"Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" by J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Summary: Mulder reacts to the events in "Never Again." Keywords: Story, MulderAngst, ScullyAngst, MSR/MSsex Spoilers: "Fire," "Tooms," "Duane Barry," "One Breath," "3," "One Breath," "Irresistible," a slight "Anasazi" spoiler (so slight that you may not even catch it), "Pusher," "Leonard Betts," and very heavy "Never Again" Spoilers. Spoilers Note: Some spoilers for "Leonard Betts" and "Never Again" are contained within the notes of this introduction. Ratings: Overall, NC-17, in parts ... Part I: Mulder Comes to a Conclusion - R for language and slight sexual imagery Part II: Scully Finds Some Cardboard Boxes and Her Key - PG for angst Part III: Dead Men Don't Feel Regret - PG-13 for slight sexual imagery Part IV: He Didn't Know about the Drops of Blood - R for angst and language Part V: All's Fair in Love and War - R for language and slight sexual imagery Part VI: Her Mother Called Him Fox - PG for Angst Part VII: Memories of a Florida Vacation - R for language, slight sexual imagery and verbiage Part VIII: The Contemplation of One Word Not Spoken - R for language Part IX: The Sound, the Feel of Breathing - NC-17 for language and sexual situations Part X: The Importance of Understanding - NC-17 for language and sexual situations Part XI: Never Again - R for language Disclaimers: All characters belong to Chris Carter (except Ed Jerse - we have Glen Morgan and James Wong to thank for him.). "The X-Files belong to Chris, 1013 Productions, Fox, etc. Yada, yada, yada, you know the drill ... "Playboy" magazine and "Debbie Does Dallas 2000" are referred to without permission. Archive: Anywhere you want as long as I get credit and you let me know about it!! :) Comments? Questions? Love Notes? Flames of 6th Degree Burns? Insane Musings on Cancer Man? Send 'em here - arabian@ite.net Dedications: First of all to Carrie whose enthusiasm kept me writing when my own let me down and whose time-consuming editing (along with the help of Deb) made this story better than I could have ever done on my own. To Aileen, who concise comments kept me on the right track. To Dana Katherine, who enjoyed the story, even if she liked "Never Again." To Rhoni, whose oh-so-amusing editing added a nice polish to this tale. Notes: This story features sex between Mulder and Scully. This story also features very heavy angst. If you are not into either, this may not be your cup of tea (obligatory DD reference). This story also deals very heavily with the "Never Again" episode If you are a fan of that episode you may not like this as I just about recant and insult everything that took place (read next note) during it. If you have not seen this episode, there are spoilers galore. I spoil just about everything except the fact that Jodie Foster does the voice of the tattoo on Ed Jerse's arm. Oops, spoiled that. More Notes: I am not a fan of the episode "Never Again." In fact, it is one of my least favorite episode of The X-Files ever wow, something actually topped, uh, I mean, bottomed "The Field Where I Puked." Gee thanks, Glen and James, , you two were my heroes of the 4th season!). To be blunt I hated this episode. I felt it was an insult to relationshippers everywhere. I wrote this story in reaction to my reactions to it. I wrote it with the hope of releasing some of my angry tension and just trying to let it go. I feel I've succeeded a little, but I still never want to watch it again. And I still wish it had never been written or filmed or aired. Oh, heck, I just wish the thing had never even existed. (So much for working through my feelings.) Another Note: I am of the belief that Scully did *not* have sex with Ed Jerse in "Never Again." I don't think we would have seen them the next morning as we did if they had. He on the couch, she on the bed, both still dressed and she still in her nylons. She was wearing his shirt because the air conditioning in his apartment was so darn cold. Furthermore, I refuse to believe that Scully *could* have sex with another man besides Mulder. Mulder loves Scully and Scully loves Mulder (Chris said it!) and for Scully to do something like that would not only be wholly out of character, it would also be a betrayal of her love for Mulder. That's how I see it, that's how I portray it in the story ... if you don't think that Scully was betraying her man, then bail now. (Or not, I really think I did a good job with this one. Come on, give it a try! You got this far!) And Another Note: Perhaps, I should just number them ... Anyhoo, some may question why I have included the cancer reference from "Leonard Betts" despite the fact that "Never Again" was supposed to air before "Leonard Betts," instead of after, and my reasoning is very simple: No matter how Morgan and Wong (and Gillian Anderson) intended "Never Again" to be viewed, Chris Carter felt that Scully's actions were so out of character (and boy, do I agree!) that the cancer introduced in "Leonard Betts" was the best shot he had of making sense out of her behavior. Therefore, I am going with Chris' philosophy and including the events that took place in "Leonard Betts" as a quasi-explanation for Scully's inexplicable conduct. While it really doesn't explain away Scully's complete, well, Non-Scullyness in "Never Again" (in my opinion, nothing will ever really be able to do that. It just wasn't *Scully.*), at least it eases some of the out-of- character actions taken by her if one really tries to apply it. And One More: I know, geez, get on with the story already. Last one, I promise. I have loved Imajiru's MSR fanfic "Taming the Unicorn" since I first read it and have read it many times since. I so agreed with the idea that Scully would eventually do something to hurt Mulder not realizing until the damage was done, that I applied it to the scenario presented in "Never Again." Last Note, I Promise: If you don't think that Scully did anything wrong in "Never Again," this story will most likely infuriate you. I do believe that Scully messed up, and in this story, Scully believes so as well. Just warning Scullyists out there. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" Part I - Mulder Comes to a Conclusion (R) F.B.I. Basement, 6:33 p.m. He looked down at the file on Ed Jerse and Scully and his mind recoiled away from the connecting names. He read the medical reports, the police reports, the transcript of the interview conducted with Scully and tried to ignore the obvious. He wanted to believe that she hadn't done what it painfully appeared that she had. The police officer, (Jeffrey Jenkins, his eidetic memory filled in absently) had made patently clear what he thought had taken place. He knew he should just ask her. But if he did, if he did .... Once again his mind shied away from unwanted implications. He read the reports through one more time despite having memorized them the first time several readings ago. There had to be something -- one word, one phrase, one action -- that would alter the conclusion his mind was racing towards. She could not have .... He found he couldn't finish the thought and so he read the reports once more. ~~~ The Street Outside Dana Scully's Apartment, 7:24 p.m. She must have. He shut his mind down. He turned the key and pulled it out of the ignition and the click registered like a gunshot in his mind. He opened the car door and the creak its hinges made sounded to him like a burst of thunder. Getting out and slamming the door, he stood stock-still for a moment, the sound seeming to reverberate throughout the empty street. He pocketed his keys and stood there a moment longer. She must have. He closed his eyes and his mouth tightened; his fists were clenched tightly. There on the street where she lived, he suddenly wished that Ed Jerse was standing before him. In his mind, he visualized that face, a smiling, handsome man in a photograph taken before his life fell apart. Suddenly, the picture faded as he faltered for a second, his eyes opening in contemplation, not sure whose life he was thinking about ... Jerse's or his. He shook his head. No matter. He wanted Jerse standing here and able to feel the pain of fists pounding into his pretty boy face; feel the pain of heavy shoes kicking into his side, his groin; feel the pain of impact as his body was slammed into a wall. The man's mouth would fill with blood. He would lose some teeth and his nose would break. He would be in pain, more pain than Mulder was feeling right now; more pain than any man had ever felt short of death. He wanted pretty boy to be here, so that he could rip his beating heart out and stomp upon it. A dog barked in the distance and another responded, the two canines beginning a chorus of yelps and howls. They broke his reverie, interrupted his chain of thought. He looked at her building and felt dead inside. She must have. ~~~ Dana Scully's Apartment, 7:27 p.m. She opened the door after the second knock. He stood there, just looking at her and didn't enter the apartment. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, but it was short, too short to completely hold such a style. Wisps of red brushed against her neck and cheeks and her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. She wore bright yellow gloves that were dripping wet, with bubbles of soap. Her eyes fell upon him and she smiled that special smile, the one that lit up her face. It was the smile that she graced upon him only rarely. He felt a tightening in his chest, but would not allow the warmth that usually followed that smile to bloom within him. She didn't deserve his warmth. She must have. *Bitch* "Mulder, I was just scrubbing my bathroom down. Wanna help?" She smiled again. *Slut* "Mulder?" her voice faltered as her smile died. The bright blue of her eyes dimmed to grey as worry, a familiar emotion where he was concerned, clouded her face. She pulled the gloves off and set them on a table. "What's wrong?" "As if you care," he murmured in a dead voice as he pushed past her, into the apartment. "Mulder? What's going on? Did something happen?" She turned to him. He noticed that her white tee-shirt was wet. She wore a bra, but it was flimsy and he could clearly see the outline of her nipples. Had Ed Jerse touched her ... kissed her there? Or had it been a quick, wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, fuck? Her shorts were short, very short but her legs were long for someone so petite. He noticed this absently, wondering why he had never noticed the length of her legs before or the curve of her waist, the high lift of her breasts? Or had he just not noticed that he'd noticed? It didn't matter now. She was looking at him, speaking, but her words just went through him. There was no connection. What she said had no meaning, meant nothing. He had believed in her completely and without reservation. He had given her his trust and his heart. And she had betrayed him. With Ed Jerse. How he wished he were here, right now, standing here in her apartment. He would kill him; make Scully watch her lover bleed to death before her eyes. And then he would laugh as the life slowly ebbed from his battered body. "Mulder?" Her voice was sharp, shattering through his wall. He looked at her face. *You broke my heart* He looked at her face. The chill around his heart heated a moment. When did she become the most beautiful woman? Her lips were parted. Why hadn't he ever noticed the fullness? The lushness? Had Ed Jerse noticed? Had he appreciated them as he kissed her, plundering those lips with his own as Mulder never had? Killing him would be too quick, too easy, Mulder decided as he stared at her lips, instead, he would torture him first. He couldn't look at her face a moment longer. If he did, he would cry. And he refused to give this woman one more thing from him, not even a tear. *You have emptied my soul* He looked away from her face and his eyes landed on her shirt again, the moist dampness of white clinging to her breasts, her midriff. His hungry gaze lingered upon her midriff, her flesh bared between the rise of her shirt and the waistband of her cotton shorts. Green, his mind filled in helpfully, green like my eyes. His green eyes narrowed, narrowed on that slight expanse of flesh revealed. He walked towards her. She was speaking again, but it was muted. It didn't matter. He walked around her, pausing and locked his eyes on the waistband of her shorts, the white of her shirt bunched up against it. He fell to his knees and she stiffened before him. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Her voice sounded frantic, high-pitched. She tried to turn away from him, but he reached out, his hands planting themselves on her hips. A shudder ran through him. He wanted her. He wanted to fuck her just like Ed Jerse had. No, his mind rebelled, no, not Scully; not like that. He wanted to make love to her, treasure her, pleasure her. He wanted to make her complete. What he wanted didn't matter. He leaned against her, his head resting against the upward curve of her butt. His eyes were closed. How could he have not noticed that he wanted her? She was still beneath him now, he could hear her breathing. Their breathing, it was the only sound in the room, hers was fast and shallow, his hard and heavy. Heat emanated from her, suffusing his very being. She wanted him. How could he have not noticed that she wanted him too? Then how could she have fucked Ed Jerse? How could she have betrayed him? he wondered. The questions cooled his feverish emotions. He opened his eyes and they were dead once more. He moved his right hand from the side of her hip and grasped the bunched up cotton, lifting it up. It was there; just above the green of her shorts, he could see a ring of dark blue. He switched hands, his left hand holding the shirt up away from her skin. Under his less than gentle ministrations, she began to squirm again. He wrapped his arm about her waist, pulling the material taut across her body. She stilled once more. He used his free hand and jerked her shorts down roughly on the right side. It was there. The tattoo, it was there. He ran a finger over its circular shape and she jerked away in response. He held her still and she stiffened, rigidity settling in her spine. With a suddenness, he pulled away from her, his arm leaving her waist, his fingers disengaging from the tee-shirt, leaving the tattoo. He pushed up to his feet and pushed her away from him. He was not gentle. She took a few steps forward and caught herself before she fell to the floor. She turned to look at him, her hair in complete disarray, the bright red tie held by only a few strands now. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Her voice dripped acid. Perversely, he enjoyed her anger, it gave his own another reason for its existence; not that he needed a reason beyond that she must have. It was time to ask her. Suddenly, the chill dissolved, the distance disappeared, in its place was red hot heat, an intimacy that crackled in the air between them. "Did you fuck him?!" He hadn't meant to shout. Her face was blank for a moment and then her hands flew to her back. The tattoo. "Yeah, Dana," he sneered her first name, "the tattoo." He enunciated each word carefully, since she obviously hadn't understood him the first time. "Did - You - FUCK!" Again, he hadn't meant to shout. "Mr. - Tattoo?" She shook her head back and forth. But not in denial. He noticed that. She wasn't denying it. The look on Dana Scully's face was one reflecting shock and the shaking of her head indicated a dismay, not negativity. She was not saying "no," she was not denying it. Yes, she must have. "Ed Jerse? Mr. Pretty Boy? Did you fuck him, Scully, while I was exploring my inner Elvis?" Why wasn't she answering? He'd asked her enough questions, although the answer required only one syllable. *No* His head supplied and he wanted to cry. Even after everything in the reports, everyone of her actions, everything she had said to him on the phone, everything she had said when she came back, he still wanted to believe that she had not betrayed him. "So what if I did?" is what she spat out with angry disdain. He died. Oh, he was still breathing. Blood still ran through his veins, pumping his heart. But he was dead. Nothing mattered. Not Samantha. Not his parents ... Smoking man ... little green men, little grey men. The X-Files no longer mattered. Nothing mattered. Not Scully. Not Special Agent "I'm-a-medical-doctor" Dana Scully. Not Dana Katherine Scully. He almost laughed. That he had thought it was over before, that he had thought that he was closed off, shut down before this moment was almost funny. But he was dead so he did not laugh. Instead, he turned away from her, unable to look upon her face, her beautiful betraying face, and he walked to her door. And he walked out of her life. End, Part One ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Part II - Scully Finds Some Cardboard Boxes and Her Key (PG) F.B.I. Basement, 10:37 a.m. The Following Morning She opened the door of the basement and cautiously stepped inside. She was late, unable to find ease in getting up, getting dressed, coming to work and facing her partner this morning. She wasn't sure how to deal with a Mulder she didn't understand, didn't know. And that man, last night in her apartment, that man was not a Mulder she understood. It was not a Mulder she knew. And as much as it had unsettled her, it had excited her as well. For the first time in a long time, she didn't know what he was going to do. She could not predict. Last night, when he knelt behind her, when he touched her, she had thought ... her mind tried to deny the fantasy, but could not. She had thought that he was going to make love to her. The feel of his hands on her bare skin, his breath warm on the small of her back had started a chain reaction of heat flooding through her. As confused as she had been, as harsh as he had been preceding that moment, feelings, long submerged, had come rushing to the surface. Her heartbeat had quickened, her breathing had shallowed and arousal had begun swelling within her body. She had felt the heat emanating from him and she had indeed thought that he was going to make love to her. She had believed that what had happened in Philadelphia was going to push their relationship over that carefully observed line that they had never crossed. Obviously, she had thought wrong. Obvious as he had walked away from her, ignoring her as she spoke to him. Very obvious as he had walked out of her apartment, carefully shutting the door behind him, ignoring the calling of his name that followed him down the hallway. Yes, she had thought wrong. And now, this morning, over twelve hours later, she still didn't know what he would do. He wasn't at his desk and after looking around the cramped space, she realized that he wasn't there at all. She felt a distinct sense of disappointment flood through her as she had hoped that they would talk now. There were things that she wanted to tell him, things she needed to explain, but last night she couldn't, not with the way he'd been acting. No, last night had been too raw, too full of pain and he had been too cruel, something