear God, Scully.

     What had been done to her?

     Not thinking of it.  

     Full circuit, he thought; he was back at the emergency 
waiting room.  It was silent, deserted save for one person who 
sat quietly under the flickering fluorescent light there.  A 
woman, still as carved marble, sitting in one of the plastic scoop 
chairs with her legs drawn up to her chest, a thin hospital 
blanket half-heartedly wrapped like a shawl over her shoulders.  
Her head was turned away from him, turned as if she looked out 
through the patterned frost on the plate-glass window.

     But it was too dark outside and the glass too obscured 
inside to offer any kind of view at all.  Yet the woman stared 
steadily beyond.

     "Samantha."

     A shiver ran up her body; she started but did not turn 
her head.  She took a deep breath, and her voice, when she 
spoke, had a faint catch.

     "Fox."

     Her voice almost shook, he thought.  Maybe . . .  

     "How's Dana?"  As if she was inquiring about the score 
in a baseball game.  The casual, diffident tone was firmly in 
place.  There was no room in that tone to even imagine emotion.  
It angered Mulder, that his life was slipping away and she didn't 
seem to care.  Did she care about anyone?  

     But the other, rationalizing half of his mind kicked in, 
the half that *wanted* to believe in--to love--this strange sister 
he had found.  She *does* care, it asserted.  See the rigid way 
she's holding herself, the carefully neutral tone.  As if she's 
afraid that to say more would shatter her defenses beyond all 
hope of rebuilding.  

     Looking again, he saw that the rational half of his 
brain had a point.

     Finally, she turned her face towards his.  The white 
salt of dried tears made vertical lines on the shadowed face.  Her 
eyes glistened darkly in the artificial light.

     He spoke, an offer of peace.  Best he could do, for 
now.

     "Scully's still in surgery.  They say that she should pull 
through, barring any complications."

     She nodded, and he thought he saw a faint trace of 
relief cross her features.  But he couldn't be sure, and didn't 
know if he actually saw the compassion or simply wanted to 
believe he had.  He looked at her again, her arms wrapped 
around her body tightly.  Protecting herself, shielding herself.  
Holding herself physically together.

     "I am sorry I brought her into this."  The tone was flat, 
but this time he was sure he could read the layers of self-
recrimination in that simple statement.

     "Hey, no one can stop Scully when she's set to do 
something.  We're FBI, it's what we do."  He tried to make his 
voice light, but it came out wrong, awkward.  Forced, phony, 
not quite condescending.

     But it had been *his* fault that Scully had been 
captured--injured--worse--*stop* it.

     Stop.  Don't think.

     His fault, not--this . . . woman's.  How could she have 
prevented this?  Not her job.

     Not her concern.

     Not her life.

     Kate merely nodded, but he could see her muscles 
tense even further, if that were possible.  Time to try a different 
tack.

     Suddenly, it struck him.  What the hell *was* she 
doing here?  And then it occurred to him to ask.  "Why are you 
here, Sam?"

     "Mark just got out of surgery.  He's asleep."

     "Mark?  Why's he having surgery?  He seemed okay."  
He was puzzled.  Last he saw, the man seemed healthier than 
anyone else in the room--after all, Mark had arrived after 
everything was over, hadn't he?  And it was still a mystery to 
Mulder why Mark had been there at all, or how he had gotten to 
be there.

     Almost all the events of the last couple of months were 
a complete mystery to him.

     Kate did not react, but her body shook very faintly, as 
if it occupied all her energy to not break down and bawl in the 
middle of the hospital.  She turned her head away again.

     Kate?  Worried about someone else?  Something was 
very wrong.

     "I don't know.  They . . . " a short pause, a gulp, "won't 
tell me.  He was shot, pretty badly.  They told me it would be . . 
. difficult."  Her tone had risen, although it was still fairly even.  
Tempered.  But the mask was slipping, revealing the frustration 
and fear he could sympathize with.  Relate to.

     Share. 

     He gulped air.  "How?"

     "After you and Scully left.  We were the last to go, and 
then, the guard, he was only unconscious, but I'd forgotten 
about him, the EMTs had put him on a stretcher but I guess they 
hadn't strapped him down yet--or maybe they had, and he--he 
got up again.  Tried to shoot me before I realized; Mark saw and 
got me out of the way, and then, and then . . ." her breath caught 
in her throat, her voice was rough.  "I should have known.  I 
should've made sure, stopped it.  I . . . ", her shoulders rose as 
she took a slow breath, turned her face away.  Closed her eyes.  
"He shot Mark, point blank, in the chest, before throwing him 
against the wall.  And I . . . I didn't do a thing.  One of the 
officers shot the guard.  Several times."

     She turned back towards him, and her lashes were 
damp spikes.  "I think he was a Clone.  I should've known."  

     Mulder shuddered.  

     "Burns?"

     She nodded.  "They're repairing what they can."

     He wondered, for a second, why Kate had not been 
harmed by the resultant green blood toxin, and then dismissed 
the thought.  She must have been far enough away.

     A tear slipped down her cheek.  She made a small, 
irritated sound and reached up a slender hand to brush across a 
cheekbone, trying to erase all sign of this weakness.  She turned 
her whole body away this time, back toward him.  Took a deep, 
gasping breath now, clearly irritated at herself and her body's 
betrayal in this way.  

     But she could not erase the chalky white tracks on pale 
skin:  unspoken evidence of weeping. 

     "Hey.  You can't always know.  No one can.  No one 
did."  His voice echoed uncomfortably in his ears.  He took a 
step and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, stopped, let 
it drop a hairsbreadth before he touched her.  

     She had not seen him, had had her eyes closed.  She 
looked back at him now, eyes full of suffering.  Would not 
accept his words, trusted him still only to a point.  Could not 
believe in him.  But she spoke again, and her voice was a 
fraction calmer.  No less tormented, he knew, but now not so 
immediate.

     Remote and removed.  A coping mechanism only.

     "But I know better.  I . . ." her voice caught again, she 
swallowed, and then the elaborately casual tone was completely 
back.  "Anyway, I eliminated him, then, properly.  A little too 
late,"  she mocked herself bitterly, "but eventually, I can 
complete the job."  

     How was this her job?  What had she become?  But 
still he tried, and said, "He wouldn't blame you.  No one 
could've predicted this.  It just happens, sometimes.  Besides", 
he said, slowly, willing it to be true, "it wasn't your job to 
protect him."  Unsolicited comfort Mulder, he thought.  Trite.  

     Hoping, still, that it would be accepted.  That she 
would allow this.  That she would let him see her worry, her 
guilt, her terror.

     That she would let him in.

     Let him be her brother.

     Despite.

     He caught her eyes and held them.  She gazed back 
directly into his, hazel green into hazel blue.   And it seemed 
that the caring in his tone, in his eyes, broke through her 
barriers, somewhat, because she rose, agitated, and began to 
pace.

     The door cracked open just a little.

     Or maybe she had nowhere else to turn.

     "It was not his fault.  He did nothing, nothing but 
befriend me.  Nothing at all.  Why?  You're the FBI--tell me 
why."  And she turned to the wall, banging it with a fist, before 
pirouetting on one foot to stop abruptly and stand before him.  
"Why is this happening?"  

     She looked up at him, eyes clear; demanding.  "Why, 
Fox, why?"  

     And in that moment, he was undone.  Because he did not 
see the lady crying for her friend.  Nor did he see the woman 
who had rebuilt her life.  Or the girl being taken from her home.  
What he saw was a child.  A child of long ago, crying for a 
broken doll; the little sister who asked him to fix it.

     But he could not and had never been able to.

     Neither then nor now.

     *Oh Sam*, he thought, and went to her, wrapping his 
arms around her, giving her what strength he had to offer.  And 
at first she resisted, still dry-eyed, going awkwardly stiff.  But 
then, in a second, she relaxed.  Relaxed, turned her face into the 
soft flannel of his plaid shirt and began to sob violently.  

     And he stood mutely, and held her, and stroked her 
hair.  Even though at long last he had found his sister, his heart 
could not rejoice.  Too much pain, too much longing: too much 
hope to ever be realized.

     For nothing in this world is ever so simple.

     After a few moments, she moved away, and he let her; 
she dried her eyes, and the moment was over.

     And once again they were Kate and Mulder, and Fox 
and Sam were mere remnants of youth and a past best left 
forgotten.  

     If they could, indeed, forget.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Room #216
Thursday, January 8, 1998
8:43 p.m.

     He looked down at her, an unmoving lump under the 
covers.  Her skin was almost translucent; her features were still 
and lifeless.  She had been thrashing and screaming, earlier; 
they had bound her wrists down.  He hated to see it, but 
otherwise the IV and monitor leads kept being jerked and 
displaced.  And she had far too many unknown chemicals in her 
system to allow them to safely add any further sedatives; she 
had been so weak they didn't want to further tax her system, 
going for a minimalist approach.

     He watched her.  She stirred, and he waited, but she 
did not move again.  Mulder sighed and walked over to the 
bathroom.  He needed to wash--a night at the hospital did not do 
wonders for anyone's appearance--or, he wrinkled his nose--
freshness, so to speak.  

     Scully became aware, slowly by degree, of pain.  
Blackness swirled in infinite variety, and she fought her way 
through it, anxious to get up.  She had things to do.  She opened 
her eyes, and blinked.  The light was dim, but even then it sent 
beams of pain through her head.

     Something burned at her wrist.  She closed her eyes 
again and tried to move it, to get up.  But her hand wouldn't 
move.  Frightened, she tugged harder, opening her eyes again to 
see the room.  Not her bedroom.  This room was cold and white 
and sterile.  And she was alone.  A low sob escaped her lips.  
Not again.  This was her nightmare; and now, now it was real.

     Mulder, washing his face, heard a noise.  Grabbing a 
towel, he emerged from the bathroom to see a wild-eyed Scully 
making agonized, high-pitched noises and trying to tear her 
wrists from the restraints at her side.  Quickly he crossed the 
room, and began to speak to her, standing so she could see him.  
"Scully, listen to me, Scully.  It's okay, you're in a hospital, 
c'mon Dana, please, please just relax."  He kept talking as she 
calmed, slipping one hand in her small, cold one, holding it 
still; using the other hand to push her shoulders back towards 
the bed and then brush the hair from her eyes.  

     "Mulder?"  Her voice was high and small, unused:  
unlike the Scully he knew.

     "Hmm?"

     "Do you ... do you think ... you could ... please ... take 
these off?"  A rough rasp her voice:  painful to speak, painful to 
hear.  

     Her free hand, the one he wasn't holding, was still 
jerking at the restraint.  He had put his other hand over it to still 
it, but the moment he removed his own hand, the jerking 
renewed.

     He frowned.  He had been told in no uncertain terms 
that he was not to interfere with the restraints--she had thrashed 
so badly previously that after being forced to restart the I.V. for 
the second time the nurse on duty had simply disregarded his 
protests and restrained her.

     Speaking of which, why had none of the nurses come?  
He'd worn out the call button.  

     Damn cutbacks.  He wanted to fetch someone but 
would not leave Scully alone to do so.  He would deal with the 
unresponsive nurses later.  They would not ignore this call 
again.

     "Okay, Scully.  But the nurses won't be pleased.  
You'll have to promise not to move too much if I do, all right?  
It's very important you lie still for a little while."

     She nodded, imperceptibly.  Why was he talking to her 
as if she was a child?  She was thirsty.  Her raw throat felt like it 
had completely closed, and simple speech hurt.  Where were the 
nurses?  She was so sleepy.  But she wanted answers, and 
needed to be awake to hear.  She asked for water, muzzily 
telling him it was okay if she had it, it had been long enough 
after her surgery.  A lie, but one he could not know to question.

     Her mom was out of the country on a cruise, he'd said; 
he told her they were trying to get a hold of her.  She had asked 
him not to mention that she was in the hospital.  She didn't want 
to ruin her mom's cruise; she had planned it for so long.  From 
before Scully's absence.  It was enough that Mulder was here.

     Mulder had removed the ties, and she moved restlessly, 
ignoring the shooting pain, trying to shift position.  She hated 
lying on her back.

     "Scully!  Stop it.  I told you to stay put."  Mulder's 
voice held anger and sharp concern.  He moved back into her 
line of vision, a hand on her chest, firmly holding her still, 
another hand slipping under her head.  "I brought you your 
water.  Sip it slowly."

     She drew the water into her mouth through the straw.  
It wasn't cold, but it was so wonderful.  She drank as fast as she 
could, choking, wanting more.  The look in Mulder's eyes told 
her she wasn't going to get any more though.  He watched her 
until she stopped coughing, sweat beading on her forehead from 
the effort, lungs burning from the strain.  He was practically 
glaring at her.  "I said slowly, Scully." 

     She tried to look chagrined.  She had so much to ask 
him, and needed him in a good mood.  She swallowed, but even 
before she opened her mouth he spoke, and his voice was 
nothing so much as grim.

     "You are going to sleep now.  Anything you have to 
say will keep."  His voice gentled; he smoothed damp tendrils of 
hair off her face and told her , "I'll explain everything later.  But 
you're exhausted, and just awake, and there is nothing you need 
urgently to know.  Everyone else is fine.  Rest, and I'll fill you 
in when you're stronger."

     "Can you .... tell ... at least tell me if sss... ", she 
paused, licked her lips, took a breath, "if Samantha is safe?"

     "Scully, Kate, at present, is doing far better than you 
are.  Not another word now.  Sleep."  His voice was again stern, 
cutting off her clear attempt at another question.

     "But . . ."

     "No."

     She gave him a look, at which he barely smiled.  He 
was in his "don't trifle with me mood."  So, having no choice, 
she gave in to the dark, and slept.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fourth floor, ICU
Friday, January 9, 1998
11:14 p.m.

     He needed a breath of air, and so he slipped out for a 
minute while Scully had been sleeping quietly, under sedation.  
Did not know how he came to be here.  

     Saw her, standing there, looking through the glass into 
the ICU.  Her back was towards him; all her attention was 
focussed away, concentrated on another still, motionless form.

     "Sam?"

     Silence.

     "Kate?"

     The woman jerked, saw him, relaxed.  "Fox."

     He flinched.  Not his given name, not from her.  Not 
from this woman, this person who might once have been his 
sister.  

     "No one calls me that anymore."  His tone was 
brusque, far more curt than it had once been, years ago, when he 
had uttered similar words to another young woman.

     She gave him an irritated look.  "I do.  And speaking of 
wild animals, have you bathed anytime lately?  You reek."

     He ignored her, turning to the window looking into the 
unit.  He couldn't see anything through it, couldn't see anything 
at all right now.

     He searched for words to break the silence.

     "How is he?"  

     "A little better.  He should be in a regular ward in a 
few days, they say."

     "Good."

     "He came so close, though."  Her hands twisted 
together, white-knuckled.

     "Kate, don't.  He's okay."

     "I know."  She didn't look at him, though.  

     He sighed.

     She spoke again.  "Any word on the Project heads from 
your end?"

     He sighed again.  "Clean.  When they evacuate, they 
really do a good job.  The guard has disappeared."

     "He was dead!"

     "Apparently not.  The child's body has disappeared 
also."

     "I suspected that much, at least.  We haven't been able 
to find out anything either."

     "What is this 'we' stuff, Kate?  What or who exactly are 
you involved with?"

     "I can't tell you, Fox."

     "What the hell does that mean?  I have the right to  . . . 
and *don't* call me that."

     "Don't be an idiot."

     And that, apparently, was the end of their conversation.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Room #216
Monday, January 12, 1998
5:09 a.m.

     Scully woke only to feel a little worse, if anything.  
The pain was bad, far more acute than the general soreness of 
before.  Agony burned fiery with every breath she tried to take 
and she felt like she was drowning.  She couldn't sleep like this, 
the pain took precedence and demanded attention.  She looked 
for a call button; lying on her back, unable to move much at all, 
she couldn't see anyone or anything.  When moving didn't work, 
she called out Mulder's name.  

