"Defector of a Kind"

RATED: PG-13

CONTENT: Angst, only a relationship if you perceive it as such

SPOILERS: "The Blessing Way"/ "Paperclip" , early third season

"Defector of a Kind" 1/1

Rory D. Cottrell (CretKid@aol.com)

Rating: PG-13; angst, only a relationship if you perceive it as such.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Mulder and Scully, nor do I claim Bruce Cunningham (Juliettt) or Jackie St George and Marty Nantus (Sheryl Martin); I'm just borrowing them for my own misdeeds, with permission of course, for my own twisted universe (evil laughter ensues). Mulder and Scully and The X-files characters used herein are owned by Ten-Thirteen Productions, FOX Broadcasting, Chris Carter and the whole shebang. No copyright infringement is intended, and this is not for profit. Feel free to archive with my permission, just keep my name attached to it. The Internet is a wonderful tool, please do not misuse it.

This was posted to M&S first, with a few changes thanks to some helpful eyes.

PERSONAL RAMBLINGS -- 11/29/96: Feel free to ignore.

This story takes place around Thanksgiving time, 1995. I honestly don't remember if they (Mulder and Scully) were on a case at the time, but this really has nothing to do with a case anyway. Third Season spoilers, mostly from "The Blessing Way" and "Paperclip". This story has been rattling through my head for the last couple of hours, and I really need to get rid of it before I explode.

Please write me and tell me what you think, but flames will be politely ignored. I'm in that sort of mood. Chock full of Scully angst, just so you know. If you want to know where this story may lie in conjunction with some of my other stories, this is after "Cardinal Sins" and long before "Harbor", though they all tend to deal with the same themes.... gee, I think I'm in a rut.

"Defector of a Kind"

by Rory D. Cottrell

i'm harboring a fugitive

defector of a kind

and she lives in my soul

and drinks of my wine

and i'd give my last breath to keep us alive

are they coming for us

with cameras or guns

we don't know which

but we gotta run

and you say this is not what i bargained for

so hide yourself from me... all for me

"fugitive" indigo girls, swamp ophelia, 1994

November 21, 1995 (Tuesday)

Quantico, VA

6:38 p.m.

Shaking her head, Dana Scully tried to concentrate on what she was supposed to be doing, only to realize that she had no idea what she was doing in the first place. Groaning audibly, she looked around the desktop, at the computer screen, the folder in front of her. Her reading glasses were perched precariously on the end of her nose, which made sense if she was rubbing the bridge of her nose, which she was doing and clearly remembered starting to do some odd minutes ago. So she was reading something, that much was evident. If the pounding behind her eyes and the pain near the small of her back were any indication, she had been reading or using the computer for quite some time.

"Wake up!" she growled, pushing her glasses up and re-reading the paragraph on the screen. Autopsy report. Transcribing her written notes for the file. Modern day Salem witch trials, killer still at large. Ritualistic killings of men and women, methods similar to the means of execution common during the famed witch hunts. All victims were members of groups that practiced white magic or some form thereof, not that she believed in any of it. Hocus pocus mumbo jumbo. The killer was just some sicko with a deluded visionary quest. She didn't need to be a profiler to know that. Why Mulder insisted that she do the autopsies was beyond her; there was nothing unusual about the deaths, none of his supernatural elements. She had other things to do, more pressing matters that needed attending, and wasting her time doing something someone else was more than capable of doing was just fueling her anger.

Maybe she was just over-reacting, too tired to think clearly. Wouldn't be the first time. Certainly would not be the last. With Thanksgiving coming up, and two days off other than the weekend, maybe she could finally get some rest, get rid of the compelling need to choke the living daylights out of the very next person who walked through the door asking her for a favor.

There was a tapping at the lab door. She ignored it. Anyone who had a need to get in had a key, and everyone else was someone she did not want to bother with right now. Sure enough, the key rattled in the lock and the door swung open. She didn't bother to look up from her screen, her theory being ignore it and it will go away.

It didn't go away. She recognized Bruce Cunningham's footsteps, the pattern of shoe falls, the slight shuffle of the left foot against the linoleum. Earlier in the day, during a more lucid moment, she had warned him that she was having one of her psychotic days, and he did what he could to keep everyone away from the autopsy bay she claimed as her own. For the most part, he had been successful. Ever the consummate professional, whenever a class stopped by to view the facilities as part of their training, she put up her professional front, and he had commented the success of her charade when they left for lunch.