she never thought that Mulder would be to her. But cruel he had been and today before she could explain, he owed her an apology, more than an apology, she angrily corrected herself. She expected full-fledged groveling and then, only then would she tell him her truths. She had come to several realizations in Philadelphia. After Ed Jerse had fallen asleep on the couch, she had lain on his bed, wondering what was wrong with her. She had been with a good-looking man, in his apartment, there, ready to disregard her entire upbringing and sense of self to just get laid and she couldn't do it. He had kissed her and she had felt absolutely nothing. He had put his arms around her and when he pressed his hand against the small of her back, she had thought of Mulder: His hand against her back, but this hand was too small; the fingers not as long, the pressure not as light, the heat not as vivid. It was not Mulder. And so she had pulled away. Apparently, Ed Jerse had felt the same thing. With tears running down his face, he'd said "I'm sorry. I can't. My wife --" he'd broken off and pulled away from her. She hadn't been sorry. If he hadn't pulled away, she would have, begging off with, "I'm sorry. I can't. My ... partner?" An angry exhalation emerged from her lips, her mind mesmerized with a memory that hadn't taken place. My partner, she thought, as if that is all he was. Last night had not been the actions of a partner. Mulder had been acting the part of a betrayed, hostile -- hostile, her mind vehemently reminded her -- lover. But he wasn't ... her lover, but he was enough of something and more than a partner that she would have pulled away from another man's embrace if that man had not done so first. But he had pulled away and so she had not gotten laid. Instead, she had sat there for two hours listening to his sordid tale, minus his recent foray into the world of homicidal tendencies. He had fallen asleep on the couch and she had prepared to leave. She should have left, but he looked so alone and young and (she admitted it to herself now) so reminiscent of Mulder when he slept -- dark hair, strong, attractive features, same lanky form -- that she could not leave him. Not until she knew he was all right. Well, now I know, she thought with a tinge of angry regret. The sense of dislocation hit her again as she tried again not to ponder her actions in Philadelphia ... actions that were so out of her character. She had done and said so many things that in retrospect filled her with dismay, with disappointment. They were things that made her glad that her father were no longer there for he would have been ashamed. Her actions were not those of the daughter that he had raised. She shook her head, banishing thoughts that had plagued her all too familiarly since Philadelphia. After returning to Washington and talking to Mulder -- his lame jokes and snide comments an attempt to hide his hurt -- she had come to several conclusions. Most of them having to do with the two of them. Her mind froze on those words *the two of them* and she couldn't help but thing again of him last night, looking at her, at her wet tee-shirt, at her legs, at her body. Mulder looking at her like a man looks at a woman. It had been a heady feeling and irrationally she had hated every other woman he had ever looked at like that. And then he had touched her. And then he had yelled at her. And as angry as he had been, an answering anger had built in her. If he had asked her and not yelled at her, not been so vulgar, so possessive, she would have told him the truth ... she would have told him that she loved him. But he had yelled at her and he had been vulgar and possessive. So she had taunted him and he had left. Just like that. He'd walked out and ignored her cries for him to stop. He'd just ignored her completely. And now he wasn't here. Damn! She moved towards one of the tables (one she used for herself, since she didn't have a desk of her own, she thought bitterly). She noticed some cardboard boxes lying beside it. She couldn't recall if they had been here the day before. She didn't think so. Wonder what he plans on packing up? she thought absently. She pulled a chair up and sat down. And then she saw it. It was sitting in the middle of the table. It was a key, her key, to be more specific. Her name was written across the top in Mulder's handwriting. But it wasn't on Mulder's key chain, it was sitting here on the middle of the table she used as a desk. Scully reached for the phone and quickly dialed Mulder's home number. After two rings a sterile voice came on the line. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service. If you would like to --" Scully hung up. Her lips pursed in thoughts that she did not want to be thinking. She picked the phone up again and dialed his cel phone number. "The number you have dialed is no longer in ser --" She hung up. A sinking sensation was settling deep in her stomach. She picked up the key, rubbing it between her fingers. She reached for the phone again when it suddenly rang, loud and shrill in the silent room. She jumped slightly, her eyes closed briefly in shock. She licked her lips and ran a quick hand through her hair. She picked up the phone, hoping that she would hear Mulder's voice, but doubting that she would. "Agent Scully?" A feminine voice inquired. "Yes," she paused, trying to control the shaking in her voice. "Yes, this is she. May I help you?" "I'm calling from the Assistant Director's office. A.D. Skinner would like to see you as soon as possible." There was a pause. "He'll be waiting for you." There was a click and Scully held the phone for a moment longer. "I guess as soon as possible means now," she murmured to herself. She took a deep breath and looked at the key clutched between her fingers, squeezing it tightly for a moment. Whatever significance it held, this was not the time to think about it. With that final thought she set her key down and headed for the A.D.'s office. ~~~ A.D. Skinner's Office, 10:58 a.m. "Yes, sir?" Scully asked politely as she stepped into his office. Skinner stood up and gestured to the chair before his desk. "Agent Scully, thank you for coming, have a seat." She nodded slightly and headed toward the proffered chair. Once she was seated, she looked at him inquiringly. He didn't speak. "Sir, you wanted to see me?" She prodded. "Yes." He paused, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. "Agent Scully, I wanted your take on the reassignment request." That sinking feeling in her stomach grew in leaps and bounds. She didn't want to ask her next question. She didn't want to hear the answer; but she had to. "Sir, I don't know what you're talking about. What reassignment request?" Her voice was tight, her face pale. Skinner looked momentarily startled. "I, uhm, I'm sorry. I thought Agent Mulder would have informed you. He handed the form to me this morning." Realization dawned with his words. Suddenly the boxes in the office, the disconnected phone lines and now a transfer request, all made a dizzying sort of sense. Mulder was cutting her out of his life. And he was doing so with much more efficiency and with much more speed than her perhaps-not-so-subtle attempts to ease him out of hers since Leonard Betts. And there was one more difference: Her decision had been one made out of love, designed to spare him the pain of what would most likely be the remainder of her life, while his was a decision made out of anger. As her mind processed this information, she sank further into her seat and her shoulders slumped a bit. The thought, 'this isn't happening,' skipped erratically through her mind like a broken record. A small whimper, almost a cry, barely audible, emerged from her lips. The slight sound was enough to bring her back to her surroundings. She was in the Assistant Director's office; she would not make a scene. She sat up and took a deep breath. Raising her chin defiantly in an attempt to regain her composure, she shut her eyes briefly and cleared her throat. She looked at Skinner, meeting his gaze despite the look of sympathy on his face. "Sir," she was ashamed of the catch in her voice. She was determined not to break down before her boss. "Sir," she said more strongly, "what did Agent Muld --" her voice broke. The effort of saying his name, his name immediately bringing to mind his face, was enough to undo her. She bit her bottom lip and lowered her eyes. Inside, she screamed, 'I can't do this!' but she knew she must. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and took another deep breath. She met Skinner's gaze once more, grateful for the unemotional void that was now his expression. Be calm, she silently demanded of herself, keep control. And as was the usual case, she obeyed her inner voice and when she spoke, it was calmly and with control. "What did he give as the reason for the reassignment? Did he request another stay with the Violent Crimes Unit?" Skinner's eyes narrowed. "Agent Scully? The request was for *your* reassignment, not Agent Mulder's." She froze and time seemed to stand still. An insane urge to giggle hysterically was instantly squashed, as was the equally mad desire to fall apart with a great many tears and much gnashing of teeth. Instead, she settled for a slow blink and a forced relaxation of her limbs. Holding onto the gossamer threads of her strength, she took another deep breath and managed to speak. "Of course, mine." "Agent Scully, he is the senior --" " -- agent," she finished quietly for him. "Yes, I know. What were his reasons? Senior or not," she tried to smile, she failed, "he must have a legitimate reason for reassigning an agent junior to him." Skinner looked away, silent for a moment before returning unreadable eyes back to her. "Agent Mulder feels that the differences in your investigative approaches have brought your working relationship to a standstill. Your recent investigation into an X-File without the aid of Agent Mulder was," he paused and reached for a sheet of paper on his desk, "a primary example." Skinner's voice took on a slightly stilted note as he was obviously reading Mulder's words. "Although Agent Scully and I have long come from opposite fields of inquiry, recently the differences have escalated, reaching their zenith during the Philadelphia case." Scully's lips were red from her constant biting in an effort to control her tears and her breathing came more quickly. More than anything she wanted to sob. More than that, she wanted to run out of this room and never see Skinner again. Much more than that she wanted to find Mulder and hurt him; hurt him as badly as she was hurting right now. As if sensing her pain, the Assistant Director looked up, the sympathy returning to his eyes and echoing in his voice. "Agent Scully, Mulder went onto say that in his years working with you, you have always acted with integrity, honesty, and with the utmost professionalism." She allowed herself a tight smile. Skinner paused for a moment and then looked once more at the sheet of paper before him and his tone took on the same stilted quality as he read Mulder's report. "However, due to the events in Philadelphia as well as personal aftereffects that arose from the Ed Jerse case, I surmise that it will prove increasingly awkward to continue working with Agent Scully. I feel that she has proven her worth to the Bureau and should now be assigned to an area in the F.B.I. that will better utilize her talents. Furthermore --" She stood up. Skinner looked up from reading, "Agent Scully?" She looked away from him, looking towards the door, escape. "Sir, whatever he wrote, I'm sure is satisfactory. When will I be informed of my new assignment?" She asked in a rush, not caring about the answer, just desperate to get out of his office. Skinner paused, "it will take a couple of days. You should have your new assignment in a week. Do you have a particular area ...?" She shook her head negatively. Let me leave, please God, let him dismiss me, she begged inwardly. "Back at Quantico, perhaps?" he offered. She looked at him. "No." Quantico had too many memories of him. "Sir, I would prefer to be in the field, please." Skinner nodded. "I'll keep that in mind." "Is that all, sir?" she asked, desperately needing to escape this office. It was becoming much too difficult to control her emotions. If he didn't dismiss her now, the anguish and anger that she was keeping at bay would erupt. Skinner nodded once more. She turned to leave, relief at dismissal filing her, but then she paused at the door, all at once needing to ask one more question. Without looking back, she took a steadying breath, "did he request a new partner?" She held still while she waited for the affirmative answer that would break her heart. "No." Her body visibly relaxed and she walked out of his office without another word. End, Part Two ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Part III - Dead Men Don't Feel Regret (PG-13) F.B.I. Basement, 8:13 a.m. Two hours and 24 minutes earlier He pulled his keys out of his pocket and looked intently through them, searching for the bright blue (like her eyes, he'd thought when he had picked it out. Yes, Fox Mulder was capable of a sentimental thought or two, he mused absently.) tag with her name on it. He found it and pulled it off of the key chain, calmly walking over to the table she used as a desk. Damn! He thought suddenly. Guess, I'll have to cancel that new desk order. He set the key down without hesitation or thought. It didn't matter. He made a mental note to ask Mr. Mardin to change his lock. She still had his key. He smiled grimly, wondering what he must look like. Skinner hadn't even asked question one when he handed him the form for her reassignment. Probably thought I would hit him again, he thought with another grim smile. He walked over to his desk and picked up the folded boxes of cardboard that he'd carried in from his car. So much for getting rid of my magazine collection, he thought. He'd been contemplating it as a gesture for her, one she would have completely been unaware of, and wouldn't have given a damn about anyway. But now, even the contemplation of such an action was unnecessary, she would be gone soon and he would need those magazines more than ever without her here to fill his fantasies. Funny, he thought (but didn't laugh), he'd never allowed himself to analyze just what all of those fantasies meant. Freud and the like had never interested him much. Last night, however, he'd put his psychology degree to good use and had picked apart every single heat-inducing, blood-arousing, Special Agent-slash-Medical-Doctor fantasy that he could remember. He had not liked the conclusions he's reached, so after many different imagined memories of slipping into Dana Scully, he'd stopped and slipped in ed for the phone book again and began absently flipping through the pages. He fell across Medical Doctors. He looked under "S." "Well, what do you know?" He muttered to himself. "Agent 'I'm-a-medical-doctor' isn't in the phone book under 'Medical Doctors.' Haha." He flipped again and his gaze rested on Restaurants. He looked for the number for the Chinese Restaurant where they always ordered take-out. "Aha. 'Lo Pau Chinese Food - Good.'" He glanced at the number, despite having it memorized and on speed-dial. He made a mental note to remove it for it wouldn't do to accidentally dial it. Hearing Lo Pau's voice would be almost as bad as hearing -- "Sir? I have a flight leaving for Tallahassee, Florida in three hours." "Wonderful." His voice didn't sound as if he thought it was wonderful. He didn't think anything was wonderful. Not anymore. "Can I buy it now with a credit card?" "Yes, sir," her voice became even perkier, if that was possible. He gave her his card information over the phone and held a long "one moment" while she verified it. He reached across the couch for the latest issue of "Playboy." He flipped through that, absently concluding that it was more interesting than the phone book. He turned it up, checking out the centerfold, not feeling the least aroused. He closed it and looked at the cover, he was about to set it down when a new song began on the phone. He figured he had a few more moments to wait through. He opened the magazine again and feasted his eyes upon a red-headed model, decked out in a suit and holding a gun. She was playing F.B.I., although he doubted that the Bureau would ever endorse the way this *agent* wore her suits. He turned the page, studying her. She was too tall. Her hair was too long, and too bright a red, not burnished enough. Her eyes weren't blue enough. Her lips weren't full enough. Her skin too tanned. She was too busty. And judging from the lack of fire down below, she was not a natural redhead. In short, she wasn't Scu-- He shut his mind down as quickly as he shut the magazine. "Sir? Sir?" He jerked his attention back to the phone. "Yes, yes. Sorry." "That's all right." She pleasantly informed him. "Your ticket will be waiting for you at the counter, Mr. Mulder. Thank you for flying WestWay Airlines." He could hear the smile in her voice. He felt slightly nauseated. "Thanks." He hung up the phone and stood up, still holding the "Playboy." He walked into his bedroom, pausing at the door to throw the magazine in the circular file. He looked about his room, wondering if he dare allow himself the opportunity to break down once, just let himself go. He felt a bleak simmering begin in the pit of his stomach. He saw her again in his mind, standing before him in that wet tee-shirt with those long legs. He felt a hardening in his groin. He closed his eyes, savoring the image -- the pale peach of her skin against the white, clinging shirt. The impression of lace and nipples evidenced through the damp material. The strands of fiery red vivid against her skin, a startling, devastating contrast to the bright blue of her eyes. The full curve of her lips, those lips curved in a smile. Her happiness at seeing him, followed by her confusion and then anger. His eyes flew open, but the image of her anger, the blue darkening, the flush deepening, remained in his mind. He remembered it vividly ... every look, every touch, every word. He just didn't remember it happening to him. He saw it from the outside looking in, for he, Fox Mulder, would never treat her like that. He would never yell at her with such biting cruelty with words and a tone of voice designed to cut deep. Yet the memory of last night revealed that that man had caused her immeasurable pain, more than anger, he had caused her such pain. So that man could not have been him. He turned to the door, about to head back to the phone, pick it up, call her, hear her voice. Then he heard her voice in his head speaking the five words that he had not recalled yet. But he recalled them now: So what if I did? He heard her voice saying those words, "so what if I did?" and he stopped mid-stride. That man in her apartment last night coalesced into this man standing broken in his bedroom and he shut down. No, he curtly informed himself. If he just let himself go, he might do something stupid. Like pull out his F.B.I. regulated gun and blow his brains out. Or even worse, he might go to her and fall