     Mulder, attempting to nap in a chair beside the bed, 
jerked awake.  Scully lay still, gasping, forehead beaded with 
sweat.  "What is it, Scully, what's wrong?"  He moved so she 
could see him, but she couldn't force her eyes to focus.  He 
moved past her a moment, and she closed her eyes as another 
wave of pain swept over her.  She struggled to form words.

     "I don't know, Mulder, it just hurts.  Could you ... do 
something, please?  Call someone?"  She tried to smile, but it 
was beyond her.  She hated that pleading note in her voice.  
Why didn't she have a call button?  She heard the keen of a 
monitor suddenly in her ear, tried to will the ear-splitting noise 
to silence.

     "Sure thing, Scully."  Reassurance and worry blended 
in his voice.  Mulder moved past her to press the button for the 
second time, and this time she was aware enough to watch.  
Guess she did have a call button.

     They had to move her again into surgery.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, January 14, 1998
Room #428
4:39 a.m.

     In another room, on another floor, Kate sat still by 
Mark's bedside.  She watched him sleep, silently, touching his 
hand ever so lightly.  She did not want to disturb anything, but 
she had to, needed to touch him.  To make sure he was really 
there.

     There were just so many tubes, so many machines, and 
he was so pale, so fragile, so unlike the man she knew.

     He had become her anchor in all of this, and she was 
not quite sure how.

     Mark had pulled through the surgery just fine, they 
said; if all went well he'd even be going home in a few days.  

     She was so relieved, she'd almost cried when the 
doctor had told her.  A kindly woman, the doctor had noticed 
and had not lingered, patting Kate's hand and leaving her alone 
to watch him.

     She supposed she should call the office, be more 
worried about her career.  

     She was lucky they let her stay here all night; she was 
neither family nor FBI.  She had no badge to flash at the nurses, 
no pathetic smile; she'd had to ask, to beg.

     She did not know where her brother was, although she 
assumed he was around.

     Frankly, she didn't much care.  

     She sighed.  Her brother.  He was not at all what she 
had thought.  She wished ...

     He was an FBI agent.  That was unexpected.  He was 
still tall, although not as tall as she remembered.  She smiled 
crookedly.  Still arrogant, and still annoying.  

     But when she had thought of him before, she thought 
he'd be just as she remembered.  Still goofy, and young, and 
teasing and comfortable.  A brother who fought with her, a 
brother who irritated her, a brother who understood her, a 
brother who was her closest friend on earth.

     A brother who loved her.

     She had lost years of her life, and she was not sure 
where.  She had lost pieces of her past, and she was not sure 
how.  She had lost a part of who she was, and she was not sure 
of what.

     She was certain of very little, right now.

     Although Mark had told her a small part, and given her 
a contact name she had called, it had not helped.  The contact 
had curtly asked why she had called and then told her nothing.  
By the time she had called the second time, the line had been 
disconnected.

     It was *her* life, dammit, and she knew nothing about 
it.  She had been altered, she had been hurt, she had been 
hunted, and no one would explain to her why, or how, or--or 
even *what* she had done to deserve it.

     She wished she knew.

     She had killed a child, and while she knew some of the 
reasons, intellectually, she still hated herself for it.

     She watched the IV drip life slowly back into Mark's 
veins, and tried not to cry.

     For herself, for him, for a child who could not live.

     For a brother who no longer existed.

     A brother she wanted back.

     Katherine grieved, uselessly, for what she could never 
have.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, January 15, 1998
Room #311
10:10 a.m.

     Later, she lay still again, newly patched up, hooked up 
to more tubes than before, along with a couple of monitors.  
They had moved her to the CCU.  Couldn't even turn her head to 
look for him.  

     She couldn't stand the instruments, the tubes.  Couldn't 
block them out.  Took everything she had just to lie still and not 
fight them.  Oh dear God.  She bit back rising panic.  A beeping 
sound began next to her, startling her further.

     "Hey, Scully.  Welcome back."  Heard the smile in his 
voice; it calmed her a little.

     "Mulder?"  She had fought them against the respirator, 
at least.  It hurt to breathe, but she could manage with the lesser 
evil of the nasal tube.  

     "I'm right here, Scully.  Just relax."  His voice was deep 
and soothing; she heard sounds of movement and soft 
incomprehensible voices, then quiet.  She closed her eyes 
against the spinning room.

     "Could you ... could you hold my hand?"  She couldn't 
move her hand to grasp his, try as she might; she hadn't the 
energy.

       "Better?"

     She felt her hand enfolded in the warmth of his, felt 
him run a gentle hand through her hair, and smiled faintly.  

     She wished desperately that he'd stay.   She was 
terrified he'd leave; surely he'd been here several hours already.  
He probably had things to do, and the last thing she wanted was 
for him to know that she was clinging to him.  But while she 
was awake, his presence was a balm to her irrational fear.  
*Please don't go, wait till I fall asleep.*  She needed to have 
him here, feel his presence, hear his voice.  But she couldn't ask 
him.  Instead, she fought sleep just so that she could talk to him 
a while longer.

     "Did you ... finish the case?"

     "I'm not discussing the case with you now, Scully, but 
yes.  Your brother Bill has been calling on the hour, he couldn't 
get away to come until the day after tomorrow; I'll tell him 
you're doing better."

     "Did you get the report in to Skinner?  You're 
supposed to put it in within 24 hours.  It shouldn't be late."

     "Not yet--we weren't supposed to be on this case so I'll 
make up a legitimate excuse later.  Scully, try to sleep."  His 
thumb was stroking the back of her hand, soothing.

     "Did he assign us anything else?"  She opened her eyes 
and turned her head just a little to see him now on the periphery 
of her vision.  He'd moved closer, deliberately positioning 
himself so she could see him.

     "No, Scully, we've been kind of busy, fighting to make 
you well and all.  Well, I've been busy, you seem determined to 
be difficult."  Gentle mockery in his low voice.

     "Have you been into the office yet at all?"

     He sighed, half teasing, half serious.  "He gave me 
some time off to stay with you.  I had vacation time coming 
anyway, and where else would I rather spend it?  So why don't 
you go to sleep for a bit, that's what I need you to do right now."  
Exasperation was creeping into his voice, and he couldn't 
understand why she was struggling against the sleep she so 
obviously craved.  Her eyes flitted nervously about the room, 
disoriented, pupils dilated and wandering.  In a flash of clarity 
he recognized that it was the fear reasserting itself; had been 
denying it because it was so unlike her to be so frightened, so 
rare--it disturbed him to see his strong partner like this, so 
obviously afraid, though she would not speak of it, would not 
say of what she was affrighted.  He yearned to ask her, to plead 
with her to confide in him, but did not.  He could wait; he 
would be patient.  He saw the tension in her body protest the 
weariness in her eyes.  And so he began to talk of nonsense in a 
low, calming voice, hopefully to lull her into a state where she 
could no longer so actively resist her own need and the drugs.

     "C'mon, Scully, just close your eyes, that's it.  This is a 
very strange hospital, I'm coming to realize.  I looked high and 
low for a nurse, yesterday, and there were none to be seen.  I'm 
starting to believe it's a conspiracy.  Do you know, I think one 
of the nurses is an EBE?"  His voice had an obvious teasing tone 
to it; even then she stiffened tensely when he mentioned the 
EBE.  Her head moved restlessly on the pillow; he raised his 
hand briefly to her face, and she quieted at his touch.  What had 
happened to her?  He kept talking.

     She smiled slightly.  "That's absurd, Mulder."  But her 
voice was slurred and drowsy, he noted with satisfaction, and 
her eyes remained closed.  

     "No really, I have proof."  And Mulder was off and 
running.

     And then she whispered, so faint he could barely hear, 
"Anais is dead, isn't she?"

     Suddenly, she roused, struggling to pull herself up on 
the bed, and her hand clutched weakly at his.  "Mulder, how 
long have I been here?  Why is there no one else here?  You're 
going to go now, aren't you?  There was a terror in her eyes, 
glazed by drugs, that her voice more successfully hid.

     "No, Scully, I'm staying right here.  Don't worry."  He 
increased the pressure of his grip on her hand, engulfing hers in 
his own larger one, using his other hand to gently push her 
shoulder back down on the bed, choosing to ignore her first 
questions.

     She'd been here for over a week now.

     He wondered why Scully was so interested in the girl, 
so upset, and so ignored that question as well, hating the dark, 
defeated look in her eyes.    

     And he dreaded her asking where her mother was.

     She seemed to calm a bit.  "I am sure ... you have other 
things you need to be doing."

     "Not right now.  Sleep, and I'll be here when you wake 
up."  His free hand lightly stroked her forehead for a moment, 
the certainty of his touch reassuring.  "I still have to investigate 
the mystery meat in the cafeteria, you know?"  And Mulder went 
off to describe the various mysteries the hospital presented to 
him.  

     Wrapped in the comfort of his voice, Scully fell once 
more into the abyss of sleep.  

-------------------------------xxx---------------------------------------
End of Part 14.
_________________________________________________




********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 15:  Starlight Through the Snow (Part 15/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. 

********************************
Chapter XV--Starlight Through the Snow

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
    And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
O I will love thee still my dear,
    While the sands o'  life shall run.

--Robert Burns, "A Red, Red Rose"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, January 24, 1998
Georgetown Medical Center
Room #543
4:14 p.m.

     She had stabilized, so they moved her to D.C.  She'd 
progressed to a nice private room there, with mostly everything 
unhooked but the IV.  She hoped to be out in a couple of days.  
Mulder was worried, but that was Mulder.  He wanted her to 
come and stay with him when she left.  She told him she'd be 
fine.  If there were any problems, she was sure her mother would 
come and stay with her for a couple of days.

     She was, however, surprised that her mother had not 
come already.  She thought the cruise must be over by now.  Bill 
and a very pregnant Elizabeth had stayed with her over the 
weekend until she had been declared stable; even her younger 
brother, Charles, had visited the day before.

     Charlie had business in D.C. and was due to come by 
again later tomorrow evening in order to assure himself before 
he left town that his remaining sister was fine.  She was touched 
that he had come at all; Charlie was a bit irresponsible and 
hated hospitals almost as much as Mulder.  But she still 
wondered why her mother had not come.
     
     She turned her head now to look at her only and most 
faithful visitor.  Mulder seemed troubled by more than just their 
current argument; his face had a pensive, brooding expression, 
lost in a world of his own.  "Hey, Mulder, is anything wrong?"

     "You want the usual list, or you want me to be 
inventive today?"  The words were flip, but he seemed to want to 
say more.  She waited, and he hesitated a moment before 
continuing.

     "You scared me, you know."  His voice was full of 
reproach, and a trace of resentment.

     It made Scully irritated.  What right did he have to 
resent anything she did, he who ran off and ditched her at every 
turn?  He had no right to make demands of her, to expect 
anything at all.  She was his work partner, no more.  

     But the sensible half of her mind chided her 
reprimandingly and would not let it pass.  You're friends, it said 
rebukingly, good friends and, and  . . .  it left the thought 
unfinished.  At the very least, you owe your friendship more.

     And Dana Scully felt ashamed, ashamed that she 
would not allow that it hurt Mulder to see her like this.

     Not that she would ever let Mulder know that she felt 
at all badly.

     She relented.   "If my mother can't come with me, 
Mulder, I'll stay with you.  But only for a couple of days.  
Capiche?"

     "Fair enough", he said, "fair enough."  And he seemed 
uncharacteristically saddened by the exchange, although he 
would say nothing when she asked.  So she let it lie.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, January 25, 1998
5:49 p.m.

     "Peter!  What brings you here?"

     A slight, sandy-haired man entered the room 
cautiously, carrying with him a large manila envelope.  "Hi, 
Dana--just got off.  I, um, thought I'd bring you the, uh, results 
you asked for."  His demeanour was sober, and Scully visibly 
tensed.  Mulder, standing by the window, moved protectively 
closer to the bed.  

     "Oh, Mulder, this is Peter, a friend from school.  He 
works out of National, primarily does research.  He's great for 
keeping me updated on all the latest stuff.  Peter, Mulder."  

     The two men nodded at each other; Mulder was still a 
little stiff as he sat down near the bed.  Peter awkwardly put the 
envelope down on the nightstand.  

     "So?"

     Uncharacteristically, Peter was silent for a moment, not 
looking at her.  He shifted his weight, then finally took a breath 
before plunging in as usual.  "Dana, I'm afraid there are some 
interesting finds on the child.  It seems, um, it seems that her 
DNA matches yours.  Enough for a parent-child relationship."

     Scully had gone white.  Mulder interrupted, angrily, 
rising to advance menacingly upon the smaller man.  "I don't 
know who paid you to come here and tell these lies, but ..."

     Scully held out a hand in Mulder's direction, 
forestalling him.  "Mulder, Mulder it's okay, I asked him here.  
Mulder!  Listen to me.  *I* asked him to do these tests.  It's 
okay."

     Mulder paused and looked back to her, subsiding 
when he saw her face.  He walked over, took her outstretched 
hand, and sat back down in the chair.  

     Peter took a steadying breath, shooting a wary glance 
at Mulder, and continued.  "And the blood type corroborates 
this.  I do not know how this is possible, but . . . I don't know 
what to say.  You were right.  Dana?  I'm, uh, sorry."  Peter 
paused for another moment, and then his voice trailed off into 
medical jargon that Mulder could not decipher.

     Listening, Dana clutched Mulder's hand tightly, 
painfully. He gasped and removed his thoughtlessly from her 
grasp, and so she moved her hands to her lap, gripping them 
whitely together.

     Watching her, he was instantly sorry he had withdrawn 
his own.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
7:22 p.m.

     "Mulder, I need my mother to come.  Where is she 
Mulder, why isn't she here?  She can't still be on holiday."

     Impatiently she watched him exchange a quick glance 
with her brother, visiting this evening as promised.  Charlie's 
impassive face reminded her of the day she came home from 
school to find out that grandma had died.  Charlie never could 
lie, not to her.  From his face, she knew that something was 
wrong.

     Mulder looked merely miserable.

     "What is it, what aren't you telling me?"

     Charlie told her.

     Her mother had been contacted in Acapulco, had been 
going to the airport.

     She never made her flight.

     She had disappeared.  Over two weeks ago.  She was--
and this, they hesitated to tell her--presumed dead.

     It was why her elder brother had been on furlough from 
his ship.

     She sat then, perfectly still.  "Oh, I see.  And you, none 
of you, thought I needed to know this before?  Charlie?  Okay.  
That's fine.  I think I need to be alone for a while, if none of you 
mind."  Her voice was flat.

     "Scully . . ."

     "Please Mulder.  Close the door on your way out."

     Her face was set in alabaster, and he had no choice but 
to accede to her wishes.  He followed her brother out and, at the 
door, he paused.  "Scully, please, don't shut me out."

     She didn't respond.

     So he left.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:03 p.m.

     In the back of the hospital, there was a small rose 
garden with a hedge and a gate, she was told.  For the patients to 
sit in, if they chose.  During the summer months.  Not now.

     But Scully, knowing she should not, slipped outside 
anyway, in the thin material of the abhorred hospital gown and 
robe.  Quietly, alone.  No one saw her; there was no one to 
prevent her from doing so.  Her mother could no longer visit.

     She found the quiet garden, secluded and barren, 
surrounded by tall evergreen hedges in a maze pattern.  Walked 
through and over to the bench in the center clearing, but did not 
sit.  Instead, she began to walk back and forth.  Pacing.  And the 
tears did not come, even though this time she would not, could 
not stop them.

     What did it matter?  Her mother was dead.

     But she could not cry.