She had been grateful that he had not asked her to elaborate on the cause of her psychotic mood. She liked to blame it on the lack of sleep she'd had, though it was linked to the real reason. It was Thanksgiving, the family would be at Mom's, everyone would be cheerful and happy, life went on, and Melissa would not be there to remind her of that fact. But thinking about it only made her more anxious, and she really did not want to lose her cool with Bruce if he asked. He didn't deserve to catch the brunt of her anger. In fact, he had been single-handedly responsible for her near civility of late, for which she was eternally thankful. He handled the phone calls, he ran interference, he politely and efficiently waylaid Mulder when he came trouncing by to see if she had found anything new with the latest victim.

"You're working too hard," Bruce said nonchalantly, organizing the files related to the case in the large, accordianed fil-o-fax folder. "I can hear the wheels grinding in your head." The comment was returned with a guttural grunt. "Are we still in our psychotic mood?"

"Yes." Short, simple, to the point. Silent curses soon followed, a wrong keystroke deleting the paragraph that had taken her preoccupied mind more than an hour to write. The glasses came off and were hurled across the desk.

"I'll leave you to your demons." Picking up the fil-o-fax, Bruce dropped the xerox she had requested on her desk. Skirting around behind her chair, he leaned over her shoulder, grabbed the mouse before she could fling it across the room with the mouse pad that had already found a home against the wall, and quickly replaced the missing paragraph by reverting to an earlier, automatically-saved document.

"Thank you," Scully muttered into her palm, having set her chin resting in her right hand when Bruce took the mouse away from her. It always amazed her how he calmly picked up on her thoughts before she could even act on them. "I knew there was a reason you insisted we install that particular option."

"Just call me psychic," Bruce replied.

The guffaw was muffled by her hand. "No, because then Mulder will want to investigate you."

"Can't have that, now can we?"

There was a knock at the door, and Scully's head dropped to her chest with a tired whine. No one could see her desk from the door, so if she choose to hide, no one would be the wiser, unless she left her coat in plane view, a habit she was sure to change in the coming weeks if her mood didn't improve. The one thing she hated more than a bad mood was people purposefully trying to pull her out of a bad mood.

"You could hang a 'do not disturb' sign outside, and no one would be the wiser," Bruce suggested.

"Do you want to take a guess as to how many people would believe that sign did not apply to them?" Scully replied. The knocking resumed. "Let's pretend we're not here."

"I'll get it," Bruce said, winding his way around the desk and towards the door. From the evil sounding laugh emanating from his throat, she knew answering the door did not bode well for her. "It's the Tick."

If Bruce meant it as a joke to get her to laugh, he had succeeded. Agent Pendrell had picked up several nicknames, known only to a few who sympathized with her predicament: Tick, Shadow-boy, Death Star. Not necessarily meant in a mean fashion, but there weren't many ways to describe a guy with unrequited love in his facial expression but didn't catch the subtle, and not so subtle, hints that you were not interested in the first place. She felt sorry for him, in a way. He wasn't the first 'tick' she had attracted.

"Bruce--" Scully admonished, professional face firmly in place.

Bruce opened the door, and a tentative Agent Pendrell slipped through the door and around the corner. Lab coat caught behind his back, file folder in hand, Pendrell looked like he was about to faint from hyperventilation.

"You, ah, -- when you didn't stop by to pick up the lab results, I thought I would, ah, drop them off... here."

Scully mentally berated herself for forgetting to pick up the results of the lab tests she ordered. She was forgetting more and more of the little things everyday, too preoccupied to remember the simple tasks that she had meant to finish off.

Her mask must have slipped because Bruce was looking at her funny, eyebrows knit together so tightly she would have thought he could easily impersonate Bert the muppet. She quickly shook her head and looked at Pendrell. "Thanks. What did you find?" she asked, accepting the file folder from him.

"Well, there was an accelerant used to start the fire, but it didn't burn hot enough to destroy all the fuel. I've run an analysis to get the make of the accelerant. It's a type of fuel commonly used in model rockets."

Scully flipped through the report, the easy script and carefully organized information. "That should narrow our focus a bit. Thanks, this should help a lot."

Cheeks turning a deep crimson, Pendrell shuffle-footed towards the door, smiling nervously. "Glad I could be of asset... assextance... glad I could help."

He fumbled with the door, pulling instead of pushing, and finally managed to get out of the lab without losing too much face.