into her arms, begging for forgiveness, begging for her return, begging her to never leave him, never hurt him again. He turned back to his bed. No. He began to pack, his brief flirtation with emotion a distant memory. End, Part Three ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Disclaimers in Part I "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Part IV - He Didn't Know about the Drops of Blood (R) F.B.I. Basement, 11:21 a.m. She began to put her personal belongings into one of the boxes that he had left for her. How considerate he is, she thought with a shaky laugh. The laugh began to dissolve into a sob. She bit down hard upon her tongue; the pain, the coppery taste of her blood, jerked her into awareness. The sob died, and she was once more under control. She paused in her packing to spit a gob of blood into the trash can. Let him wonder, she thought, for a vicious moment. Suddenly, the image of Leonard Betts popped into her head, followed by the white of her pillow stained with drops of blood. She tried to shut her mind down, not wanting to dwell on the consequences of his words, "you have something I need." Mulder doesn't know, she thought abruptly. She hadn't told him; if she had, he would have understood, he wouldn't have come to her as he had last night. She thought of him in her apartment, cold then hot fury in his eyes. If he knew what Leonard Betts -- no, her mind shied away from the thought. If he found out, it would deliver a helping hand to the efforts, others and his own, that threatened to destroy him. He would blame himself. Furthermore, she didn't know for certain that it was what she feared. She wouldn't allow herself to think of what it meant until she had the medical results of the tests she'd taken in her hand. Besides, whether he knew or not, he had still come to her apartment last night in a rage, without thinking. He hadn't tried to find out what had happened. He had just assumed and been so cruel because of that assumption. And now this morning, cutting her out like this, not giving her a chance to explain, she felt a wave of anger building up in her alongside the pain. *Bastard* The excitement she had felt earlier, the sexual thrill that his touch on her had caused was gone, replaced with outrage and desolation. She fell down into her seat, her hands covering her face as desolation took the upper hand. How could she have not realized how he would be affected by her actions in Philadelphia? Especially since he had no clue as to what Leonard Betts had said to her. She hadn't told him. She could have. She probably should have. At least then she wouldn't have to shoulder this burden of waiting alone. But she'd wanted to handle it herself; she had to believe that she could handle this without relying on Mulder. She didn't need him for her strength, she had her own and the thought of him worrying over her, feeling the need to protect her was one she did not relish. So she hadn't told him, instead she had shut him out. And now this. Her actions in Philadelphia must have made no sense to him, her feelings prior to leaving, a cipher he couldn't figure out. Everything had been fine between them before Leonard Betts. How could he understand? She simply should have told him, but she had not, so he didn't know. He couldn't have known. He couldn't have known what had motivated such behavior from her. After all, he didn't sleep beside her so he hadn't seen the red drops on her pillow. He couldn't have guessed at what demons had caused her actions. What he thought were her actions, she amended. Not that I helped disabuse him of that notion, she thought bitterly. God, why hadn't he just simply asked her, 'Dana, what happened in Philadelphia? Who was that guy?' And she would have answered him truthfully. She would have explained about Leonard Betts. She would have explained how she needed more than just the X-Files, more than just him. No, more than what she had from him. She needed all of him. She loved him. She would have explained that nothing had happened with Ed Jerse. That she had called him, gone out with him, gone to his apartment because she was scared of dying, dying without having really lived. And she'd been angry with Mulder, angry and hurt because of his dismissal of her competence, her attractiveness. She couldn't predict how he would have responded to all of that, but she believed that he would have understood and what he didn't understood, he would have tried to. And instead of the disaster that lay before her, everything would have been all right between them. Maybe even better than all right, maybe it would have been wonderful. She sat up straighter, her hands dropping to the table with a thump. He didn't ask you though, did he? she thought. No, he'd just taken for granted that you slept with a complete stranger. Well, you were going to, a hesitant voice reminded her. "That's not the point!" She cried out, then she laughed bitterly. "Now, I'm talking to myself," she lowered her head onto the table, "that's not the point," she repeated softly, arguing with that hesitant voice. The voice that had been reasoning with her from the moment she'd met Ed Jerse and one that she had submerged and ignored because she hadn't wanted awareness that what she was doing was wrong. Wrong, not only because of Mulder, because of whatever this *thing* between them was, but more importantly, wrong because it wasn't her. It was behavior that she had been raised to believe was if not entirely immoral, certainly not acceptable in the eyes of her parents, her father. He would have been ashamed. And if she'd allowed herself to think about it, she would have been ashamed, because Ahab would have been ashamed. She raised her head, her eyes staring blankly about her. Again she whispered, "that's not the point," the words now a plea to a man who was no longer there. Her father. Mulder. Mulder. She wanted to be angry with him. She believed she had every right to be angry with him, after the way he had treated her last night. But he was Mulder and she could understand where his rage had come from. And she knew him. She knew that given time, once he'd calmed down, he would never forgive himself for his actions. One more pile of guilt to add onto the growing mountain that he'd created because of her. Duane Barry ... Melissa ... and now this. And he didn't even know about the drops of blood, not yet. She felt another tear trickle down the side of her face and knew she had to leave, she had to get out of there. She was on the verge of a breakdown and she preferred to do that in the privacy of her home, thank you very much. She rose from her seat and picked up the box. She had only needed one. She looked about the office, feeling a painful certainty that she would never see it again. Stepping outside and shutting the door, she allowed her gaze to rest on the door's plaque for a moment. Fox Mulder Special Agent Only his name on the door -- his desk, his office, his X-Files. Nothing here was ever really mine, was it? she wondered. She bowed her head briefly, leaning against his door. She had thought that he was hers. Another silent tear crept down her face and she jerked up, wiping it away with one quick dash. Not here, she reminded herself. Home, I have to go home. ~~~ Dana Scully's Apartment, 12:43 p.m. She sat huddled on the couch. She couldn't really remember walking out of the F.B.I. building, nor the drive home. All she remembered was a song that had played on the radio, Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue. She recalled laughing because her eyes were already blue. She had not cried, however. She was saving her tears for home. And here she was and she couldn't cry. She wanted to; she wanted the release that her tears would bring. And then she could get on with her life, waiting for Mulder to stop being an infantile asshole and apologize for his behavior. Apologize, hah, beg for her forgiveness is more like it, she thought. "Did you fuck him?" she muttered under her breath. "What gives you the right, Fox Mulder, to judge me? Maybe if you paid more attention to me than you do to your stupid alien hunts, we wouldn't be in this situation." Aliens, space-squeezing mutants and dead EMT's who could regrow their heads by eating cancer .. how's a girl to compete, she thought sarcastically. She reached out for the throw pillow across the sofa and paused in thought. Compete? she wondered, did I ever try and compete with them? And then in a rush of anger she determined, I shouldn't have had to. She flung herself up from the sofa, feeling an angry tension and nervous energy swelling throughout her body. She walked through the apartment, slamming her hands against walls and tables. She entered her bedroom and opened the closet. Maybe I'll go out, she thought defiantly, really get laid. She stared at her wardrobe, fooling herself a few moments longer before she slammed it shut. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't. She wanted to yell at Mulder, but he wasn't here. And she wanted him here so she that could scream and rail at him. She wanted to hit him, feeling his solid body under her fists. She wanted to slap his face, she wanted to see him fall before her, begging for her forgiveness. And then she would beg him for his, she thought with a heavy sigh as she sprawled out on her bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to come but they did not. She got up off the bed, too restless to stay put and walked back into the living room. She headed towards the video cabinet, wondering if Mulder was getting off on one of his porn films right now or if he was wallowing in his guilt as he damn well should be. She knelt down and perused the titles, hoping something would catch her eyes. A tearjerker would be good, she thought. If that son-of-a-bitch's actions weren't going to make her cry and give her the release she needed, maybe a good chick movie would. And then she saw it: Superstars of the Superbowls. She fell back on her heels as she gingerly reached out for the video. She held it before her, her fingers tracing the laminated cover. And tears began to drop. Slowly at first, slipping from the corners of her eyes, wending their way down her pale cheeks. One drop landed atop the Super in Superbowls and she carefully brushed it away. Another landed upon a picture of some football player she'd never seen before, and just as carefully she wiped that one away. And then another, and another and the tears were flooding too quickly for her to wipe them away so she held the video box close to her, her fingers clasping it to her heart. Her shoulders began to shake, softly at first, but like her tears, the shaking began to build until her entire frame was shuddering with the force of the sobs ripping through her body, scaling her throat. She lay down on the carpet, clutching his only gift to her and she cried. Wrapping her arms about herself, she curled up in a fetal position, her fingers biting into the hard edges of the video. Everything -- Mulder, Leonard Betts, Mulder, Philadelphia, Mulder, Mulder, Mulder -- everything hit her with the blow of a thousand fists. She cried but it offered her no release. In the midst of her agony, she doubted that anything ever could. End, Part Four ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Part V - All's Fair in Love and War (R) WestWay Airlines Flight 1901, Washington D.C. to Tallahassee, Florida, 1:44 p.m. The flight attendants had just completed their meal service. He had chosen the beef, but had managed only a couple of bites and those had stuck in his throat. He'd been more grateful than most when they'd taken away his tray. Images of the last two days were flowing through his mind with the randomness of life. Scully standing before him wearing a wet tee-shirt. Jeffrey Jenkens apparent understanding of what had taken place between Scully and the pretty boy. Skinner gazing at him in disbelief as he handed him the request form that would sever all professional ties with Scully. Pulling her key off of his keyring. Setting it on her *desk.* Scully's "so what if I did?" Mr. Mardin's questioning look when he'd explained that his former partner would no longer have access to his apartment. Scully smiling, her eyes bright, soft bubbles dripping from bright yellow gloves. Scully. Scully. Scully. Slowly, but steadily, the chill that had settled around the deadness within his heart began to dissolve. The distance that anger and jealousy allowed him had protected him from the realization of the enormity of his actions. Distance was fading as he flew farther and farther away from her. Images, stronger and faster, swept with dizzying intensity through his mind now. The dimming of bright blue to grey. The shock and dismay as he yelled at her. The rigidity in her spine when he'd touched her, and how he had touched her without a hint of tenderness. His anger had translated quite easily into the rough touch he'd laid upon her. She'd almost fallen. That memory, unlike the others, played in slow motion. Scully jerking away from him as he stood, pushing her away, his actions the opposite of gentle. And she'd almost fallen ... because of him. She could have hurt herself. He had hurt her. But she fucked Mr. Tattoo. She hadn't denied it. She had said "so what if I did?" She had not said no. He had wanted her to, even after the reports, and the obvious conclusion that anyone would have come to after reading the reports, he had believed, deep in his heart, that she would say no. But she had said "so what if I did?" She hurt him. Therefore, he hurt her. All's fair in love and war. He looked out the window, feeling a tightening in his chest. Love and war, he thought. When was there ever love or war between he and Scully? Affection, caring, yes. Deep affection, strong and nurturing caring, definitely, but love? He had loved Phoebe and it had been awful, painful, full of lies and deceit -- betrayal, ups and downs that twisted him inside out, wringing him dry. Phoebe had made him miserable. That was love. Scully made him feel good. Before she fucked the man with the tattoo, that is. She had made him feel strong and ... right. She believed in him. She never lied to him. She stood by him, not merely kowtowing to his beliefs like a little follower, but she listened to those beliefs even as crazy as they were half the time. She listened and then she agreed or disagreed. And she trusted him enough to know that he would listen to her in turn. At least on the job. And that was the crux of the matter -- on the job. Whenever something was bothering her, if it had nothing to do with work, she didn't say one word to him. He tried, he'd asked, he'd wanted to be there for her, but she was having none of that. Not Dana Scully. No, she's responded with her standard "I'm fine" at all times. All times but one, there had been that one time she'd let him hold her, let him comfort her. But it had only been that one time and after she'd pulled away from his arms, she'd never mentioned it again and had rebuilt her wall. And he had never been able to scale it. But Mr.-fucking-tattoo-pretty-boy had. The anger swelled up in him again. He hadn't touched a woman since her disappearance two years ago, and that had had nothing to do with sex. It had simply been about the need to connect with another human being. Besides, as far as he knew, she'd been dead. She, however, had fucked Mr. Tattoo when he was simply on vacation. She'd fucked Ed Jerse. Another man. She'd let another man touch her, kiss her, slip inside of her. He shut his eyes in despair, seeing her face -- the vivid red of her hair, the brilliant blue of her eyes -- seeing her body -- the soft cream of her flesh marred by the ring of blue, the outline of her nipples visible through her wet tee-shirt and flimsy bra, her long legs -- seeing all of her in his mind and it hurt. It hurt so badly. He'd had to leave. To actually see her in the flesh would be impossible now. How could he look at her, be with her, talk to her, knowing that she had fucked Ed Jerse? He had done the right thing, the only thing, in walking away. There had been no other choice. He wondered if she had made it in to work yet, or if she'd called in sick. He wondered if she knew that it was over, they were over. Had she tried to call him? Had she seen Skinner? Did she know? And if she did, did she care? Probably not. If she did, she wouldn't have fucked the pretty boy with the tattoo. Hell, all's fair in love and war. Back to that, are we, Fox? he thought. Love and war. War and love. He thought of the pain, the anger that had rushed freefall through him in her apartment. He thought of her wet tee-shirt and how it had clung to the lacy, damp transparency of her bra. This hurts too much to not be love. Love. Is this love? Affection and caring do not drive a man to hurt a woman as he had. And he had hurt her. But she fucked him, he reminded himself as a kernel of guilt danced along the edge of his dead heart. She fucked Mr. Tattoo, he repeated. She had played the first hand. And had destroyed him. One battle and she'd won the war, but he'd still fought back, a resilient soldier he could be ... and had been. War. Without love could there be a war? Hand in hand they sat. Love and war. Images continued unabated through his mind. The anger blazing in her eyes. The disdain in her voice. Did she know? The transparency of her clothing. Why could he not forget what he had never really noticed before? Did she know that he was gone? Did she know that he had kicked her out of the X-Files? Her long legs, he saw her long legs, felt the heat of the cream of her flesh beneath his fingers. Did she know that he had cut her out of his life? Did she care? All's fair in love and war. But this is Scully. Of course she cares. It was Scully. Scully. I love her. I can't -- I did hurt her. I made her eyes blaze with anger. She almost fell. But she fucked him, he protested. She almost fell. The blue dimmed to grey and she almost fell. She had been stiff and unyielding in his grasp. But she had also been hot, the scent of arousal had been there and he could not forget her heat, the cream of her skin, the feel of her beneath his fingers. But she had been stiff, because he had been cruel. He wondered if she had found her key? Was she in pain? Had her anger been eclipsed by pain? How much more pain did he give her? Did it hurt when she found her key? She didn't deserve such pain. But she fucked him, he reminded himself. Is she yours? his torn mind responded. All is fair -- shut up! Is she yours? he demanded of himself. Is she your lover? Is she your wife? Do you sleep beside her at night, wake up to her beauty every morning? Does she call you "sweetheart?" Do you tell her you love her? Have you ever told her that you love her? So what if she fucked him? She almost fell. She almost fell. "Are you okay?" Words that had nothing to do with Scully, nothing to do with images interrupted his mental ramblings. He turned to the voice, a gentle voice, full of concern. A woman sat next to him, an older woman, with blue eyes. Blue like Scully's. She almost fell. "Sir, are you okay?" He looked at her, wondering why she was speaking to him, didn't she know that he'd almost made Scully fall? He'd hurt her. She had fucked him, yes, but he had hurt her, how could he have hurt her? "She almost fell." He whispered and was surprised to find how broken and how lost his voice sounded. "She almost fell," he repeated. He reached up and ran a hand through his hair, his hand brushing over his face and he was even more surprised to feel a trail of wetness on his skin. "Sir?" She tried one more time, but he was no longer listening. Her voice was a muted sound. An ocean lay between them, her lips were moving, but the ocean was too vast and deep and he could not make out her words, so he looked away from her blue, like Scully's, eyes and faced the window. The sky was blue. Like Scully's eyes, but hers were grey. Blue dimming to grey. And then back again, blazing with anger after she almost fell. The tears fell unchecked down his face and their coolness was no deterrent for the heated shame that was coursing through him. He closed his eyes, but that didn't stop the tears. He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes tighter, but the images still ran rampant through his mind. Scully standing before him wearing a wet tee-shirt. Pulling her key off of his keyring. Setting it on her *desk.