     All she could do was press her hand against her mouth, 
to stop the sound of her gasps.  After a time, she had wrapped 
her arms around her waist, tight, and it helped.  Soon she 
stopped shaking, stopped feeling.  She sat then, on the bench, 
dry-eyed and empty.

     She noticed him at the gated entrance to this, the heart 
of the maze.  Voice steady, she apologized.

     He shook his head.  "Dana . . ."  He moved forward to 
wrap his coat around her, for she was shivering convulsively in 
the cold.  She shouldn't be out here, he thought; he was 
surprised and more than a little angry that she was.

     "It's nothing.  Just . . . you think it doesn't affect you, 
even though you know it must.  But you know, you have to 
know, that you can deal with it.  But some days you just can't, 
and then you find yourself turn into a cliche, a walking 
pamphlet.  'Will experience intense emotions of anger, grief, 
disillusionment . . .'   Of course they," and she laughed, a bitter, 
truncated sound in the silence, "gave me the standard literature 
to read.  It's all so stupid."  She paused, choked by unfallen 
tears; gasped for air to continue.

     "And you find it annoying; you wake up one morning 
and find you irritate yourself as much as those trite little 
pamphlets they force you to read.  Because denial is so short-
term, so temporary; after a time the lies fade to dust; they just 
can't last forever.  They can't.  Your mind just focuses, and you 
can't will it away.  You try, but you can't.  And that's even more 
frustrating than anything else.  You just want everything to stop, 
so you can leave and come back later, when you feel stronger.  
But the thing that hurts most is that it's all so futile."

     She rose to her feet, turned toward him.  "When did 
this happen, Mulder?  When?  I only know that I once had 
dreams, dreams that I  confused with ambition.  But since I came 
to the X-files, all that changed.  Everything I wanted, all that I 
am.  I don't even know who I am anymore, or what I want.  And 
when I wish for something now, I am no longer sure if it is a 
dream, or ambition, or merely a castle in the air."

     He mumbled to himself.  "The X-files.  Since you met 
me, isn't it, Scully."  And he turned away from her, bending 
slightly to examine some small etching in the gate.

     She kept speaking.  "She was an innocent, Mulder.  
My mother, for God's sake.  The reason I went into the FBI.  To 
serve and protect.  But it seems that all I've done is hurt the ones 
I most love in all the world."

     He cleared his throat.  His voice rose, got stronger.  
"Scully, I've been thinking.  Actually, I've been considering this 
for a long time, now, and think I am going to request that you be 
transferred out."

     "What?"  Shocked, she gaped at him; recovered.  
"What in hell are you babbling about Mulder?"  she snapped.

     "You're a great agent, Scully, but I don't think you are 
needed any longer in my division.  As soon as you're well, as 
soon as this is over, I'm going to request that you transfer."  He 
spoke in measured tones, as if he was reciting a speech well-
rehearsed and committed to memory.

     "Are you joking?  After all I've done?  After all this?  
That's it?"  Her voice rose in pitch with every question.

     "Think about it Scully; think about it logically.  You'll 
see--it's for the best.  Come inside now, you'll see."

     "Damn you, Fox William Mulder, damn you!  You 
never consider anyone but yourself, do you?  Never anything but 
your own obsession."  She was screaming at him by now, crying, 
not caring who was listening.  Venting her frustration, and part 
of her knew it.  Knew she was being needlessly cruel, needlessly 
vicious.  But the X-files were all she had left, now, and he 
wanted to take them from her.  She couldn't, wouldn't allow it.  

     But he was the head of the division, and *could* do it, 
if he wanted.  She knew this too, and fear fed part of her anger.  
If he was determined . . . there was nothing she could do.  
Although if he expected her to leave gracefully, he had another 
thing coming.

     He stood by the gate, his back to her, outlined by the 
fading light.  She looked at him, a tear of rage slipping down her 
cheek, angry and hurt.  Annoyed, she wiped the drop away, only 
to have it replaced by another.

     Finding herself able, gallingly, to cry in anger when 
she could not cry for grief.

     "Scully," he begged, "please try to understand."  

     He turned to her, faced her, and said, "Scully, don't you 
see?  I have nothing left to offer you.  Nothing at all.  Only this, 
only one small thing.  My love for you."

     In the frustrating process of brushing away another 
tear--they would not stop coming--she froze.

     He paused, not able to see her anymore.  Taking a deep 
breath, he continued in a low voice, speaking now barely above 
a whisper.  "Not enough Scully.  You deserve better."

     She became very still.  Had he been looking at her, he 
would have noticed her tears halted in shock, and her face now 
paler than the new snow on the ground.  "What."

     She cleared a throat suddenly too tight for speech; 
tried again.  "What did you say?"

     "You deserve . . "

     "Not that."  Impatient.  "The other.  Before."

     "I love you."  He smiled ruefully, wistfully, but with a 
stirring of hope.  "I love you."  He looked at her, shrugged 
imperceptibly.  "I always have."

     The colour had come back to her face, somewhat.  Her 
eyes had filled with fresh tears.  *Oh*, she thought, *oh my 
love*.  But she was silent.

     Seeing the look in her eyes now, he took pause to 
gently tease her.  "Do you have no answer to give me?  Dana 
Scully, with nothing to say?"  He grinned, but the desperation in 
his eyes belied the tone.

     She could not speak.  

     And he, who had never been sure of himself in the first 
place, tried to gather up what remained of his faltered courage to 
leave with at least a modicum of dignity.  Of pride he had none 
left.  "Well", he began to say nonchalantly, "Well, I guess I 
should leave you alone.  I'm sorry, I just . . .  I'm sorry.  For 
everything, Scully.  But it'll be better.  You'll see."  Berating 
himself for the flicker of hope.  And a light in his eyes 
dwindled, died.
 
     Her brain processed, slowly, the fact that he was 
leaving.  And also, more slowly still, the hurt under the casual 
tone, the bravado.  It was this alone that galvanized her frozen 
limbs to move, to cross the garden to him, to lay a hand against 
his cheek.

     To turn his face towards her own.  To smile, gently, 
and to say quietly, but with conviction.  "My love.  Oh Mulder", 
she said, and her voice dropped to a whisper, "how could you 
ever doubt me?"  But she still smiled, and in her smile was the 
world, and all the joy it could hold.

     The look in her eyes left no room for fear; in spite of 
grief, her smile held the promise of tomorrow.  Looking at her, 
the shattered faith in his own soul reformed, restructured, 
healed.  So that he could return her smile tenfold.  The balance 
restored.

     And while it did not fix anything, for a moment time 
stopped, and they were simply two people alone in a winter 
garden that blossomed anew with the warmth of their presence.

     So he came to her, and tilted her face up to meet his 
lips.  And he kissed her; there, as the first crystal snowflakes 
fell in a long damp winter.  Kissed her: slowly, tenderly.  And as 
he did he could taste the heated salt of her tears where they 
mingled with the cold fresh sweetness of snow.

---------------------:~:~::~:~:~:~:~:~:~~:~:~:------------------------
End of Part 15.
__________________________________________________

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 16:  Ribbons of Gold (Part 16/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter XVI--Ribbons of Gold

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

--Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay"
_________________________________________________
Georgetown Medical Center
Saturday, January 25, 1998
9:18 p.m.

     Mulder wasted very little time after that about making 
her go back inside, scolding her roundly for having left the 
hospital's confines in the first place.  And although she would 
have liked to protest, to stay outside for just a few moments 
more in their own private world, Mulder was inexorable.  
Unfortunately, she was still fairly weak, and had begun to 
shiver, just a little, which really did not help her argument 
much.  Mulder, picking her up and yelling at her about 
pneumonia and respiratory ailments, despite her struggles and 
firm admonishments to "Put me down.  Now," would have none 
of it.  

     She didn't think it was a good idea to remind him that 
she really did have a medical degree.

     Of course, she did let the fact slip, later:  when he 
railed at her that she pushed herself too hard, when he insisted 
she stay in the hospital a few days longer.  It did not help that 
her doctor often took Mulder's side, despite every sound 
medical reason she put forth, despite her entirely rational 
reassurances that she'd be fine.  But, eventually, there came the 
day when she was released.  When she got to go home.

     And much as she hated the hospital, much as she had 
abhorred her stay there, on the eve of her discharge a part of her 
was loathe to admit that she had found a certain security in the 
constant routine, in the fact that her loved ones were never long 
out of sight, that a guard had been posted at her door.  Despite 
Their power, and despite the nightmares, she had found she was 
able, while awake, to keep the shadows at bay.

     As the moment drew nigh, she feared returning to her 
apartment, knowing what she now knew.  Knowing that They 
had, and could, yank her from what had once been her refuge, 
her former sanctuary.  Her home.

     A place They had violated, for their own convenience, 
just to prove to her that they could.

     A place she no longer thought of as safe against the 
demons of this world.

     But she said nothing.  Merely packed her bags, kissed 
her brother's cheek, thanked the nurses.  Assured her brother 
she'd be fine.  Made arrangements with the doctors for follow-
up.  Told Mulder she couldn't wait to go home.  Fended off the 
solicitous glances, the concerned questions about her being 
ready.

     She stayed at Mulder's for the requisite two full days, 
and then he suggested he take her home.  He was trying, she 
saw:  trying to give her space, to support without crowding.  So 
she nodded, although a voice in her mind screamed in protest.  
But she did not say anything.

     Because really, Dana, she asked herself, if you can't 
even handle going home, then . . . well, how pathetic are you?

     A question she would not answer.

     He brought her home, and she was fine.  He cooked 
dinner, and she was thankful and flattered and she was fine.  
And he got up to leave, and that was fine too.

     Told him to go, because he needed the time.  Because 
he was exhausted and needed to sleep.  He had been by her 
bedside continuously for over three weeks, shuttling himself 
between work and hospital.  He *should* sleep.

     Because she knew she could not.  But she did not tell 
him that.

     Tried to believe, as he got up to leave, that she was in 
her own home and therefore safe.  Repeated the words to 
herself.  Forced herself to pretend she believed.

     Waved cheerfully good bye.  Prepared for bed.  By 
herself.  

     Looked around at her things.  But they no longer gave 
her the comfort of familiarity.

     Made herself turn out the light.  Closed her eyes.

     And woke shrieking, unacceptably, for the third time.  
Neigbour upstairs pounding on the ceiling.  Woke this time and 
shivered uncontrollably.

     Her eyes were dry though:  it was important not to cry.

     Could not control the shaking.  Although she must.  
*They* would not tolerate it.

     *Stop it, Dana,* she told herself.  Stop it.  It's over.  
Stop it.

     She did not want to call Mulder.  But she needed him, 
and wanted him, and what would it hurt to be weak?  Just this 
once.  Because when, in desperation, she truly confronted the 
depths of her soul, she was afraid.  Weak and afraid; in need of 
his strength.  Couldn't survive this night without it.  

     Just this once.

     She had only to reach the phone and call.

     Only had to allow herself to do it.

     How much would it hurt?

     Just this once.

     She dialled the numbers.

     And when he came, too slowly:  although she saw from 
his face that he had run from the parking lot, and had probably 
broken the speedometer on his car, she said nothing.  She did 
not move when he knocked and called and then let himself in.

     Did not move.

     Did not make a sound.

     Just let him come close to where she sat, dry-eyed and 
still-faced, clutching the arm of the couch.  And when he came 
close enough, she clasped his large, cold hand and pulled him 
down to her.  And when at last he was sitting beside her she 
moved quickly, before he could vanish; moved close enough to 
sit in his lap, to wrap her arms around his neck, to cling to him 
with a grip that she loosened just a fraction:  a fraction only, to 
allow him to breathe when she heard his gasp. 

     Then--then he was gathering her close and holding her 
tight and she had buried her face in the warm hollow of his neck 
and she could feel his hair soft against her cheek and could 
breathe his smell heavy in the air and hear his voice promising 
safety in her ear and he was real and solid and there and she felt 
safe and whole and safe and safe and safe.

     She did not think she could ever let go.  

     His skin, soft and smooth against her face.  His arms, 
strong and hard around her body.

     Did not think she ever would.

     And finally, finally, she let herself cry.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Annapolis, MD
Apartment of Dana Scully
February 6, 1998
8:48 p.m.

     He stayed on her couch with her for the remains of that 
night, and slept in her bed the next.   She spent the days alone, 
at home, ostensibly recuperating, and Mulder would drive 
straight to her place after work.  Or she spent time at Mulder's 
apartment while he was working, because his apartment did not 
hold the same terrors as hers.  

     And neither of them talked of that night, last night, the 
night before last, three nights ago.  As if by avoiding that 
anything was wrong they could fix it. Mulder would look at her 
sometimes, with large, sad eyes--like those of some great dark-
eyed cow, Dana would think, and berate herself for the 
malicious thought.

     Because she could not bear for him to ask, and knew 
he was biding his time.  

     He could not stay forever, and she could not bring 
herself to tell him to go.

     And then, on Friday, about a week after her release, 
when she could no longer bear Mulder's eyes on her, when she 
was on the verge of sending him away because she could not 
endure him looking at her for a full weekend, the hospital 
called.

     Mulder drove her to Georgetown in silence.

     There is something ominous about the waiting room of 
a hospital, despite the attempt at consoling colours.  Because 
nothing can mask the cold sterility, the taste of pain, the smell 
of fear.

     And nothing can obscure the dark presence of Death.

     They'd found her mother.  Not, as she'd assumed, dead 
or drowned, not taken by nefarious means.  Merely the survivor 
of an automobile crash in faraway Mexico, where the hospital 
and doctors hadn't the resources or information to locate her 
family.  Her mother had been unconscious for several days.  
When she'd finally awoken and made herself understood, they'd 
asked for her next of kin and arranged for her transfer her to the 
States.

     A car accident.

     The driver of one car had been drunk.  He had died on 
impact.

     Of the five people involved, there had been only two 
survivors, both in critical condition.  An Olivia Grace Brown, 
and a Margaret Eleanore Scully.

     Her mother had been driving to the airport, leaving the 
cruise ship at Acapulco.  Because she had been told her 
daughter was in the hospital.

     This time, she was the suspicious one, and Mulder the 
one who told her not to dig for mysteries where there were none 
to be found.

     Of all the people to be hurt, why did it have to be her 
mother?  Why, when her mother was going to come to her?

     She couldn't help but be paranoid.  It was unusual that 
Mulder was not.  He was always paranoid.

     She wondered, waspishly, if he knew more than he was 
telling.

     She trusted him, she did:  but he had done it before, 
and it shadowed her, always.

     The doctor, the nurses, they all told her that her mother 
would be fine.  Hell, she'd seen the chart, she knew it to be true.  
They were simply cleaning her up, checking her out, giving her 
fluids:  routine procedures.  Mom was going to be fine.  She 
knew it.

     Still, why were they taking so long?

     She rose and began to walk across the artificially-
lighted room, too nervous to remain still.  Walked back.  And 
again.  He watched her for a while, tense and pacing, and then 
he leaned forward to reach out an arm and grab her elbow 
firmly, holding her still.  "Hey Scully."  

     "What?"  She stopped, turned impatiently, scowling.  
He let go.

     "Nothing."  He stood and merely looked at her 
assessingly.  She began to re-direct her anxiety into irritation at 
him, manifested in an unconcealed glare.  

     Then he moved closer, reaching out and pulling her to 
him; leaned forward, kissed her neck.  Gently, tenderly.  She 
stiffened slightly, did not quite pull back.

     "Mulder . . ." Exasperation covering anxiety of a 
different nature.  This was still new, and uncharted territory.

     "Hmm?"  He did not stop what he was doing, had 
moved his hands to grasp her lightly by the waist. 

     "You're distracting me."  The anxiety was more 
apparent, but she did not move away.

     "That's the idea."  He trailed kisses down her 
collarbone, to the point of her shoulder.

     "Mulder?"  Confusion.

     He had slept in her bed for days, but he had not 
touched her, had not so much as kissed her cheek ... since.