Bracing the door open with his foot, Bruce took a quarter out of his pocket and threw it on the desk. "Twenty-five cents, he pulls Homer Simpson." Sure enough, the minute Pendrell was out of earshot, he pounded his forehead with the palm of his hand several times, and a nearly inaudible 'doh' could be heard. Arms raised in victory, Bruce reached for his coat. "You owe me a quarter."

The inescapable tug pulled at her smile and a neutral non-expression played across her face. She started to read and proofread her report once again. Before he left the lab, he paused and said, "Don't work too late. Go home and rest. It looks like you could use it."

She waved good-bye, more of a dismissive gesture than anything else. She didn't hear the door click shut, or voices in the hallway that carried through the crack. Least of all, she did not hear footsteps approaching the door or someone sitting in the chair across from her desk.

Jackie St. George didn't exactly make her approach a quiet one, but it did surprise her that Scully had not looked up at all from the computer screen. It wasn't until she propped her combat boot-clad feet heavily on the corner of the desk that Scully was roused from her trance.

"Gee, Dana, I thought you'd have gone home by now."

So immersed in her work, Dana Scully jumped slightly at the sound of her voice. Eyes burning with fatigue, she pulled off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose, watching the spots before her eyes dance across the page she was proofreading. Concentration broken, eyes refusing to focus on the words she was supposedly reading, Scully looked up, eyes focusing slowly.

"You look tired," Jackie replied. Scully simply shrugged. "How much longer do you have here? Want to grab some dinner?"

Scully looked at her watch, astonished at the time. "How did you get in here?"

"'Get out of jail free' card, and I'm taking you with me," Jackie replied, waving her visitor's pass. Leaning back in the chair, she pointed noncommittally towards the hallway. "I saw a very dejected Hound-dog sulking by as I walked in. I take it Shadow-boy dropped by for a visit."

Before Scully could comment, Jackie sprang forward in the chair, slapping her hands on the desktop, a wicked grin on her face. "Wait, this reminds me, have I told you the Energizer Bunny joke? What happens when you put the Energizer Bunny's batteries in backwards? He keeps coming and coming and coming..."

Barely acknowledging the joke with a nod and a snuff, Scully leaned back in her chair, reveling in the groan and creek of old springs. "Cute."

"Mulder sent it to me via email, as well as a few other choice puerile jokes that I will not subject you to at this time, at least not until I get a few beers into you. These jokes can only be fully appreciated on a full tank."

Shaking her head, Scully pointed at the computer screen. "Not tonight. I have work to do. There are a zillion reports that need to be finished before tomorrow night, and I don't plan on doing any work this weekend."

"Ooh ooh, hot date? Any one I know? Maybe a certain tall, dark, and obsessed FBI agent?"

"Most certainly not," Scully replied, a bit more vehemently than Jackie had ever heard from her before. Well, not quite, but never in relation to Mulder before, not that he didn't deserve it with some of the stunts he had pulled in the past.

Jackie picked up the Rubik's cube sitting next to the computer monitor and started tossing it in the air as if it were a softball. "Word on the floor is you are in a bad mood, and it looks like the rumor mill is running one for one today. Guess this means I can't play the queen bitch until your temperament changes. Marty and Mulder will think it's some woman thing if we're both acting psychotic. Could really damage our reputations as libbers."

Scully rolled her eyes, and went back to whatever she was working on. Jackie leaned forward, snatched the report that Scully was transcribing. "So, what's this you're working so diligently on, hmm?"

"Jackie, I really want to finish this tonight," Scully pleaded, readjusting her position in the chair. "I'm trying to be polite here. Please give it back."

Jackie recognized the small wince of pain crossing Dana's face, probably her back again. "If speaking in monosyllables is being polite, you need a couple of lessons from Ms. Manners."

"It's either that, or start swearing up a storm that would put my father to shame."

"Navy brats learn all the great colorful phrases earlier in life. It's just not fair. Care to discuss what ails thee, fine lady, or will I have to pry it out of you after a few drinks, and you know it will happen, so you might as well spill it now and save us both time, and me money on those good stiff drinks I know you need."

"No."

"Is it Mulder?" Scully growled as she typed.

"Work?" Another growl.

"The Patriots' disastrous showing last week? Taking the Mighty Ducks seriously? Michael Jordan back in the NBA? Come on, Dana, you gotta help me out."