* Scully's "so what if I did?" He tasted salt on his lips. He clenched his fists, willing the images away, but they had a will of their own. Scully smiling, her eyes bright, soft bubbles dripping from bright yellow gloves. Scully. Scully. Scully. The dimming of bright blue to grey. The wet tee-shirt, the lacy, damp transparency of her bra. Almost falling and again, she almost fell, in slow motion, Scully almost fell. The tears fell as she almost fell ... again, and again. Her blue eyes, her wet tee-shirt, her key and Scully almost falling played before his closed eyes and he realized with no more pretense or defense that this was love and that he had lost the war. End, Part Five ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Part VI - Her Mother Called Him Fox (PG) Maggie Scully's House, 8:57 a.m. Two days later "Honey, what's wrong?" Maggie Scully asked as her daughter stumbled into her living room. "Mom," she broke down upon hearing her mother's voice, seeing her compassionate face. "Mom, he's gone and I don't know what to do. I was so wrong. I was so stupid, how could I do --" She couldn't finish; she couldn't think. She collapsed into her mother's arms, crying her heart out, crying tears that she had thought were all shed. Her mother brushed her hair from her face, holding onto her and made shushing noises as she led her to the couch. They fell onto the seat together, Dana's head nestled in her mother's bosom. "Dana, tell me what's wrong." She gulped a few times and pulled away slightly, raising reddened eyes to her mother. "He's gone. His numbers are changed and he went on vacation. I found the boxes and my key. He just left them and I don't know where he is. He told Mr. Mardin to not give me the key. He specifically told him to not give me the key. Mom, what am I going to do?" She pulled away once more, moving to the other side of the couch, trying in vain to control her tears, trying to control her emotions. She couldn't do it; she couldn't do this. She stood up, wobbling slightly. "Dana?" "I gotta go. I can't do this. I have to go. I have to find him. I can call the airlines, I can -- I can," she broke off, a light, hysterical laugh entered her voice, "I can put an 'X' on my window ..." she sat down, overcome with sobbing again. Through her tears, she whispered, "I hurt him. I hurt him so badly. I know him, I know him so well and yet I didn't realize what I was doing to him." She turned to her mother. "I didn't realize what it would do to me." "Dana, what is going on?" "He's gone," she said as calmly as she knew how. "Fox? Did something happen to Fox?" She just sat there looking at her mother for a moment, silent tears running down her face. Fox. Her mother called him Fox. Her mother had an intimacy with him, that he had never allowed her. Why had he never allowed her to call him Fox? What was wrong with her? What was wrong with him? "He always let you call him," she paused, briefly closing her eyes, "Fox. Only once did I ever call him that." She stood up again, her voice suddenly angry. "And he lied to me! He said no one called him Fox. He said he made his parents call him 'Mulder!' He lied ..." Her voice trailed off in tears. She sank back onto the couch again. "I was on a case without him, a couple of days," she paused again, her voice catching. More tears began rushing down her face. She lowered her head into her hands, her shoulders hunched over and shaking. "Dana." Her mother moved over to her side and pulled her into her arms again. "Sshh, honey, it's okay. It's gonna be okay." Dana snuggled closer, her tears subsiding slightly. Her voice was lost. Lonely. "No. Mom, it's not okay. It just seems like it was so long ago, not just two or three days. Or was it four?" She smiled through her tears. "I don't even remember how long ago it was now. I was in Philadelphia on a case and he was on a forced vacation." She smiled again, remembering his disgust at the notion. At the time, she'd been thinking about Leonard Betts and her life, or rather her lack of one, and had found no humor in his reaction. She was almost surprised to find that now, despite the last two days, she did. And more than that, a faint charm. The reaction was so Mulder. She was silent for a moment longer, wondering where her anger was; wondering if he was still angry with her. Her smile died. He was gone. "Dana?" Her mother's voice drifted through her reverie. She closed her eyes, searching for her last words. Vacation, she thought, Mulder's visit to the home of Elvis. "He never took vacations, so the Bureau made him." She pulled away and looked up at her mom, a smile gracing her face again. "He went to Graceland." And then she began to cry again. Loving him. Missing him, God, how she missed him. Graceland. And her cries turned to a mellow laugh. So Mulder. She closed her eyes briefly, her laughter dying alongside her tears, as she once again grabbed the reins of her emotions close to her. She took a few deep breaths. She must continue talking, she thought, maybe talking would help. Maybe her mother would say the right thing and soothe the pain away. Maybe there were such things as extraterrestrial biological beings. Maybe she had been abducted by a U.F.O. Maybe the truth was out there. Maybe she could survive without him in her life. "I was feeling restless. We had just finished this case and there was this man," she drew in a shaky breath, "Leonard Betts. The case, he, disturbed me. But I," she paused and her eyes briefly met her mother's before jerking away. I can't tell her this, she suddenly thought, not like this, not now and Lord, not until I know for sure. "I was restless," she repeated, "and I took it out on him," the only him in her mind being Mulder. "Him?" her mother questioned. Dana raised stricken eyes to her face and didn't say anything. "Fox," Maggie faintly replied and Dana could only nod in response, then softly, "him." She kept her gaze locked on her mother's, seeing a solace there that eased the pain slightly. "I was restless," again she repeated, and I blamed him for not having a life. I blamed him for not having a desk. I blamed him because he was there and easy to blame. And when I got to Philadelphia, I just gave a cursory glance to the case and called it a hoax and walked away. "He kept calling me, checking up on me. He wasn't happy when I told him about the case, but at that point I didn't care, I was going to leave then, but there wasn't a flight until the next morning. And then he made a crack about my not being able to get a date. "Mom," she stood up and began pacing back and forth. Her eyes fleetingly met her mother's and then took off again. She couldn't meet her eyes, those compassionate, loving eyes. She couldn't bear to see the disappointment in them when she told her, but she had to, she had to tell someone and her mother would understand. She had to understand. "I was upset with --" she broke off and stood still, her eyes heavenward. "My God, I can't say his name." She turned anguished eyes to her mother, "why can't I just say his name?" She shook her head, not expecting a reply and resumed pacing. "I was upset with," a pause, "him," she finished, heated passion in the word. "I was upset with life ... with my life and I was restless and he couldn't believe that I had a date!" she spoke in an angry rush. "So I called up a man I had met earlier. He had given me his number and he was good-looking and damnit, he's just my partner," she said defensively. "Is he?" Maggie asked softly. Dana paused in her pacing and looked at her, but she couldn't answer. Almost defiantly, she kept her gaze locked on her mother's. "I called this man up, Ed Jerse, that was his name. I called him up and we had drinks and I --, I --" she broke off again, unable to maintain eye contact. "I went to his apartment." She fell back down on the seat next to her mother. "I was mad at him, he hurt my feelings and so I," she looked at Maggie, contrition and shame in her eyes, "I intended on sleeping with him." She looked away, not missing the quick flash of surprise on her mother's face. "I'm a grown woman," she stated, her voice warbling like that of a child. But even as she said the words, she couldn't look at her mother. The Dana Scully she was describing was not the daughter her parents had raised. But she had to get this out. Maybe it would help. Maybe she would understand why she had done what she had