     Since that night.

     "I want you to stop this, Scully.  Scully, I need you, 
can't you tell?  So badly, so very much . . . you can't do this to 
yourself.  She's fine." His fingers were under the sweatshirt, at 
the skin of her waist, moving under the thick fleece barrier, 
slightly higher, stroking gently against her back.  His voice, 
deep and rumbling, hoarse and seductive.

     She shivered.  He had his hand under her shirt.  This 
was a public place.

     "I don't really think . . . "

     He interrupted her.  "That's just it, Scully, don't think.  
Just relax."  Soothing, coaxing.  Entreaty in his voice, in his 
words, in his actions.  "Just relax, Dana, and let it go . . ."

     She hesitated for only another brief moment before she 
wrapped her own arms around him, fiercely now, and did as he 
asked.

     Leaning against him, letting him support her; there, in 
the stark chill of the empty green and white waiting room, Dana 
Scully cried for her mother's life in the arms of her love.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, February 9, 1998
3:54 a.m.

     Restlessly lying in bed, he listened to her breathe.  
There was the faintest trace of a wheeze, still, in the sound of 
her breathing; he'd have to ask the doctor about that in the 
morning when they visited her mother.  Normally, he wouldn't 
interfere but Scully, lately, seemed to have a reckless disregard 
for her own health.

     If Mulder had thought he could be a difficult patient, 
Scully put him to the blush.

     While at Georgetown, as soon as she was capable of 
extended speech, she began to argue every day about leaving; 
eventually, they had agreed to release her early because, Mulder 
figured, she had just plain worn them down.

     She would have worn them down even earlier, signed 
herself out AMA, he had no doubt, except for that incident.

     It had been dinner-time.  The nurse had just come in 
with the tray of plain rice, clear broth, and orange jello.

     Not very tempting and Scully, pushing the food around 
on her plate, told Mulder, again, that she wanted to leave.  

     They had been arguing heatedly when Mulder, in 
frustration, walked out of her room.  He needed coffee.  Or 
something.

     In his absence, she had been walking around the room, 
down the empty halls while everyone busied themselves with 
dinner.  Exerting herself more than she should, when she began 
to crumple.

     Arms flailing, she had managed to use her IV and the 
wall to catch herself before sliding to the floor.  A nurse, 
hearing the noise, had come in and helped her to bed.

     Mulder, with his coffee, had arrived minutes later, 
catching the rancourous end of the nurse's tirade about relapses 
and over-extension and creeping around instead of eating her 
dinner properly.  Seeing him enter, the nurse disgustedly 
apprised him of the situation and left the room.  

     Scully, lying weakly in bed, said nothing.  That was 
the most frightening part.

     When asked, she said she had wanted a book from the 
patient's library.

     He supposed it was almost comical, if it hadn't been so 
sad.

     She did not expect her body to betray her, never 
thought she could not do anything she willed herself to do.

     He had used the episode against her, hating himself for 
the necessity.  

     Had sat beside her, stroked her cheek.  Said quietly, 
leaning in close to her.  "Scully, Scully, I think you should 
stay."

     Lying limply against the pillows, eyes closed, she had 
just nodded.

     The frail woman on the bed didn't look like Scully--she 
looked like a too-thin shell of a woman he didn't recognize, 
attached to a plastic tube, a constant and hideous invasion of her 
being.

     Her lashes had been wet.

     Despite her exhaustion, he had forced her to sit up and 
eat something of her food before she let sleep claim her again.

     But it had been a whole two days before she had 
ventured to raise the issue of leaving again.

     He remembered that now, and almost wished she 
would quarrel with him.  He did not like to see her so full of 
defeat.  

     She hadn't eaten anything at dinner today.  She had 
eaten practically nothing the whole day, in fact, or yesterday.  
Except the little he had forced upon her.  They had argued and 
fought.  He wanted to trust her, but he didn't know.  She had 
said she felt nauseous when he asked, and had gone to sleep 
early instead.  He didn't know if she should still be sleeping this 
much.

     He sighed.  He'd speak to her doctor about that too; 
they had to go to the hospital anyhow to visit her mother.  
Scully needed some follow-up tests as well and it was like 
pulling teeth to get her to schedule an appointment; her doctor 
had called twice already asking for the results.  

     He supposed they would have to argue about that too.

     Her mother was all right, and instead of joy, she 
seemed frozen.  Listless.  Apathetic.   

     She had cried when her mother returned, but she had 
not spoken with him, save for trivialities, after that.  

     He'd thought, after she'd cried twice in his arms, that 
she'd be able to talk to him.  Had hoped she would talk to him.

     But she had not.

     She said she was fine.  She avoided his eyes.

     He had asked her, after some time, to talk to him.  
Begged her to talk to him.  Pleaded with her to talk to him.

     Demanded that she talk with him.

     Then, tentatively, he'd suggested that if she did not 
want to talk with him, perhaps she'd prefer a profes ...

     Her anger had been so swift, so vehement, it cut off his 
very thought unfinished.

     He physically shrank several sizes at the bare memory 
of her wrath.

     He had not mentioned it again.

     Really, he had not needed to.  The doctors, the Bureau 
in an official letter, even Skinner in an awkward, albeit brief 
personal visit:  they had all suggested therapy.

     She had refused.

     Life continued, as per usual.

     But he had struck a tender spot.  And they both knew 
it.

     Even if she would not consciously admit to anything of 
the kind.

     Instead, she had been having nightmares since her 
return.  He was afraid to leave her by herself.  

     Not only would she not talk to him, she did not even 
seem particularly fond of him these past few days.  He slept on 
her bed, on one side with Scully on the other side, and then they 
woke and it was as if nothing had ever been said.  As if they 
were less even than they had been, less than before.

     Until he left, every morning, and she would watch him 
go with those desperate eyes.  

     He avoided her eyes, when he was leaving.   He could 
not bring himself to look, wanting to escape that need.

     Unable to leave if he let himself see, and unendurable 
to stay if he had.

     He needed her just as much, almost more, but he could 
not allow himself to look at her like that.

     She would not talk to him, and so he could not help 
her.  Despite the startling information he had heard about the 
child's supposed relation to Scully, she would not even talk 
about that.

     He wondered how, when she rarely believed solid 
evidence, she could now believe these foundless, foolish, 
baseless fabrications.  Even though it appeared that's exactly 
what she had done.  Was doing.

     He wanted to explain it to her, to make her understand, 
to tell her it was so obviously a prevarication that even *he* 
didn't believe, but he could not mention the child to her.  He had 
tried, only once.

     Why *did* she believe?  How could she?

     Why in hell had she given herself to them?

     At times, he'd look at her and get so angry he could 
barely breathe.

     How could she have done this to herself?  

     How could she do this to him?
     
     He had spoken with Kate after Scully's friend had 
visited, once; he had wanted to ask her if she had any solid 
information, information he could take to Scully.  But Kate, 
whatever she was, definitely could not be trusted.  He was 
carefully not to mention Scully's fears, the reasons behind his 
interest, and Kate had told him nothing of use.

     Kate unsettled him; he had not called her again.

     The stories she told were incredulous.

     He wondered if Kate was even human.

     He hated himself for wondering.

     Scully moaned, trembling and twisting against the 
sheets.  With one arm, he pulled her closer towards him, pulling 
her head back against his shoulder, holding her tightly still until 
she calmed, worried she would hurt herself or tear her stitches.  
She did not wake, eventually lapsing back into a less troubled 
sleep.  When her breathing evened, he released his hold.

     Wearily, Mulder tucked his hand under his head, stared at the ceiling, and
desperately wished that he understood.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Georgetown Medical Center
Monday, February 9, 1998
11:54 p.m.

     Her mother was being released.  Scully was supposed 
to go in for a check-up anyway; Mulder convinced her that she 
should have it done today as they had to drive to Georgetown 
regardless.  Her mother, sounding cheerful and happy on the 
other end of the phone, agreed.  Maria, the young woman 
Margaret shared her room with, returned from surgery in the 
afternoon, and Margaret wanted to wait so she could find out 
how it had gone before she left.  So she was perfectly content to 
be picked up mid-afternoon after Dana had finished with her 
tests.

     They arrived at the hospital a little before noon, and 
her mother expected to be ready by two.  It was quiet at the 
hospital, relaxed, empty, eerie.  Mulder had called ahead; they 
expected her.  She filled out the forms and waited for the 
doctor, a new one, one that read her file too quickly and smiled 
too much in Scully's opinion.

     "Well, Ms. Scully, just a quick exam and then we'll be 
finished."  

     "Actually", said Scully slowly, "I don't really have time 
right now, I had thought that maybe we could schedule for 
later?'

     "It will only take a moment."  The doctor seemed 
startled.  Mulder frowned.

     They both looked at her expectantly. 

     "I just . . . I don't . . . I'd prefer to do this another day", 
she gathered herself and said firmly.

     Mulder nodded at the doctor.  "Could we have a 
moment?"

     He nodded back and left.

     Mulder crossed over to Scully, stopped and faced her.  
Apparently something fascinated her in the far corner of the 
room, and even when he spoke she would not turn her head.

     "I thought we agreed."

     "I know."

     He regarded her for a moment before he spoke again.

     "It'll be OK, Scully, I'll be right outside.  You should 
really have this done."

     She waited a moment, not moving, before she turned to 
look at him.  "I . . . I just . . . I can't do this, Mulder, not today.  
Please."  Her voice seemed firm, but her eyes begged him.

     Concern for her made him adamant.  "You've been 
putting this off for days, Scully.  I was lucky to convince you to 
come today.  They released you early because you promised 
you'd return for regular check-ups . . . and your doctor really 
thinks it's necessary."

     He looked a bit guilty under her gaze.  "I'm sorry--I 
bullied him a bit into telling me a little . . . You can't avoid this-
-and I don't know if you're recovering llike you should be.  I 
know you weren't feeling so well yesterday, and if you really 
want to get better . . . besides, the stitches should be checked.  
Just let's do it and get your mom and go."  
     
     "I don't know this resident.  I'd prefer to wait until the 
attending is back."

     "Scully, what is this?  He's just going to do an exam, 
anyone can do it.  Yesterday you said you just wanted it done, 
you didn't care who did it--you could have seen the attending on 
Saturday, and you said you'd wait 'till today."

     "I thought I could; I did.  I just can't.  Please, Mulder."  
Her voice had risen in agitation.

     "Scully?  What's this about?  Talk to me."

     The one thing she also didn't want to do.  The bedsheet 
enchanted her.  

     She took a deep breath, then nodded.  "Mulder? Do 
you . . ."

     "Hmm?"

     "Do you think you could stay?"

     "Of course, Scully, I'll be waiting right here."

     "No, I mean in here, with me.  Please?"

     "Are you sure?"  He looked vaguely dubious.

     "Please?"

     "Okay, sure.   Whatever you want."

     "Thank you."  As much relief as she could get.

     He smiled at her.  "I think I should at least leave while 
you put this on.  He held out the gown.  Unless you want me in 
here to do this too."  He smiled at her again, gently, teasing only 
a little.

     She pushed him out the door.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
12:44 p.m.

     She was panicking.  She'd thought today would be 
okay.  Some days were worse than others, but this was 
something she was hoping to avoid.  Whenever.  She'd endured 
it while in the hospital, because she'd had no choice.  But she 
wanted to put it behind her, needed to put it behind her . . . she 
hoped that they'd both let it go, but she'd been caught.   And she 
would've hated to look foolish if she'd argued further.  She 
tensed.

     "Dana, you're going to have to relax."  The resident, 
over-tired and frustrated, tried to sound patient.  These shifts 
were far too long.

     She tried, she really did, but she couldn't . . . she 
forced her muscles to relax, and the doctor moved his hand.  She 
tensed again and bit her lip against a cry.  The doctor audibly 
sighed.

     Mulder was at her ear, stroking her hair.  "It's all right, 
Dana, it's just fine.  You're doing great.  Relax now, for me, 
c'mon, baby, relax . . ."

     She leant into his voice, took strength from it.  Tried to 
shut out everything but the sound in her ear, soothing, 
comforting, secure.  

     Tried, and it helped, a little.

     Didn't even mind that he'd called her *baby*.  
     
     The doctor shot him a grateful glance that Scully, her 
head turned away and eyes closed, was beyond seeing.  

     Her cheeks were damp, and the voice in her ear kept up 
a steady, wordless monotone.  The doctor finished up quickly, 
doing as best he could.  This was an ordeal no one wanted to 
prolong.

     The MRI was one of the low points.  She hated Mulder 
for making her do this.

     The doctor came and spoke to her after.

     She allowed Mulder to stay in the room.

     "Well, Dana, your X-rays are good.  The MRI looks 
fine.  Sonogram, clear.  The blood work is excellent."

     She waited patiently as he flipped through the chart 
again, tapping it with his pen as he scanned for some piece of 
information or other.

     He frowned, puzzled.  "Dana, it doesn't say here, I 
guess someone forgot to note it.  How long have you been in 
remission?"

     She didn't say anything.

     The doctor looked up, confused, when he received no 
reply.  He was greeted by two faces, one shocked, one placid.

     "I'm sorry.  How long have you been in remission?"

     "What?"  Mulder croaked into the void.  

     The doctor looked a bit startled at Mulder's behaviour.  
"The remission, it's fairly remarkable according to these results.  
I just wanted to know how long she's been clear."

     "She's not," Mulder blurted, after an awkward silence.

     "Actually, she is.  Maybe you need to discuss this with 
her.  According to the lab results, they are consistent with a 
remission of some length of time."  The doctor began to look 
embarrassed.

     "Scully?"  Mulder looked at her.  She shook her head, 
slightly:  she had not known.  

     Mulder's face froze into an expression of wild, terrible 
joy as the doctor explained.

     She was perfectly healthy.  Perfectly.  

     She was still barren, of course, he said--another piece 
of news that weeks ago, days ago, would have upset her, but no 
longer could.

     Men could afford to be nonchalant about things like 
that, while the word cancer could reduce them to blubbering 
idiots.

     She had not even known she was barren in the first 
place, not until a few weeks ago.

     Mulder had known, had told her one of those long 
days in the hospital.  He'd felt guilty for keeping the news of her 
mother from her, had felt suddenly confessional.

     Odd, when he had never minded leaving her in the dark 
before.

     It was fine.  She'd already had a child, without 
knowing it, and had already lost her.  Without ever having given 
birth to a child, and without ever having buried one.

     The doctor was still speaking.  He told her her body no 
longer had any evidence of cancerous cells.  He kept repeating 
himself, once it was clear that this was news.  He and Mulder 
would begin to discuss treatment and consequences, and then 
he'd look at her and repeat the basic information again.  As if 
she didn't understand.  

     She watched his mouth move.

     She supposed he wanted her to say something.

     "Why?", she said.
     
     Her voice was toneless; mildly curious, if anything.

     His voice stopped.  He looked perplexed at her 
question.  "We are at a loss," he replied, finally.

     The doctor could not explain why.  

     Suddenly, Mulder went ballistic.  He wanted more 
tests, another exam, different doctors, independent specialists.  
More evidence, more proof.

     Scully sat quietly while Mulder filled the air.

     He talked about suing the hospital, the doctors, the 
nurses, the janitorial staff--if they were wrong, if she 
discontinued treatment as a result; he threatened and ranted and 
raged.

     He had been thanking them a scant few minutes ago.

     He demanded to see charts, X-rays, bloodwork, DNA 
scans even.

     Did he think she was someone else?

     She was too numb to ask him, if so.

     He raved and furied and cried.

     She supposed she should feel something.  She could 
not.

     Mulder started demanding to be shown results, that 
they give her more tests, right there, right then.  That roused her 
from her fog, briefly.

     She would not take any more tests.  Not now, not later.  
She did not want to argue the point.  It was her body, and she 
would not.