Scully shot her a look that would have frozen the oceans, and Jackie held her hands up in surrender. If there was anyone more pig-headed than herself, it was Dana Scully, a fact Mulder frequently pointed out whenever he came head to head with the formidable stubborn streak. Time to pull out the big guns.

"Bruce said you didn't eat your lunch. Bad Dana. I think your mother would disapprove. Let's go grab something to eat so I don't feel the need to confess to your mother on Thursday. Why you Americans celebrate Thanksgiving so late in the year is beyond me."

"Jackie, I'm really not in the mood, I just want to go home and sleep."

"And think how much better you'll sleep after a nice hot, greasy meal and a couple of games of pool. I won't take no for an answer." Jackie sprung from her chair, grabbed Scully's coat from the rack. Bruce was right, something was definitely rotten in the mental state of Dana, and she had an inkling of what it was all about.

Sighing resignedly, Scully left her chair, groaning as she stood. Jackie threw the shorter woman her trench coat. "Let me just hit the ladies' room first."

"Yeah, no problem. Meet you outside in a few minutes," Jackie replied. Once Scully left the room, Jackie picked up the extension and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.

"It's me. Can you meet me at Brandy's in about, oh, two hours?... Yeah, yeah, I have an idea, just meet us there... Yeah, bye."

Brandy's Bar and Restaurant:

8:04 p.m.

The cue ball kissed off the four, and in what could only be described as the breath of god, the four just touched the nine ball, sending it into the corner pocket where it was precariously perched. The solid clink of porcelain on porcelain echoed in the quiet confines of the back corner of Brandy's Bar and Restaurant.

Brandy's was a favorite because of its limited regular clientele and secluded area. Accessed from a well lit alley outside of mainstream Georgetown, it was a five generation family run joint that served a steak and potato to die for, five dollar pitchers, and a mint condition pool table older than god. Leather-backed booths lined two walls, with a smathering of square tables and finely polished rounded chairs provided a cozy atmosphere for the regular customers and a welcome environment for those looking for a friendly face. No jukebox as far as the eye could see. Music was pumped in from hidden speakers in the ceiling, the selection more inclined towards whatever customers happened to be in the place at the time. A steady beat of soft jazz was playing this evening.

Mike was behind the bar, keeping close tabs on the two ladies at the pool table, not wanting a replay of a rather hilarious night of frivolity when a call to the Assistant Director and the FBI's most unwanted was required to get the two more than inebriated women home safely. But from the serious expression on the red-head's face, and the fact that they had been there for nearly two hours and had yet to put a dent in their first drinks, he figured that call would not be forthcoming.

They had quietly eaten dinner, the taller of the two carrying most of the conversation. This in and of itself was unusual, since he knew that once one got the two of them started, there was no stopping them. But it was a busy night, and the place was not lacking for background noise. No one else seemed to notice.

Mike thought he might finally find out what was going on when Red excused herself for the lavatory and the tall one headed for the bar. Rag over his shoulder, he wandered over to see if he could get her anything.

"Hiya, Jackie, what can I get for you?"

"A prefrontal lobotomy?"

"How about a free bottle of beer in front of you?"

"You'd go out of business that way, Mike."

"What's with Red?" Mike's head nodded towards the restrooms near the back of the room.

Jackie shrugged her shoulders, and leaned over to grab the cue sticks from behind the bar. Only Jackie could get away with that intrusion. But, if it would cheer up Dana, he was game. "Five dollars says she still cleans up."

"She cleans up and the next three pitchers are free."

"May have to take a raincheck on that tonight, but I'll hold you to it. Do me a favor. When the guys get here, keep them busy until I give the say so, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, Jack... no problem."

Scully leaned her pool cue against the wall, taking a sip of the beer she had been nursing all night. She hadn't wanted to go out, more inclined to brood in her living room with her newly acquired pet. Queequeg, she finally decided to name the little rodent, provided a fair amount of company and wasn't about to ask her what was wrong at every turn of a frown. Pets were great that way. Why couldn't anyone let her enjoy a good bad mood for a little while?

Jackie, meanwhile, was sulking at the third straight loss at nine-ball. Though by no means a light-weight in terms of alcohol consumption, she had yet to polish off more than a third of the pitcher Mike brought over for them. Racking once again, she took the initiative and broke.