     She did not particularly care if the cancer was gone for 
good, or if it were only a brief reprieve.  She did not care, and so 
she told him.  

     She could not bear even one more test.

     Mulder gaped at her.  

     The doctor, however, acquiesced.  He warned her to be 
extra-vigilant, to make sure she kept her monthly appointments.  
Such a complete and sudden remission was aberrant--he could 
not stress this enough--and he could not guarantee that she was 
truly cured.

     He wished her well.

     She nodded assent, and smiled a thanks, waiting until 
he left her.

     Leaving her alone with Mulder.

     She bit her lip, and turned her face away.  A single tear 
wound its way down her cheek.  She did not notice it, until she 
felt it drip onto her hand.

     Wordlessly, Mulder walked towards her from where he 
sat in the corner, laid a hand on her shoulder.  

     She shrugged his hand away.

     While she dressed, Mulder silently went to collect her 
mother and then drove her home.

     They did not speak.

     That night, she sent Mulder back home and went to 
stay with her mom.  Her mother rarely asked anything Dana did 
not wish to answer, and Dana did not ask her mother anything 
she did not want answered.

     The day after next, she went back to work.

-------------------------:~:~:~:~:~:~:~::~:-----------------------------
End of Part 16.
_______________________________________________




Date: Sun, 2 Nov 1997 00:51:37 -0500 (EST)
From: Euphrosyne 
Subject: NEW:  Fallen Cards (Part 17/21)


********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 17:  Respite (Part 17 of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

********************************
Chapter XVII--Respite

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a 
child, I thought as a child:  but when I became a man, I put 
away childish things."

--Bible (KJV), 1 Corinthians 13:11
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Diary of Katherine Jacobs
Entry for Tuesday, February 10, 1998

     The last few days have been difficult.  Mark and I have 
talked, a fair amount, about what has happened, what I have 
done.

     He has manipulated me.  

     I have let myself be manipulated.  

     Turns out the child was Dana's.  Agent Scully's.

     I've been avoiding Fox.  But he does not want me.  He 
wants a cute kid sister.  He wants someone I don't think I ever 
was, and someone I'm don't think I can be, now.

     I wish I could explain it to him.  But we avoid each 
other, and when we do intersect, for a minute, for two, the 
tension is sharp enough to shred metal.  There's too much.  Too 
much to say, too much we can't.  

     I had parents.  I remember that.

     I remember them.

     I loved them.

     I'm sure I did.

     I want to see where they're buried.  I need to see.

     Our father was killed.  I'm not sure I'm sorry.

     Our mother died, last year.  I wish I could shed tears 
for her.  

     I need to.

     I can't.

     Why can't I cry?

     What is wrong with me?

     Oh, God, what have they done to me?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, February 13, 1998
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement

     Scully had been back at work for three days, and was 
starting to settle into the routine of things again.  The ease of 
work, the comfort of it, the familiarity.  The blessed 
forgetfulness.

     She opened the file, and froze.

     A standard VCU file.  An autopsy they wished her to 
perform.  They'd told her about the file, but until now she hadn't 
seen the pictures.  Of the little girl, about six.  Her hand shook 
uncontrollably, and she dropped the file on the floor, where it 
landed, not loudly, but enough for Mulder to turn.

     "Scully?"

     She did not answer for a minute.  And then she did, 
and her voice was as professional as it always was.  She was 
inordinately proud of that.  "Nothing Mulder, the file just 
slipped."  

     "And I thought I was the clumsy one."

     With effort, she summoned a smile as she collected the 
papers.  It was okay.  It was okay, she chanted to herself.  It was 
just work.

     "Let me help you."  Mulder began to cross over, just as 
she shoved everything in the file in a rush and stood.

     "No, it's  . . . "  And of course, as always in situations 
like this, left out the one thing that she *hadn't* wanted Mulder 
to see.  She'd forgotten one of the photographs, and it lay, 
accusingly, serenely, condemningly on the floor.

     Lucky Friday.

     The strawberry-blonde child, with fine curling hair and 
large grey eyes; both alike and unlike the one that she so 
fervently wished to forget.

     Her name had been listed as Anna Verity Robinson.

     Dead.

     "Dana?"  His voice had fallen to that quiet, concerned 
tone that she abhorred.  Nothing was wrong, and so why did 
Mulder sound like she would break?  It angered her swiftly.  Her 
placid morning mood evaporating, Scully almost snapped at 
him.  Hadn't he played this tune enough?  She forced her voice 
to a normal tone:  controlled, even.  "I'm fine, Mulder."  Willed 
an assurance into it she did not feel.  Forced a cheerful smile 
which she flashed quickly at him before turning away.  The 
shadows under her eyes could not be gotten rid of, and neither 
could the hollow melancholy in her eyes, but that wasn't 
apparent to anyone who wasn't looking.

     Unfortunately, Mulder was looking.  "It's the girl, isn't 
it?  She reminds you."

     She almost exploded then.  She hated, really hated, 
perceptive people.  Just leave me alone, she thought fiercely at 
him.  But he wouldn't, and so she just had to change the subject.  
She had about reached her limit on this particular melody.  

     "Don't be silly, Mulder.  Now, if you don't mind, some 
of us actually have work to do."  She tried to smile teasingly, it 
came out as a bare grimace.  She walked back to her desk before 
he could respond, and put the file down, intending to leave

     She was upset, and he could tell, damn him.  

     The office was silent for several moments.

     She began to relax, settle into sorting some papers to 
be put into her briefcase before making good her escape.

     "Dana?"  

     "Uh huh?"

     "What's the matter?"

     She tensed; an animal sensing a trap, making a last bid 
for escape.  "Nothing, I'm fine.  Look, Mulder, I've really got to 
get started on this."

     He stood in front of her, blocking her way.  "You don't 
look fine."

     "I'm fine, Mulder.  Don't be silly."  She felt his hands 
touch her shoulders and flinched; unheedingly, he began to 
knead the taut muscles there:  tentatively at first, then more 
forcefully as he felt her muscles give and she gave herself up to 
his touch.  She thought about protest, but what was the point?

     "Mmm."  She mumbled.  "Feels good."  She relaxed a 
little more.  There was nothing threatening in his touch, and it 
felt so good . . .  she remembered that she felt comfortable with 
Mulder, safe.  She didn't want to think, and for now, it was nice 
to feel taken care of.  To pretend everything was fine and good.  
She leaned forward into him.

     She heard his voice in her hear, low and measured.  
"Y'know, Dana, you can talk to me."

     Immediately she went rigid, forced herself to relax.  "I 
know", she said, but her voice lacked the conviction she 
would've liked, the belief she knew he wanted to hear.

     *This is Mulder*, she told herself.  *Mulder.  He'll 
wait till you're ready.  He may be persistent, but he doesn't 
push.*  

     But she'd been pushing him away for a while now, and 
truth was, he was becoming impatient.  He might leave her alone 
this night, but soon, being Mulder, he'd want answers.

     And she was the one he'd demand them from.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, February 15, 1998
Apartment of Dana Scully
11:43 p.m. 

     Scully, the sadist, was forcing him to do expense 
reports.

     Ick.

     Besides, she was wrong.  He did do them, sometimes.  
He was sure he did.

     He looked at the report, turned it around, and then 
began, very carefully, to tear the paper.

     "Well, Scully," he said, "since I forgot to ask yesterday 
... be my Valentine?"

     She laughed as he handed her a paper heart--torn out 
of yet another ruined form.

     She handed it back to him, shaking her head.  "Get to 
work, Mulder.  These have to be done by tomorrow morning."

     He grinned up at her from the floor as she settled back 
on the couch, then sighed.

     Paper hearts.

     A memory that he'd rather not have.

     Another memory that he was certain she could do 
without as well.

     He looked over at her, her bright head bent over her 
work.
     
     He'd been thinking about it for weeks. 

     But she was not ready.  She'd been through so much.  
He could not ask her, not now.

     He knew this.  But he wanted something, something 
more.

     It would be more convenient, he rationalized.  They 
spent most of their time together, now.

     He forced himself to say the words.

     "Scully, we need an apartment."

     She laughed.  "You have an apartment, even though 
you're rarely there.  The dust waits for you, Mulder."

     Which was true.  She'd stayed with her mother for a 
couple of days, until it was clear her mother was well and until 
her mother had started to ask the questions Dana could not 
answer.  She'd gone back to her apartment then, and after a 
couple of days Mulder had started to come over in the evenings, 
and then stay longer and longer.  The past few days he'd been 
practically living at her place, and she felt like she'd forgotten 
how to breathe without him.  

     As for her apartment, although she admitted she felt 
the ghosts, she would not let them rule her.  Even if she woke 
herself every night with her own screams.

     So much easier to deny ghosts when you lived alone.

     "No, we need an apartment, the two of us.  Together."  

     "Mulder . . ."

     "Screw the Bureau, Scully.   They'll know soon enough 
if they care to, and I'm tired of living my life in darkness.  Our 
life.  I won't give them that.  I'm here half the time anyway, but 
the commute is a killer.  Together, we can probably afford 
something nice a little closer to the office, and we'd have more 
room.  And", he finished wistfully, "I miss my couch."

     She smiled, sadly. *I can't keep up with 
you Mulder,* she thought.

     What she said was, "I need some time."

     "Scully, we've had years."  

     "Barely a week, Mulder.  It's too sudden; I'm not that 
impulsive."  *No,* she thought, I can't do this.  No.

     "I'm sure about this Scully.   About us.  Aren't you?"  
Abruptly, he looked at her face, and must have seen the 
indecision written in her eyes.  "Oh."  Hurt reflected itself on his 
face, until he erased it.  Mostly.  

     "No, Mulder," she reached a hand out to his shoulder, 
but did not quite touch him before pulling it back.  "I love you.  
I do.  You know I do.  I just . . . yes, Mulder.  Okay.  Let's do it.  
Find us a place, and let's just do it."  She could not hurt him, 
and she would not lose him.  She could do this, if that's all he 
was asking.    

     "Scully, I'm not trying to push you."  He reached up a 
hand and caught hers, twining their fingers together:  his warmly 
squeezing, hers cold and still.

     "I know you're not, Mulder.  It's fine."  Her hand, 
warmer now, squeezed his back slowly.

     "Are you sure?"  His eyes on her face, so intense they 
burned.

     "I wouldn't say it otherwise."  She smiled, but her eyes 
were not looking at him.

     "Okay, then.  I'll start looking tomorrow."

     He started to grin, a wide, authentic, Muldergrin.  She 
smiled to see him, his guileless joy contagious.

     Something occurred to him and he paused, looked 
directly at her.  

     "You're positive?"  A last escape, tentatively offered.

     She merely leaned forward and kissed him until he had 
forgotten the question, forgotten where he was, where he lived, 
his own name.

     But she did not answer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Martha's Vineyard
Saturday, February 22, 1997

     Kate had called Mulder.

     She wanted to visit their parent's graves.

     Scully drove him to the cemetery.  They met Mark and 
Kate there.  By silent agreement, the siblings were left alone.

     In front of their parents' gravestones, side by side.

     Mulder, later, never spoke of what he had talked about, 
on that day, in that place, with Kate.

     Scully, years after, always wondered what could have 
made him so pale in those fifteen minutes.

     They went to dinner afterwards, together.

     Scully ordered fettucine alfredo, with a dry white 
chardonnay to drink.  It was excellent, she thought, rolling it 
around on her tongue.  She sipped it slowly.  It was something 
to do, eating, drinking, and anything was better than watching 
Mulder watch Kate, and Kate watch Mulder.

     After the dessert had been cleared and the coffee 
sipped, when there was nothing left to do, they sat silently.

     Inevitably, they talked about what had happened.

     Scully hadn't been able to hear it.  She left the room 
when they started, brother and sister, and went out onto the 
balcony.  She didn't want to know, and could not listen.  Mark 
followed her out, ever the gentlemen.  It was impossible not to 
like Mark; he followed some outdated code of chivalry that was 
unfailingly considerate, unfailingly sweet.  Katherine, she 
thought, was a lucky woman.

     "How do you and Katherine know each other?"

     "It's complicated."

     She smiled.  It was always complicated.

     He interrupted brusquely.  "I know you don't like her."

     "She's Mulder's sister.  Of course, I ..."  She did not 
want this conversation.  She changed the subject.

     "I'm glad you're well.  Katherine was very concerned."

     "Yes.  I'm tougher than I look."  He grinned at her, she 
smiled a little in return.  

     "That's why I thought . . ."

     "Kate and I are not together, if that's what you're 
asking."

     She didn't know what to say.

     "Your ... her brother cannot understand.  He cannot.  
She was taken, and he would lose his lunch to know the kinds 
of horrors they expose these children to."  He looked at her.  "I 
know, I saw ... well, I guess you do know."

     Scully didn't say anything.

     "They took my sister.  My father worked for the 
government.  So they took her, and my parents toed the line.  It 
got them nowhere."

     "They do strange things to the children they take.  
Samantha did not age properly--look at her, she looks so young.  
And yet so old.  Some of us think they take the kids out to 
space, in ships that travel at the speed of light, to account for the 
lack of aging; others think they put the children in some kind of 
suspended animation stasis--I'm not sure, even now, what to 
believe.  Katherine, like the other children before her, 
remembers only traumatic fragments, nothing coherent.  Kate--
Samantha--was so young when she came, little more than a 
baby.  She told me of it, the little she remembered--mostly pain, 
some sadness.  Now ... it is who she is.  Part of her.  I forced her 
to do what must be done, and she hates herself for it.  But she 
did not have a choice.  None of us do."

     She wanted to laugh.  He was worse than Mulder.  But 
she couldn't laugh.  So she didn't say anything.

     "Don't you understand?  I loved her then.  I love her 
still."

     He looked at her again, and still she said nothing.

     Words.

     Words that did not mean nearly enough.

     *In spite of everything I love her still.*

     And the look on his face robbed her of any further 
words to say.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
February 23, 1998
Margaret Scully's condo
9:49 p.m.

     The thirty-fourth day of her birth.  Another year she 
had lived, in spite of Them.

     They had gone to dinner at her mother's invitation.

     Mulder had taken her.  It was the least he could do, he 
said.  He had forgotten to get her another keychain.   

     Truth was, he just didn't want to alarm her mother.  
Neither did she.

     They sat, later on the couch.

     They didn't speak.  They didn't move.  They just sat 
there, on far ends of the couch, each wrapped in their own hurt 
and anger and misery.

     Her mother had taken a phone call, from her younger 
brother.  Charlie, who never called.

     Long distance.

     They were the only two people in the room.

     She wished her mother had invited someone else as 
well.  

     Anyone else. 

     Her mother had been gone over an hour.

     She wished her mother would return.

     She wondered what Charlie could possibly have to say.

     On the T.V., a colorized Dr. Caligari grimaced at the 
camera.

     What in hell was her mother doing?

     He spoke.  His voice was loud in the room.

     "Scully, he said, "Scully, we have to talk."

     Instantly she felt cold.  *We have to talk.*  She had 
always hated those four words.  There was a knot in her 
shoulders and a knot in her stomach.  

     He felt her withdraw from him even further, saw the 
dread on her face.  He didn't want to do this to her.  He didn't 
want to do this to him.  But they'd both been avoiding the issue. 

     How could this go on?

     Three days ago.

     He should have known better.  He had tried to be 
patient.

     He'd asked her to move in with him.  He should have 
been content.  But then ...then he'd pushed for a time frame.

     Patience really wasn't his strong suit.

     She'd been angry.

     He hadn't exactly reacted so well.  He accused her--and 
this, this was rich--of not telling him everything.

     Three days ago.

     Maybe this was not the best place.

     Maybe he should just shut up.

     But ... it had been three days.
     
     Three days of *this*.

     He thought about getting up and going home.

     Then her mouth opened.

     "I don't want to discuss this with you."  Her words were 
harsh against the buzz of the lights.  Her face was paler than the 
pearls at her throat.

     He went still.  He measured his words, coldly.

     As coldly as she had.

     "Are you saying you don't love me?"

     "No!"

     "Well, are you saying you want time apart."

     "No--not that.  Please."  

     So maybe she did have feelings after all.

     "But you don't want this."

     "I--"  She fell silent.

     "Well, then, what do you want?"  He shouted the 
words.  He was tired, he was frustrated, he was upset.

     He was in her mother's home.

     He could hate her, so easily.

     "Can't things just stay like this?  Do they have to 
change?"  She challenged him, pleaded with him.

     Begged him.

     He tried to choose his words.

     "We're not going anywhere, Scully.  I like this, but I 
want more.  I need to know that you do too."

     "You're always pushing me, Mulder!  Why can't you 
just be content, for once, with everything the way it is?"

     "I don't know, Scully.  Because I want us to move 
forward.  Nothing stays the same forever, nothing is ever sure.  I 
just ... I ... I don't want to lose you."

     Great.  Now he sounded needy.

     He watched her.

     "You won't lose me Mulder."  She looked at him.

     How long had it been since she'd looked at him?

     "But I already am." 

     "You're not.  I just need some time, some space."

     "It's been almost 5 years, Scully!  How much more time 
do you need?  What *do* you want?"

     "I don't know", she said, and then whispered, a bare 
breath, "I don't know." 

     She began to cry then, quietly:  the tears slipping down 
her cheeks, the sounds of her gasps as she tried to stop them.  
And he felt a flash of disgust, at first, that she would cry now, as 
soon as they were arguing--resorting to this as a delaying tactic--
Phoebe had always done this.

     But then he realized.  This was Scully.

     Scully, who had not cried when he told her he thought 
her mother had died.  Not when the child she believed to be hers 
was killed; not when she was in the hospital, terrified and in 
pain.

     Not Phoebe.

     Not anyone else, ever.

     His heart turned over.

     He moved to hold her, reaching out hesitantly, unsure 
of what she wanted.  But she moved into his arms eagerly, 
almost frantically; clinging to him, scrunching the soft flannel 
of his shirt in her fisted hands.

     "I know this isn't what you want, Mulder, I know you 
need more, but I can't--and I know you'll want to be with 
someone who can--"

     She was babbling.  "Shh, Scully, shh, it'll be okay, I'm 
not going anywhere, listen, it'll be okay."

     And after a time, she sniffed, limp in his embrace, and 
looked at him.  "Really?"  Asking for reassurance, letting herself 
ask.

     "Who else would put up with me?"  He smiled at her 
gently.

     She smiled back, uncertainly.  "Come home with me?"

     Her eyes gleamed with need.  Desire.  She leaned 
forward, slowly.  Kissed him.

     He closed his eyes.

     Oh, God.

     He leaned into her, savoured her taste.

     Kissed her cheek, into the hollow, along the bone; her 
jawline, her neck.

     She sighed, relaxed.

     Something changed.

     He looked at her, more carefully.

     Saw desire.  Saw, as well, desperation and--and 
something else in her eyes.

     Fear.
     
     His mind flashed back, years before.  A child of ten, 
about to jump in the deep end to impress his sister.

     To prove he could.

     "No."

     He pulled back.
     
     She was startled.  And hurt.  And part of him wanted--
oh, longed so badly--to say yes.

     It would be so easy, a voice said.  So easy.

     So good.

     The boy had jumped, and the water closed over his 
head.  He sank, could not breathe, choked on water, could not 
breathe . . .  he'd refused to go swimming again for years.  

     Samantha had thrown fits.  

     "I'm sorry, Scully.  But not tonight."  

     She hadn't been well enough, before.  Now ...

     You're not ready.  Not like this.  Not their first time.

     You're not ready.  And ...

     And neither am I.  

     He didn't say it out loud.

     She reached for him.  "I need you, Mulder.  I want you.  
I don't want to think." 

     He shook his head.  "I'll stay, Scully, but we have to 
talk."  His voice was gentle but even.

     Again she stiffened.

     Now was not the time for sympathy.  "I want to hear 
what you want, not what you think I think you should want, or 
what you think I can handle.  I think that tonight you want 
comfort, and no more.  And I can give you that.  But you have to 
tell me, and let me decide if I want to give you that or not.  If it's 
too much I'll tell you.  But you can't decide for me.  You can't 
refuse to deal with this forever.  So talk to me, Dana."
  
     "Mulder"--there was panic in the tone, badly hidden.  
"I--can't."

     "Sure you can, here."  And he moved, in a swift 
motion, to sit behind her and pull her back against him.  She 
held herself stiffly away.  "This way you don't even have to look 
at me.  Just talk.  So why don't you want to move in with me?"

     A pause.

     "I--the rumours, the plots--I'm . . ."

     "Scared?"

     "No!"  She jerked as far away as she could, given his 
unrelenting embrace.  Yet she did not struggle, let herself be 
held, just a little.  He moved forward, till the length of his body 
touched hers again and smiled sadly into her hair.  "So am I, 
Scully.  But we'll get through.  It can't be any worse than it is 
now, or not by much."

     "I . . . I . . ."

     He waited.

     "I may not be able to have more children."  Tone 
ragged, barely a whisper.

     That stunned him for a moment and he lifted his head--
he hadn't thought about that, all that her statement implied.  He 
couldn't stop now to think about it further.  How he hated that 
time stolen, so much stolen when she was gone--he wouldn't 
think about that now.  

     "So we'll adopt."

     He leaned forward again and put his forehead against 
the back of her neck, speaking into her shoulder-blades, 
breathing softly onto her skin, inhaling the scent of her.  "Or we 
won't have any.  It doesn't matter--I'll keep you too busy to care."  
And he smiled against her neck.  She leaned back a very little, 
relaxed, sinking into his frame just a notch.  He couldn't stop 
the widening of his smile.

     "And now the harder stuff, Scully."  Instantly she was 
stiff again, despite his gain of a minute previous.  He had 
tightened his grip on her, so she couldn't sit apart again, 
although he felt her muscles tighten in an attempt to do so.  But 
she did not struggle against him, giving in gracefully.  Although 
she didn't say anything at all either.

     He sighed, and did not ask her again.  This was 
enough.  He had a start.

     And a start was all he'd ever needed.

-------------------------------xxxxxx----------------------------------------
End of Part 17.
__________________________________________________





********************************
T h e  X - F i l e s 
Fallen Cards
Chapter 18:  Dusk of Time  (Part 18/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  
___________________________________________________
Chapter XVIII--Dusk of Time

Recall those days, look back on all those times, 
Think of the things we'll never do--
There will never be a day when I won't think of you.

--Christine, "Think of Me", The Phantom  of the Opera

_________________________________________________
Friday, February 28, 1998
4:43 a.m. 
Annapolis, MD
Apartment of Dana Scully
     
     It was their last night in her apartment.  Everything had 
been packed; the movers were coming in the morning.

     In the dawn of shuttered grey half-light, Mulder lay on 
his back, awake.  One arm was tucked under his head, his other 
hand traced lazy patterns on Scully's arms, back, shoulders, 
stomach.

     He loved her more than he had thought himself capable 
of loving anyone.

     She murmured in her sleep, then roused; he could not 
summon up the proper repentance at waking her.

     She smiled and turned towards him, and the light in 
her smile stopped his breath.

     She was beautiful.  She was radiant.

     She was his.

     It sounded so silly. 

     He didn't care.

     He had to say something.

     He could not find the words.

     He cursed the English language for being so unwieldy; 
inadequate to tell her.

     "I love you."  

     Why did he care about words?  This was Scully.  She 
understood.

     Her eyes lit the room.

     "I love you too."  

     He couldn't imagine life without her.

     He wanted to marry her.  

     He supposed he always had.  He loved her.  He wanted 
the world to know.  
     
     He had been brought up to understand that you married 
the woman you loved.  

     He *believed* you should marry the woman you loved.

     He would need her forever, and he would not, could 
not, bear for anything to happen to her, ever again.

     He would not allow it.

     He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.  
She was real.  She was here, she was safe, she was his.

     He would make sure.

     He forced himself to relax.  Closed his eyes, opened 
them, and his vision was filled with her.

     God.  Scully.  He wanted, in that instant, to give her 
the world.  If he could do nothing else in his life but that one 
thing, he would die happy, he thought, and began, impulsively,  
to tell her.  "I will always love you.  Always, Scully.  Forever  . . 
."

     "No."  She looked upset, holding her fingers against 
his lips.  "Don't."

     "What?"  He was surprised.

     "Don't lie to me Mulder, don't weave fairy-tales and 
promises you can't possibly afford to keep.   Never that. Not 
from you."

     "I can't bear it", she repeated.  "Not from you. "

     "But Scully . . ."

     "No.  If I have learnt anything over the past few years, 
it's that you can't predict tomorrow.  And Mulder, I'm not asking 
for tomorrow.  I can't.  I won't.  Never from you.  All I ask from 
you is today.  Please.  Please just give me today.  I don't want to 
think about tomorrow, or the day after.  Just today.  Please."

     Her voice was sharp with distress, and Mulder did not 
understand.

     She looked at him in the silvered light.  The man who 
loved her.

     A man she loved.

     And remembered a long ago time when she had 
thought that was all she would ever need.

     Even so, he pulled her closer, stroked her hair.  "Okay, 
Scully, all right.  No promises.  Only this."  And he leant 
forward to kiss her, gently, although he was sorrowed beyond 
belief.  But he made a wordless covenant to her, with lips and 
tongue and touch, a covenant that she would not hear:  one that 
he pledged nonetheless.  *I've taken your faith in tomorrow 
away, Scully, and for that I will always be sorry.  But I intend 
to spend the rest of my days restoring that belief, that faith.  I 
want to give you tomorrow, and if it takes forever to do so, 
forever it shall be.*

     His eyes started the lyric and his hands finished the 
verse, the spoken word too clumsy to express what he wanted 
her to understand; the silence perfect and meaningful around 
them.

     And she understood, but longed for the sound of the 
words.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, March 1, 1998
Arlington, MD
7:48 p.m.

     They'd spent the last couple of weeks looking at 
apartments, condos, townhouses, homes.

     Settled on a townhouse in a quiet part of Arlington.

     God, she hated moving.

     Mulder seemed to love it, though.  He took apart 
furniture, picked up boxes, threw things around with abandon.  
She had tried to tell him to take it easy--he clearly thought he 
was in much better shape than he was, and she was sure he'd 
strain something--but as usual, he paid as much attention as an 
eight-year old in the middle of a video game does to his mother.

     Until he had come up the stairs, pale as a ghost.  His 
hand was half-closed; he had wrapped it in a Kleenex.  A very 
bloody Kleenex.

     She'd taken one look, and started getting her coat.  
Didn't even ask him what he'd done, or how.

     "Where are *you* going?"

     "Mulder, that needs stitches." 

     "No, it doesn't, I'm fine."

     "Mulder, don't be difficult."

     "Leave me alone."  

     "Mulder," she told him, angrily, "why can't you accept 
that I care about you?  That it hurts me to see you in pain.  You 
are not alone in this, you know."

     Chastened, startled, he merely nodded.

     Then, a second later, his eyes had narrowed.

     "It doesn't go both ways, does it, Dana?  You are 
allowed, and I'm not, is that it?"

     "Mulder ..."

     "What?"

     "That's not fair," she said weakly.

     "Why not, Scully?  Tell me why."
     
     She was scared to answer him.

     Anything she said would be definite, irrevocable.

     She wished Mulder wouldn't force the issue.  He 
always forced issues.  

     He sighed.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  It's not right of me to 
pressure you."

     No, no it wasn't.  But she understood why he did.  

     He was waiting for something, maybe even to ask her 
to marry him.  She could see the signs.

     She had always dreamed of getting married, as a child.  
A bride in white, with flowers in her hair.  With laughter and 
cake and her father to give her away.

     A powerful sacrament, marriage.  Something pure.  
Something good.

     Something elusive.  

     Final.  Concrete.

     Real.

     How could she commit to something like that, when 
she was barely sure of tomorrow?

     How could she promise something like that, before 
God and the world, when she was barely sure of herself?

     How could she give up herself to the unknown?

     She could not.

     Not again.

     Never again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
March 17, 1998
9:54 p.m.

     It had been Mulder's turn to cook.  He ordered pizza.

     She was Irish, how could St. Pat's not be a special 
occasion?  And pizza was good on every occasion, he stated, 
presenting the pizza with a flourish.

     Besides, she was too thin, he mused.  It cheered him to 
watch her eat.

     Just in case they were marooned.  

     He earned a mock glare for that one.

     She was too tired to argue with him and in any case, he 
had a point.  His concoctions were rarely edible.

     They ate without speaking for a few moments, until she 
noticed him looking at her.  Intently.  She began to fidget.

     And then ... she knew.  

     "Mulder, don't," she said. 

     "You don't know what I ..."

     "I do.  Not today.  Please."

     "Scully, I don't understand.  What's the problem?"

     She was silent.

     She did that well.

     He cleared his throat, and then asked, quietly, abruptly.  
"Dana, do you trust me?"

     She looked at him perplexedly.  What a question.  Of 
course, she did.  She trusted him with everything.  With all she 
owned.  With her thoughts.  With her confidences, certainly.  
Yes.  At her back?  Always.  In a second.  With her life?  In a 
heartbeat.  

     But . . . did she trust him with her heart?  More than 
that?  She didn't know, and the thought panicked her.  She 
looked away.  Didn't answer.

     She was a Navy Captain's daughter.  She was used to 
leaving, to being left.  She didn't mind that.

     It didn't hurt any more, not really.

     But ... Mulder.  He was so ... consuming.  She loved 
that about him, she did.  The tenacity, the strength, the desperate 
intensity with which he infused all he did.  He might let his 
passion posses him, but in the end it devoured everything in its 
wake.  Leaving him, not untouched, but more or less whole.

     The question was, would it leave *her* whole?

     A different kind of fire, but one that scared her more 
than any physical flame.

     "Scully," he said, and his tone compelled her to look 
up at him.  "I am not asking for everything, not so much.  I am 
only asking that you believe in what we have, and trust in that.  
No more.  The rest will flow from there.  Can you give me that?  
It's all I ask."  

     *Please, Scully.*  The thought was written all over his 
face.  He was begging her.  And she did not want to refuse him.

     Then she thought about his words, thought about them 
and considered.  And the answer was clear. 

     "Yes."

     "Yes."  That much was already his, and had been for a 
long time.  Such a relief, really, to decide, once and for all, to 
commit.  She smiled at him, and he read the answer again in her 
eyes, and laughed in sheer joy to see it, a laughter that she 
joined in.

     So they stood there, laughing like maniacs in the 
middle of the living room while the pizza grew cold and the 
television infomercial droned on and on.

________________________________________________
March 21, 1998
6:19 a.m.

     He usually jogged in the mornings for at least an hour, 
usually more, particularly on a weekend.  Scully knew this, had 
always known it.  It did not matter, for he went early, and she 
usually slept as late as possible.  Especially lately, that her body 
needed more time to recover.  So when he pulled a muscle and 
came back a half hour early, he knew she had not expected him.  

     Although he, quietly opening the door so as not to 
wake her if she still slept, had not expected this either.  

     Scully, silently wiping tears off her face as she rocked 
back and forth on the chair, staring sightlessly at the picture in 
the file.

     Anais.

     A file he'd deliberately hidden at the back of the 
cabinet--easy enough to blame on bad filing technique if 
interrogated.  He had not wanted her to see it.  Ever again.

     And then she saw the door open, and, before he could 
move all the way inside, she had shot up from her chair and was 
across the room, poised on the edge of flight.

     He froze.