Taking a seat on one of the high bar stools that surrounded the pool table, Scully watched as Jackie weighed her options. Billiards had been a hobby picked up during college. There was an old, beaten table in the rec room of the dormitory. Most of the striped balls were missing, so out of necessity, nine-ball became a frequent favorite. Though, Jackie was no slouch when it came to pool, either.

All fifteen balls were on the table this go 'round. So, Jackie wanted to change the rules by choosing the game herself. Slipping off the stool, Scully collected her cue. Jackie went for the four in the left corner pocket, ricocheting the solid purple ball along the bumpers in the pocket rather than in the pocket itself. Using the missed opportunity, Scully cleaned up the four, the five and the two, before missing a combination shot that would have landed the one.

"Are you going to let me win at least one match?" Jackie asked. "This is rather pathetic." The nine ball fell, followed quietly and annoyingly by the cue ball. Jackie's head thumped lightly against the felted rail. "Go, take it. Here lie-th St. George, couldn't sink a pool ball to save her life."

Scully made quick work of the remaining solid balls on the table, called the eight ball into the side pocket and then sunk every other ball on the table.

Though getting her figurative head handed to her on a platter by a certain formidable FBI agent who wasn't much taller than the cue stick she was holding in her hands was a lot of fun, Jackie was more concerned over of the lack of conversation. She and Dana had never been at a loss for words, and even when there wasn't anything to talk about, there was always the ever popular male-ego-bashing, but even that was no fun without Mulder or Marty to be the butt of their jokes. Not that Dana had fallen for any obvious set-up lines.

"Were you a pool shark in a previous life? This is something that needs investigating," Jackie replied.

"Don't make me hurt you, Jackie."

"Ooh, okay, foul territory. No talking about work, no talking about Mulder, no talking about your uncanny ability to beat me silly at pool. But let me ask you this, can you be on my team the next time we play doubles? I think I can really cash in."

Sneering at her, Scully racked the balls again, broke, sinking the ten. Jackie was amazed at how very little could break the red head's concentration. Dana could be too serious for her own good at times, and Jackie saw it as one of her missions in life to get her to loosen up.

Jackie shook her head. Time for a less subtle approach. "So, want to talk about what's bothering you?"

"Not particularly." Down went the fourteen.

"Brothers coming on Thursday?"

Twelve banked off the side and into the opposite corner. "As far as I know."

"You haven't talked with them?"

"Too busy."

"What about your mom? She need any help Thursday morning?"

"Probably."

Backspin applied to the cue ball, it kissed off the eleven, sent it careening towards the pocket and brought the cue ball back to near its initial position.

"You haven't talked to her either? When was the last time you saw her?"

The nine rebounded madly between the bumpers, not going anywhere fast. Jackie's suspicions were slowly but surely being recognized. Well, might as throw in the clincher. She was well aware of the date, and its significance. It had been the same on every twenty-first since April.

"It's been 7 months to the day."

Scratch.

Bingo.

Jackie placed her cue against the wall. She heard the familiar ring of the chime sitting over the door, signifying the entrance of another bar patron. Mulder and Marty walked in, shedding their overcoats and speaking with Mike at the bar. Mike caught her eye, and she shook her head ever so slightly. Not yet.

Picking the cue ball out of the corner pocket, Scully placed it on the table and took angry, though accurate, shots at the remaining balls. Jackie watched as Mulder and Marty took seats at the bar, ordered their respective drinks, and turned their questioning eyes her way. Luckily, the way the bar was situated, they could see her and Scully, but she had to step around a partition to see them clearly.

"Are you going to your mother's on Thursday?" Jackie asked quietly.

"Of course I am," Scully replied, sounding appalled. "Why wouldn't I?"

Scully never made eye-contact with her. "But you don't want to be there."

Scratch.

This time Jackie fished the cue ball out of the pocket, placed it haphazardly on the table. "No one blames you, especially not your family."

"They don't have to blame me." The rest of the statement went unsaid. The cue ball nearly bounced off the table.

Jackie took the cue from Scully's hands before she could take out her anger on the unsuspecting pool table. She finished off the game, knowing how much decorum and normality meant to her friend. Scully randomly choose the eight ball and rolled it between her hands. At times she held it with near white-knuckle intensity. Time for a reprieve. Dana would come out of whatever personal hell she subjected herself to in her own time.

"Look, I'm going to freshen this up," Jackie said, draining her glass. "Want another?"

Scully shook her head. "No."