     She looked at him.  "M-Mulder?  You're . . . you're 
back early.  You startled me."  Her voice was hoarse from 
unshed tears, her eyes were lined in red.  

     "I pulled a muscle."  His voice was neutral.  He took a 
limping step forward, watched her objectively as she 
instinctively started to take a step back and then stopped herself.  

     "Are you okay?"  She asked, but she did not move 
towards him to check as she normally would. 

     "Scully?  It's okay.  It's just me."  He thought his heart 
would break.  She looked caught, terrified, alone.  He held out a 
hand.  A moment passed.  A long moment, then another.  And 
just when he thought he would surely begin to cry himself, she 
moved.  Moved forward to take his hand and pull him close to 
her so she could hold him and be held.

     He kissed her, and wrapped his arms around her.  She 
tucked her head under his chin, believing in the haven he 
created, grateful for the respite.  Ran a hand down his leg, and 
he chuckled and shook his head--the doctor was always in.  But 
then he spoke again.

     "Dana", he lowered his voice, his mouth near her ear.  
"Dana, we are going to have to talk about this."
  
     She stiffened at his words, stiffened and tried to pull 
away.  He held her tight though, and did not let her go.

     "You can't avoid this, Scully."

     "Who said I was avoiding anything, Mulder?  But I 
don't really have time for this right now.  We've got to get 
going."  She pushed against him a little now, despite his firm 
hold upon her.
 
     "Scully . . . he sighed and let go.  She rose, walking 
away, her back to him.  Silence stretched.  

     He watched her.  "Running away from the issue won't 
solve anything."

     She turned on him, eyes a little desperate.  "Why 
Mulder, why do you always want to talk about everything?  
Why can't you just leave it alone?  Why?"  

     "Because, Scully, it's making you miserable.  Because I 
want to help.  Because I want to know, and I think you do too."  
His voice softened.  "Look, it doesn't have to be anything major.  
Just tell me a little.  Just start.  I won't say anything.  Five 
minutes.  That's all I'm asking.  Just five minutes.  Then I'll drop 
it.  Okay?"  

     "Five minutes?"  
     
     "I'll set a timer."  He grinned, but it did not hide the 
melancholy in his eyes.  He did not want to do this to her either, 
but there was no other way.

     "Does it have to be now?"

     "That's the deal, Scully.  Right here, right now.  Or I'll 
keep plaguing you."

     She sighed, walked across the room, walked back, 
stood in front of him, looked out the window absently, and then 
looked back to where he waited impassively.  She opened her 
mouth, closed it.  Why did it have to be now?  Why now?  She 
couldn't deal with this now.  Later, when she could not think 
about it for a little while, when her mind was not full of turmoil 
and confusion and anger and hurt, then, maybe then, she could 
talk about this rationally, calmly, having nicely sorted out and 
labelled her feelings, having logical reasons for the why and the 
wherefore.  When she had distanced herself from it and blocked 
it out and compartmentalized it into a neat box that she could 
talk about as being something that happened to someone else, 
just a fact of her life, no more no less.  When she didn't have to 
feel anything more towards it than if someone had asked her 
where she was born, or what school she went to.  Just another 
fact.

     Only, right now, it wasn't.  And talking about it would 
make her cry, or scream.  And she didn't want to do that.  She 
didn't want to.  Really, really didn't.

     But Mulder wouldn't let her be.  

     And suddenly she was angry with him for that.  What 
right did he have to make her deal with this if she didn't want 
to?  What right did he have at all?

     His voice again, inexorable.  "You agreed, Scully.  Five 
minutes."

     And there it was, the voice of calm reason.  She hated 
it.  She hated him.  She hated everyone and everything that made 
her come to this point.  Hated the men who experimented upon 
her, hated these shadow scientists who had taken from her 
without permission, hated the fact that she had no control over 
any of it, hated the child that was born from her flesh without 
her ever having felt it, hated the fact that she had never known 
it, hated the woman that killed her.

     Mulder's sister.

     Hated her.  Oh God.

     Hated what her child had become.  Hated the child.  

     Hated that she was afraid in her own home, and that 
she could never be safe here again.

     And tears were streaming cleanly down her cheeks, and 
she was not even aware of them.  Mulder moved towards her, 
and she stepped back, holding him off, before recognizing who 
he was and what he was and then flinging herself at him, 
burying her sobs in his chest as he murmured unheard platitudes 
into her hair, sobbing as she had not cried since the beginning 
of this whole nightmare.

     Cried and sobbed and hit him, and he let her and she 
yelled at him for that too.  Cried until she was just a little ball 
sitting in Mulder's lap, unsure how they had even ended up in 
the chair, and then she calmed enough to form words and began 
to talk.

     To tell him.  All of it.  No matter how silly, or lame, or 
weak, or shallow it sounded.  The child, the sister, the cancer, 
her mother.  Her sister.  Him.  Chocolate and nightmares and no 
air-conditioning in her office.  That she had needed to move and 
hated herself for it.  Everything.  And he listened, and 
comforted, and was simply there for her.  And when she was 
finished she felt drained, and a little foolish.  But better.  

     As if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

     And finally, she was free and clear.  
_______________________________________________

End of Part 18.
__________________________________________________





********************************
T h e  X - F i l e s 
Fallen Cards
Chapter 19:  Circle's End  (Part 19 of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  
___________________________________________________
Chapter XIX--Circle's End

. . .  and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.

--Bible (KJV), Matthew 7:8

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Diary of Katherine Jacobs
Entry for Sunday, March 22, 1997

     I want answers.  I need answers.

     Files, Mark showed me files.  Copied.  Some copied 
well, some badly.

     Initials, and birthdates.  People, reduced to letters and 
numbers in black typeface and color-coded stickers.  
SCJ1222.  Dr. Colleen Judith Sommers, born December 22.  
BDR0808, Duane Robert Barry, born August 8.  So many files 
they make me nauseous.

     People with information about me, about others.  More 
convoluted than I ever knew.  Plots and experiments.  

     Even Mark.  Who is he?  What is he to me?  

     Who am I to him?

     He knows more than he'll tell, more about me than I 
know about myself.  

     Did he save me?  Should I be grateful?

     Should I hate him?

     A whole world I never knew existed.  Things I need to 
know.  Things I want to know.

     Maybe that's not the exact truth.

     The truth doesn't really matter, now.

     I am a number, MSAT1121.  That's all I am.  

     They changed me.  I know that.  Or maybe I was always 
different, and they just knew.  Maybe I've always been like this.  
A freak of nature.  

     I couldn't read the file.  I don't want to.  I don't want to 
know.  I can't.

     Mark told me the basics.  Just enough, so I would 
know.  I was a 'K' series.  I thought I'd been so clever, becoming 
Katherine.  Who knew that's what they'd called me, all along?

     They marked us too.  An apple.  A twist on Genesis, 
the fruit of knowledge.  The fruit of destruction.  I'm sure they 
felt very clever.  A deep red birthmark, only appearing on death, 
so that every autopsy report filed could be tracked.  Every 
subject accounted for.

     You could do that, when you were playing with living 
DNA.  And when you play on this kind of scale, I suppose it 
behooves you to keep track.

     Because usually, they had us killed, when they no 
longer needed us.  Anais had been effective, in that regard.

     All of us, all of us had been re-named, we'd all been 
abducted--taken, maybe returned, with or without memories of 
who we were, what we were, maybe killed.  And now, we all had 
names starting in K.  Most of us had been returned.

     There were other series' as well.  Others I didn't want to 
know about.  A control group.  E group, that had failed.  C 
group, children taken and altered, significantly, a partial failure.

     There were groups that had been created.  Test tube 
babies, in the true sense of the word.  Anais had been one of 
these.  

     She was trained, just as I.  To control, to incapacitate, 
to kill.  But she was better at it than I, she had been created 
especially for that.  And I escaped, as she did not.  Or maybe I 
was taken away, it doesn't matter.  Does it?

     So she became Theirs, as she always was and as I was 
not.  It is not fair, but it is.  

     The power of the mind, of one over the other.  To 
control someone else's will, to drain them of their will, to stop 
their need to live.  To do all this, and more.  That is what 
potential we had, and that is what we were taught to use.

     She had been part of the A series.  The ultimate 
experiment.  Controllable, because she had been designed to be 
so.  Still, she was alive.

     Did she let me kill her?  Even so young, and so 
tainted?  I do not know.

     Life is never predictable.  

     Anais.  The only "A" series experiment.  And I 
disposed of her.

     There are no others.

     As far as Mark has been told.  

     So who really knows?

     He had heard rumours of an F series.  A few years ago.  
No one really knows about those.

     It is too much information.  Psychic experimentation, 
he said, brainwashing.  They say most people use less than ten 
percent of their brain.

     Normal people.

     God knows I'm not one of those anymore.

     Even God wouldn't know, now.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, April 10, 1998
Annapolis, MD
5:53 p.m.

     Easter weekend.  They had finally settled into the new 
apartment, unpacked their last box.  Normal people would throw 
a housewarming.  Cautiously, they had extended a dinner 
invitation to a few people--Scully's mother, Frohike, Langly and 
Byers.

     Katherine and Mark.  Equally formally, they had 
accepted.

     They had spent the day cooking, cleaning, finally 
organizing--they'd put it off for weeks.  Arranging and re-
arranging furniture in a mutually acceptable pattern.  She hated 
moving.  She hated settling.  She was exhausted.  

     "Come to bed, Scully.  I'll give you a back rub."

     "Mulder, really?  I'll love you forever."

     "Will you, Scully?"

     "Will I what?"
     
     "Love me forever."

     "Impossible man.  I already do."  She shook her head, 
amused.

      He looked at her, slumped in the chair, and out of the 
blue, said slowly, wonderingly.  "Sometimes, I love you so 
much."

     She grinned at him playfully, "Only sometimes, 
Mulder?"

     He smiled back, a shadow in his eyes.  "Well, maybe 
not."

     And she smiled at him, a smile like warm milk and 
peaceful nights.  "Sometimes."

     She held out her hand to him.

     He raised her hand to his lips, turned it over, and 
kissed the inside of her wrist.

     She shivered.

     Not that she was cold, no, not at all.

     He pulled the hand towards him,  holding it against his 
chest, moving her closer, and raised his other hand to her hair, 
raking it back with one hand and letting the silky locks fall 
through his fingers, only to repeat the gesture, this time 
lowering his head to slowly kiss the exposed skin of her throat.  
And when he lowered his hand to clasp and tug on her own, she 
willingly followed him wherever he led.

     In this case, to the bedroom.

     Anyone listening would have heard the lock turn 
against an otherwise empty apartment.  But she was in no mood 
to tease him, not then anyway, about his paranoia.

     No, teasing him--verbally, at least--was the last thing 
on her mind.

     They were barely ready by the time the guests started 
to arrive.   But it went better than he expected, better than he 
feared--almost, almost it seemed normal.

     The six of them were playing rummy after dinner, the 
table cleared and the gifts opened.  Mulder had suggested 
Stratego to Kate, teasingly, but she had refused in a serious tone 
that had sobered even Mulder's forced gaiety.  So they played 
rummy--an easy enough game:  harmless.

     Frohike and Scully's mother did not join them.  
Margaret had had to leave and Frohike--odd, that; the two of 
them had gotten along really well--had offered to drive her 
home.  

     Mulder looked at Katherine, eyes dancing wickedly.  
"How's this to deal?  One eyed jacks are wild, along with the 
four of clubs and spades, and the Ace of Hearts."  He reeled off 
everything in his hand, showing it to Scully mock-secretly.  

     Scully laughed and shook her head.  "Mulder, that 
doesn't even bear resemblance to a game.  Try ag . . ."

     Suddenly, Kate interrupted.  "That's not fair!"  Her 
voice was sharp, shrill.

     "Kate . . .", Mark's voice was cautioning, worried.

     "Those aren't the rules, Mark, they're not.  He's 
cheating, Mark, make him stop, make it stop, O God, Mark, 
make it stop."  Suddenly she was shrieking, arms alternately 
flailing and covering her head.  Mark stood, but he couldn't get 
close to her.

     "Kate, relax, get a grip, Kate . . . "

     She lifted the table and flung it across the room.

     Cards scattered across the floor.

     The room was stunned into horrified stillness.

     Kate looked at Mulder.  "Did you know?  I cheated as 
well.  Here.  We had the file.  We had the file and we had to sit 
on it.  Look!"

     She showed him the file. Guilt had haunted her for 
days now, for weeks.  She could no longer live with it.  Easier to 
let him know, have him know.  To ease the crushing weight of 
remorse.  Spread it a little.

     It was all there, dates, locations.  Even a few names.  
Very few, but there.

     "Sam, you knew where she was held!  I remember, 
now, you knew.  God, it's all becoming clear to me now."  He 
wanted to shout, to scream, but he didn't have the strength, 
suddenly.

     It was a blessing, he supposed.  Scully often worried 
the walls were too thin.  

     "I knew where she might be, yes.  And why.  But not 
the exact location, not until we went."  She hissed the words, 
glaring at him.

     "Oh, God.  And you let her . . ."  

     What had she become?  Who was she?  He felt like his 
world was spinning out of control.

     What had she done?

     What had he let her do?

     "The timing had to be right, Fox.  It had to be perfect, 
else we would not have been able to terminate their creature.  
And it was . . . "

     "You planned this!  You . . .  Don't even talk to me."

     In that moment, all he felt was rage.  He loathed this 
creature, this woman.  Wanted to hurt her.  He had trusted her.  
He had trusted her, and Scully had been hurt.  How often had 
she suffered for his mistakes?  Scully, oh, Scully, I'm sorry.  So 
sorry.  
     
     "Fox.  Don't be a moron.  I thought you understood."

     A tear fell down her cheek; he watched her wipe it 
impatiently away.

     She was his sister.  That was worth something.  Had to 
be worth something.  

     "I . . . "  He could not understand, but he was trying.  
He didn't want to hurt her.  Hadn't wanted to hurt her.  It was 
hard to take in.  Maybe she was right.  The evidence ... this was 
his sister.  Surely he could give her the benefit of the doubt?  He 
searched for words to say.  "Everyone makes mistakes, Sam."

     "But they are not always forgiven.  And in case you 
missed it, I'm no damn Portia."

     How, how could he reply to that?

     "What about the child?  You killed her."

     "That was no child."

     Scully's voice, anguish in the silence.  "She was my 
daughter!"

     Katherine snapped, spun to face Scully.  "You honestly 
believe I killed a child.  Do you even know what she was, what 
she could have been?  That 'child' could have levelled cities!  
She was a weapon of death, no more, and no less.  There was no 
other way.  And you have the audacity, the sheer gall, to accuse 
*me*!"  

     "Kate!"

     She snorted derisively.  "What were you expecting?"

     "Well I didn't expect this!"  The words were childish, 
and he hadn't meant to say them.

     Kate looked at him scornfully, her cut-glass gaze bored 
into him.  "I knew you were like this.  I knew, and still, I came 
back for you.  I came back for you!"

     Stunned into answering, Mulder shouted back at his 
sister.  "Well, I never asked you to!"  

     Her voice was little more than a breath.  "You haven't 
any idea, have you?  Searching your entire life, indeed.   Have 
you any idea what I've gone through, what I must go through?"  

     *I would have found you.  I wanted to be the one to 
find you.*  His mind whimpered the refrain; the words 
themselves unformed, but spoken in so many ways before.  

     "You just spent your life looking, is that it?"  Bitter, 
bitter venom over the core of hurt.

     "I would have found you!  It's not my fault!"  He voiced 
the words then, yelled them to the room:  in truth, in denial of 
everything he lived.

     "No, it was my fault for leaving, wasn't it?"  The voice 
abruptly whisper-quiet, and harsher still as a result.

     "God . . ."  Scully's gasp, in the ensuing silence, made 
them both aware of their audience:  Scully, Byers, Langly; Mark 
still standing in the center of the room.

     Kate abruptly stopped and put a hand over her mouth, 
realization dawning in her eyes.  She whirled and ran from the 
room.

     After a moment, Mulder rose and followed.

     In the silent room, Mark looked at Scully.  "Shit, it's 
not going so well, is it?"

     Ruefully, Scully simply shook her head.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
7:15 p.m.

     Outside, on the wooden balcony, Kate stood with her 
back to Mulder, outlined brightly against the  light of the dying 
sun.  "So, Sam, you want to tell me what that was all about?"  
Best psychologist's voice.

     She gripped the rail harder and shook her head.

     "C'mon, Sam, talk to me."  He let a tiny hint of 
cajolement creep into his words.

     "I'm sorry."  The words were low, even; the voice just 
barely steady.

     "That's not what this is about."  Not letting her get 
away with it, but not challenging.  Neutral.  And then his mouth 
twisted in pain, and he said, "Sam, I never . . . I never blam .  . . "

     Her control slipped, just a little, and her voice rose in 
frustration and misery, cutting his off.  "I can't, Fox, I can't; it's 
so hard.  I try, and I look at you, and I can't see my brother.  And 
then I do, and I can't sort it out.  But they trained me to hate the 
memory of my family, though I tried to resist, you must believe 
me; I tried, but it was so hard . . . " and she was weeping openly 
now, throat thick with tears.  She gasped, choked back sobs, 
took a breath.  Rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes.

     The cycle of hurt, and of pain.  He closed his eyes, 
opened them.  Would it never rest?  Her words echoed the 
confused feelings in his own aching heart, no matter how much 
he tried to deny it.  

     She was taking deep breaths now, fighting to resume 
control, no matter how tenuous.  Unable to let it show.  Turned 
towards him.  "I'll do better.  I will.  I just need some time."  She 
raised her head sightlessly a little to try to smile at him.  

     Oh, Sam, he thought.  What have they done to you.  
What have they done to us all.  

     His soul grieved for her.  For himself.  He forced 
himself to speak.  Forced the words past reluctant lips, past the 
wailing protest of his own heart.

     "It's not working, Kate, is it?"  Quietly, in resignation.  
And the silence acknowledged and answered his words. 

     Tears now streaming down her face, facing him, she 
shook her head slowly.  She swallowed, tried to explain.  "I'm 
sorry.  But I can't be who you want, what you need.  I can't give 
you that.  Not now, not yet.  I wish I could." 

     She bit her lip, glanced away.  Took a breath.  "I tried, 
please believe me, I did try.  But it's not mine to give."  

      Her eyes had closed, her voice barely audible.

     "And . . .."  She stopped herself, but he could hear the 
unspoken thought as clearly as if she had articulated it.  *And 
you're not who I need you to be*.

     A plea for understanding in her voice; for 
understanding and no more.  Because she would not ask to be 
forgiven, he knew.       

     She could not ask for forgiveness--especially of him--
any more than could he. 

     And maybe that hurt most of all.

     She raised her head to look at him sightlessly, tears 
obscuring the vision in her eyes.  "I'm sorry, Fox, I'm so sorry."  
Closed her eyes against the tears and looked away.

     "Lord, Sam, don't be."  Anger in his voice, but not 
directed at her.  "What have you to be sorry about?  None of this 
is your fault."

     She opened her eyes to look at him.  He read the denial 
of his words in them.

     So very sorry.

     There was nothing further to say.  Despite years of the 
best professors at the best schools, he had no words of comfort, 
of healing, to offer.  Nothing left to say.

     The wheel turned again.  And this time, when the 
wheel turned, it drove a deep spike into his already bruised 
heart.  Gouging into it a wound that would never heal.

     "It'll be all right, Sam.  You'll see."  He said the words, 
trite as they were; willed her to believe them.  Willed himself to 
believe them.  Despite.

     And within him, his wounded heart bled free.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Part 19.
___________________________________________________





********************************
T h e  X - F i l e s 
Fallen Cards
Chapter 20:  Banks of Red Roses  (Part 20 / 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  
___________________________________________________
Chapter XX--Banks of Red Roses*

And fare thee weel, my only luve, 
    And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
    Though it were ten thousand mile.

Robert Burns, "A Red, Red Rose"
___________________________________________________
April 12, 1998
Easter Sunday
10:07 a.m.
Arlington, VA

     Mulder stood in the parking lot, trying not to shiver 
under April's warm sun.

     Mark came up behind Kate, slipped an arm around her 
waist.  A comforting arm, one that demanded little, and offered 
much.  If she wished to take it.   Mulder watched her lean back 
against that arm.   

     "Good bye, Fox.  I hope you'll keep in touch."  She 
held out a hand.

     "Sam . . ."

     "Please, Fox, please.  Don't even start.  This is best.  
Neither of us are ready for this, not now, not yet.  Let it be.  At 
least we've found each other.  Can't that be enough for you?"

     The sun was too bright, he could not see her properly.  
He opened his mouth to say something in response; to refuse to 
let it be like this.  To deny her words.  But he bit back the 
denial and did not say anything.  What could he have said?

     Although the child in him, the child that wanted his 
baby sister back, cried tears of rage and anguish.

     There was nothing to be said.  

     Scully, watching, eyes burning with unshed tears, 
began to hate this woman with so much power to hurt.  Please, 
thought Scully, please can't you give him just a little?  That's all 
he wants, just some indication.  Something.

     But Scully was not sure, exactly, of what it was she 
wanted Kate to give.  Just something more.  This was all so 
cold-blooded, no trace of warmth.  Indifferent and unfeeling.  
Unaffected while her brother shed his heart's blood.  And she 
could no longer watch this sister who had so much, and was 
throwing it away, and so she looked back at Mulder.  Watched 
him as he watched his former sister.  His sister.

     Mulder spoke in the awkward silence, pausing Kate's 
movement.

     "Dad left you some stuff in his will.  You should have 
it."

     "Mark will take care of it.  If you send the papers to his 
office, it'll be done."  She turned away.

     Nothing more to say.

     So he watched her go, although he could not hide the 
pain in his face.  And he watched, without moving, as Mark 
reached up to brush a tiny tear from his sister's alabaster cheek 
while Katherine impatiently brushed his hand away.

     The bitter wake of reality.

     But just before she got in the car, Kate broke away and 
turned back sharply, coming forward in a rush, abruptly 
stopping a few feet away.  "Fox," she said, and her voice had a 
note of desperation.  And although her face was dry, he could 
see now the blinding tears glinting clearly in her eyes.

     "Fox," she said, and stopped before him. "You know, I 
do love you."  She lifted a hand toward him; unsure, let it drop.  

     "I always have."  Loss so deep in her voice, recognized.  
She began to turn away.

     Something in him shifted, opened to pain one more 
time.  But this he could give her, the only thing she would take.  

     "I know," he replied, and came forward to touch her 
hand.  Lightly, briefly.

     "Samantha, I know."  His voice was as gentle as he 
knew to make it.

     And then through her tears, beyond them, blinking 
them back, she smiled in answer.  Smiled and looked at him, 
directly.

     Her eyes, for an instant, focused on him standing there.  
Looked at him, and saw.

     Almost it was enough.

     Then Mark came up and touched her on the elbow and 
she turned back towards the car.  Turned back, got in, and was 
gone; leaving only a puff of dust on the heated concrete to mark 
her passage.  

     And in another moment that was gone as well.

     Mulder stood still as she got in the car, and as Mark 
got in on the other side.  Stood still as they drove off, and still 
after they had turned the corner and were gone.  

     Gone.

     His baby sister.  The sister for whom he had searched 
for almost a quarter century.  The only family he had left.  And 
he was letting her go.

     He felt a hand on his cheek, small and warm.  Looked 
down.

     Scully.

     Something in him that had seemingly died, stirred.  

     "C'mon, Mulder.  C'mon."  Her words were light, but 
her eyes were full of deepest compassion.  And most abiding 
love. "It'll be okay."  She smiled gently.  "I won't even make you 
drive."

     She repeated her words as he looked into her eyes.

     "It'll be okay."  

     Through the tears in his own eyes, he looked at her, 
and allowed himself, just this once, to believe.

     She led him back to the car, and he slipped a hand 
around her waist, to feel her warmth, to hold her close.  

     And he let her take him home.

_________________________________________________

End of Part 20
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Author's note--the subtitle of this chapter is from an old 
Scottish ballad I heard sung when I was once in Inverness.  It is 
the song of a girl whose lover was killed in battle--and the 
banks of red roses are symbols both (as far as I recall) of their 
love as well as his blood.  I tried looking it up--it's a gorgeous 
ballad--and have failed miserably. If anyone reading this 
knows of this ballad and has the words, could you send them to 
me?  Thanks . . .
__________________________________________________




********************************
T h e  X - F i l e s 
Fallen Cards
Epilogue:  Sarabande (Part 21of 21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with 
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would 
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.  

Look, look, it's done!
Please, please, write me; say anything:   you cannot know how 
pathetically grateful I will be. 
_____________________________________________
Epilogue:  Sarabande

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, Sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

--Robert Burns, "Afton Water"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Four weeks later
Arlington, VA

     Tomorrow was important, but he could not sleep.  He 
looked over at the drawer, the one that held the small jeweller's 
box.  Tomorrow he would ask her, and hope beyond hope she'd 
agree.

     Mulder looked down at the woman curled trustingly 
into his side and smiled, tightening his arm protectively about 
her.  He prayed she, at least, would not wake again tonight.

     He remembered the first time he had stayed over at her 
old place, so many months ago.  He had not known, he hadn't 
had any warning.  So when he had awakened in the middle of 
the night from a deep sleep to see her sitting up; awakened, he 
thought, simply by the weight shift as from the faint draft 
caused by the displacement of warm body and warm sheets, he 
had almost smiled and, grunting in a voice slurred and heavy 
with sleep "Hey Scully, quit hogging the covers", he had almost 
slipped back into slumber.  Almost.

     Until he noticed her shaking, and noticed the heaving 
breaths she was taking.  And when he sat up and put an arm 
around her, her skin was clammy and cold.  She was almost in 
shock, he noted with the clinical side of his mind.  "Dana?"

     No answer.  He rubbed his hand up and down her 
back.  "Come on, Scully, lie back down, talk to me, tell me 
what's wrong."  He lifted the quilt, and wrapped it around her 
body, before wrapping himself around her.  Chafing her hands, 
lifting her chin to try to look into her eyes.  She was stiff and 
unresponsive and would not look at him.  So he simply held her 
and was silent.

     After a few moments, during which Mulder was sure 
his heart had begun to beat most erratically, she said in a voice 
of distant weariness.  "Sorry for waking you, Mulder, go back to 
bed."

     He kept rubbing her back persistently.  "Talk to me, 
Scully."  Keeping his voice low and calm.  Blocking out his own 
fear and worry.  

     "It's nothing,  Mulder.  I'm fine."  At his look, she 
conceded a little. "Just bad dreams."  She was shaking now, and 
tentatively reached out to grab his free hand.

     "Scully?"  Gripping her hand firmly, taking the other, 
chafing them between his two.  She was so cold.

     "Please, Mulder, I don't want to talk about it.  Please."  
Hint of panic, but she seemed otherwise fine.  Just a dream, 
Mulder, just a dream.

     "Okay, it's okay, just lie down then, there."  He pushed 
her unresisting down, wrapping his arms around her.  She lay 
passively in his embrace; still stiff, still cold, just there.  So he 
stroked her hair and rubbed her back, murmuring soothing 
epiteths ceaselessly.  And suddenly she moved; turned into him 
and wrapped her arms around him in a stranglehold almost 
painful, digging her face uncomfortably into the hollow of his 
collarbone.  Stunned, he ignored the fact that he could barely 
breathe, ignored bruised ribs to hold her tight until her hold 
relaxed of its own accord, until her breathing slowed and 
steadied, until her eyes closed gently.  Held her until morning, 
afraid to move.

     That was over a half year ago, when their relationship 
was new, and each was afraid to let down shields, to test the 
tenuous bond.  Afraid to trust, afraid of loss.  Afraid of the 
unknown.

     It seemed like a lifetime past.

     They had a routine, now, when she woke.  She would 
merely take a breath, and turn to him, and he would tuck her 
into the curve of his shoulder, and they both would fall back 
asleep.  Sometimes she would even talk about it.  Reverse the 
order when he had the nightmare.  And sometimes, now, just 
sometimes they both slept the night through.  It was, he thought 
ruefully, almost like they were children again--learning not to 
wake at 2 a.m.

     And learning, when you did wake, that you were safe.  
And loved.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
August 3 , 1998
Diary of Katherine Samantha Jacobs (Excerpt)

     Although I cannot quite believe in my life of before, I 
am starting to believe in my life now.  And, I am starting to trust 
once again.  A blessing beyond which I dare not, and will not, 
ever hope.  Because it is more than once I ever dreamt of, and it 
is best not to tempt the gods, lest they find you greedy.  For 
now, I am content.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elsewhere


     The doors clanged shut behind her, and the sound of 
her expensive shoes echoed metallically in the enclosed room.  
The air was heavy, despite the state of the art air-conditioning.  
She did not take a seat at the table, barely looked at the plush 
leather chair reserved for her at the head of the table.  She 
merely stood, and looked impassively over the faces before her, 
until the first one smiled warmly and nodded in greeting.

     Standing, she did not return the gesture, or the smile.

     The blonde woman in the crisp white coat snorted, just 
audibly.  

     Eleven pairs of eyes glared at her.

     The man spoke.  "Welcome back to the project, love.  
We've missed you."

     A tall, slim girl, she stayed standing, unacknowledging 
of either the courtesy in the words or the warmth.  Jeans and a t-
shirt, chesnut hair falling in a ponytail and bright eyes cold.  

     She looked unimposing.  She looked ... normal.  A 
nightmare realized.

     "Oh", said the blonde woman, her voice a tiny squeak, 
filled with fear. 

     The girl spoke then, but her voice betrayed no 
expression save neutrality.  "I am glad to be missed."

     "Perhaps you should introduce yourself, for the benefit 
of our newest addition."  A woman in a white lab coat nodded, a 
touch too eagerly, although her face remained still.

     It did not do, in this company to betray too much 
emotion, especially for one fairly young, and female.  And still 
unestablished in this group.

     She looked at the young female scientist, and a flicker 
might have passed over her face.  "Of course."

     She paused, then continued.  "I am the latest 
culmination in the series of experiments you have heretofore 
referred to as simply 'the Project.'  I am a combination of genes:  
one from a recent abductee, one from a true Control."

     A man smoking a cigarette leaned over to snuff it out 
on a sigh.  F-series.  At last.

     The scientist, young and ambitious, studied the 
speaker.  Studied her dark auburn hair, her unusual summer's 
blue eyes, the full mouth and long nose.

     "I am here to serve.  My codename", continued the 
speaker, "is Faith."  

___________________________________________________

End of Epilogue.
___________________________________________________
Last-ditch plea ... To anyone who may actually be reading this 
still, please feel compelled ... um, obligated, um ... well, feel 
free to write me and tell me that you did, what you think, or 
even that you hate author's notes  ... I'll love you forever, or at 
the very least I'll like you a lot.  Comments--short or long; 
good, bad, or indifferent--are the joy of my life.  Like I said, I 
apologize for season 4 inaccuracies, because the idea was 
conceived pre-fourth season.  I likewise apologize for medical 
and location accuracies; I would never have written this at all 
if I got caught up with the three zillion picky details that I 
wanted to, but if you noticed and it irritated you, or you'd 
simply like to lift me out of my ignorance, let me know.

I have enjoyed writing this--although it ended up being quite a 
bit longer and a lot more involved than I'd intended.  Thank 
you for the opportunity to write and be read. 
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/euphrosyne123

(to report bad content: archivehelp @ gmail)