"I'll be right back." Jackie handed the pool cue back to her, placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Knock yourself out... and don't take me literally."

Mulder met her half way. "Melissa?" Jackie nodded. "And I've been an ass."

"You said it, not me, but neither did she, if you were wondering."

"How much have you two had to drink?"

"Not nearly enough. Look, she doesn't want to talk to me, maybe she'll talk to you. She's on a guilt trip that rivals Hamlet's, and she's headed for a fall. Just be there to catch her, if she'll let you."

Mulder patted her on the back, and headed for the pool table. "Thanks."

Scully felt rather than heard his presence. So, Jackie was going to play dirty by bringing Mulder into this. Fine. Continuing to ignore him, she set the table up for a game of nine-ball. There was still a tightness in her lower back, which she ignored. Blot out the pain like everything else. Always easier that way.

"I found the perfect dog tag for that new pooch of yours. It has this inscription on the back; 'Born 2 P'." Mulder dangled a brassy dog-bone shaped charm between his fingers.

"You really know how to charm a girl." Down went the seven on the break.

"I aim to please, unlike your dog. He aims for your expensive pumps."

She realized that he was trying to diffuse a tense situation, and humor was his way out. She couldn't blame him, no matter how much she wanted to. Still, she didn't want to be pulled from her funk. There was something to be said of messing with people's perceptions of your behavior. After the holiday. She'd make an effort to be more cheerful after some rest and time away from work, from stress, from everything.

One, two, three, four, combo with the five and sink the nine.

"Say, Minnesota Fats, so this is what your physics degree went towards."

"That's Newtonian physics. My thesis was in theoretical physics."

"Okay, so the pool balls are planets and they are traveling faster than the speed of light. Never pegged you as a pool shark."

"Well, there's a lot about me you don't know. My father taught me when I was younger." She gathered the balls together for another round. Mulder had picked up three of the discarded stripped balls and started to juggle them in an easy cascade pattern.

"Is there anything he didn't teach you?"

Scully watched the pattern he had developed, leaning her cue against the side of the table. Keeping track of the eleven ball, she snatched it at the apex of the toss. "He didn't teach me to juggle. My mother taught me that."

"I'll have to bring that up at dinner on Thursday."

"Just don't juggle the dinner rolls. Mom gets awfully pissy when you play with your food." The break made a starting shot at the one nearly impossible. She studied the table.

"So you will be joining us."

"Well, thanks to a certain month long quarantine after that episode with the Descent team in the Cascades, I missed Thanksgiving last year."

"You almost missed Thanksgiving all together last year."

Shrugging her shoulders, Scully took aim and missed the one ball entirely. There were some things she'd rather not contemplate. Her own mortality was one of those subjects.

Mulder must have noticed a change in her disposition because he moved to stand behind her. The end of the cue stick provided an effective barrier, and she harbored no concerns about 'accidentally' hitting him if he managed to get in the way of her shot.

"You've been through a lot this year, we both have. We've got a lot to be thankful for."

"Doesn't feel that way to me." Another miss. Damn, she hated it when her brain got in the way of a decent game of pool.

She stood, and her back promptly reminded her that it was not happy. Groaning, she straightened as much as painlessly possible and attempted to stretch the strained and over-stressed muscles of her lower back. Mulder stepped up behind her, wrapped his arms over her shoulders. She was too tired to avoid the embrace.

Mulder leaned over, taking the cue stick from her hands. He whispered in her ear, "Dana, this one will be the hardest. It will get easier, believe me." She fought the shudder of pent-up emotion, not wanting to lose face. Mulder, thankfully, did not make anything of it.

"You look like you need some sleep. Let me take you home."

"Yeah." Scully pulled away, walked towards their booth to collect her coat. "Where's Jackie?"

"I think this was a set-up. She left with Marty and few minutes ago."

"Remind me to add her to my hit list."

Mulder helped her with her coat, waved good-bye to Mike, and held the door open for her. "This wouldn't be that list of five people you can seek your revenge upon after your death would it? I remembered your birthday this year, didn't I, Scully?"

Mulder's car was just around the corner. The air was crisp and cold. "Stay home and rest tomorrow, Scully," Mulder offered. "I'll see you at your mother's on Thursday." He held the passenger door open for her. "It'll be okay."

As soon as she sat down, she closed her eyes against the bright glare of the street lamps and the escape of a single tear down her cheek. "Home, Jeeves."

"As you wish."