done. "Yes, Dana, you're a grown woman and you make your own choices. It's not something that I would have done or even thought of doing, but," she reached out and gently laid her finger on her daughter's cheek, capturing her gaze. "But," she repeated, "times are different. *You* are different and I can't know what demons are driving you. And I certainly don't understand your relationship with Fox. I won't and I don't judge you." "But, dad would have been ashamed." Her mother opened her mouth to speak and then paused and Dana felt more silent tears run down her face. She looked down at the fingers clasped tightly in her lip, biting her lip, trying to hold back the painful sobs. "Dana, your father wouldn't have been ashamed. Never that. But, he wouldn't have approved. I'm sorry, I know that's not what you want to hear, but I won't lie to you." Dana nodded, biting her lower lip even harder in an ineffectual effort to stem the flow of tears. "I didn't, mom, I didn't go through with it. One, it was one kiss only. I didn't sleep with him." "Okay." "Okay?" "It's okay, sweetheart," was her mother's soft reply and the tears subsided a bit. "I didn't even particularly want to have sex with him," she continued, "but he was good-looking and he was so needy. He reminded me of ... of him, that's why I was there, because he reminded me of him and because I was mad at him and life was passing me by and," she paused, renewed anguish surging through her voice, "Fox Mulder *wasn't* helping. So I went to a stranger's apartment and five minutes later I didn't want to even be there." Her voice was choked with uncried tears; more tears waiting to break free and overwhelm her, the way she had been overwhelmed since Skinner had told her about the reassignment. Tears that had begun to fall when she packed her stuff up in the basement. "But, I didn't leave, there was a storm and he offered to let me stay there. So I did and listened to him talk and then the next morning I found out that he was under suspicion for murder," she paused and gave her mother what she thought was a reassuring glance. "He didn't hurt me; not much." She felt a flash of remorse as Maggie sighed deeply, her eyes closing for a brief second, but when she spoke her voice was steady, just the slightest waver in her tone and Dana knew she was all right. "Did you tell Fox this? Is that why he left?" "No," she shook her head. "He found out that I was at Ed Jerse's apartment because of the murder investigation. Actually, he received all of the information about it because it fell under Bureau jurisdiction because of his assault on a federal agent, and then when we found out that there was a hallucinogen in the dye used for the tattoo -- both he and I had recently gotten tattoos at the same place, that's where I met him," she explained and smiled at her mother's raised brow, "just a Celtic symbol. Anyway, there was a drug in the tattoo dye and so it became, technically, an X-File. "He mentioned the dye the day after I got back. He also made some asinine jokes and sent a few snide comments my way, but really, he seemed fine, if a little upset. I mean, I knew he was upset of course, but to the degree .... I don't know, maybe he hadn't read all of the reports yet. Maybe he just hadn't come to the conclusion he had yet." "Which was?" Maggie prompted softly. Dana raised eyes, red-rimmed but dry, to her mother's. "That I had had sex with another man." She turned away and fell heavily back against the sofa. "I knew he was upset, but I didn't realize how much it would hurt him. "Mom, he thought I betrayed him. And I did, even if I didn't sleep with Ed Jerse. I thought about it; I was going to and I can dress it up with all of the excuses I want to -- dissatisfaction with my life, Leonard Betts -- but what it comes down to it: I was going to cheat, yes *cheat,*" she repeated emphatically, "on him because I was mad at him and I wanted to hurt him. "And now I feel so guilty, despite what he did the other night, I feel guilty because he couldn't have known why I was so upset. He couldn't have known, because I didn't tell him about Leonard Betts. Still, he didn't just ask me what happened in Philadelphia. He came to my apartment and he was quiet. He just kept looking at me and I thought, I thought that maybe what had happened in Philadelphia wasn't such a bad thing after all," she laughed, a slight hint of hysteria once more entering her tone. "I thought we would finally," and then her laughter was gone, only pain and regret visible on her face, "you know," she finished softly. "I know." Maggie nodded. "But he didn't; we didn't. Instead, he was cruel; he yelled at me, shouting, asking if I'd been with Ed Jerse, although that isn't what he said," a spark of anger lit within her at the remembrance of his accusation, his actions that night and her next words came out in an furious rush. "The way he acted, the things he said, I was so mad at him. Because I thought, what right does he have to ask me? Get angry with me? I'm not his property; I'm not his lover, his wife." Her voice lost its heat, softness invading her tone, not of her volition. "I'm only his partner, that's all ..." she trailed off at the look on her mother's face. "I know. I know it's more than that. And I know that if he'd slept with another woman, I'd be furious with him. I'd -- I'd do what he did." She shook her head suddenly. "No, I wouldn't do what he did, because I'm not like he is. I've had love. I've had trust. I know that people make mistakes and it doesn't mean that they no longer trust and they no longer love. But he doesn't. I can see so clearly now that of course he would act that way. He would see it as an ultimate betrayal. A betrayal of our bond." She straightened up again. "Mom, he requested that I be reassigned. He left my key, the key I gave him to my apartment, at the office and he told his landlord to not give me his new key. He changed the locks, his numbers. When I got to work the other day, he'd left some boxes for me to pack my stuff. I found out from Skinner about the reassignment. And now he's gone, on vacation." The calmness began to slowly leak from her voice as the cold recitation of the last two days pounded into her again. Tears once more began to fall and the pain surrounded her voice, shrouding her words with its presence. "I don't know where he is. I could find out, but what good would it do? He hates me now. As much as he loved me, that's how much he hates me now. I didn't think." "Dana," her mother began, "if I know anything about Fox, it's that he could never hate you. He may think he does right now, but he doesn't. He does love you. And Dana, he --" she broke off, a hint of anger entering her voice, "-- he has completely overreact --" "-- No he hasn't, mom. Not for him. She stood up again and turning to her mother, she held out her hands in supplication, trying to make her understand, but knowing that she never could. Her mother didn't know him like she did. No one did. "I betrayed him! I broke his heart! I gave -- he thinks I gave something of myself to another man, something that --" She broke off again, her arms falling to her side. She closed her eyes and wiped at the wet streaks. Opening them again, she locked her gaze upon her mother's and took a deep breath, smiling. "Mom, I'm sorry. I can't explain this. I thought I could. But I can't. Yes, he's been wrong. What he's done in the last couple of days is inexcusable, but what I did to him began this whole thing. I should have told him about Leonard Betts, but I didn't. "I shouldn't have spoken more than two words to Ed Jerse, but I did. I was wrong. Now, I just have to wait for Mulder to come back. I just have to wait and hope that the damage isn't permanent, that he can forgive himself enough to let me forgive him." She gave her mother one more strained smile and began to walk out. "Dana, I don't understand --" "Mom, I know" she turned around to face her mother, fresh tears staining her face. "I need to go home. I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I'll be fine. I will be fine." She turned and left, unable to face her mother. Unable to aleve her worry, anymore than she'd been able to aleve her own pain. She stepped outside, resting the back of her head against the front door. She closed her eyes and a quick, silent prayer came to her mind, a prayer sent to the God that she had forsaken so often and she found herself praying as she had never prayed before. The End, Part Six ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Damage Wrought by a Trip to Philadelphia" J.Hallmark (arabian@ite.net) Part VII - Memories of a Florida Vacation (R) F.B.I. Basement, 9:16 a.m. 1 week and 5 days later He sat at his desk, reading the latest news from the Lone Gunmen. Apparently there had been sightings of little green men in Seaford, Delaware. Not aliens, no, but leprechauns. The Lone Gunmen said it was for real, and that just like in those horror movies, these leprechauns were hacking away. Somehow, he still doubted it, probably a copycat hoax, he thought. That is what she would have said. But she wasn't here. And it was so silent. Silent, not quiet, for quiet was the two of them working side by side, the slight rustling of her paper a partner to his. Her breathing a soft presence in the room with him. But she wasn't here and so he sat in solitude and silence. Deafening silence. So this was life without Dana Scully, he thought. Outwardly, there wasn't much different. The office had in fact looked very much the same as he had left it two weeks ago. A few things were missing from the table, a few items here and there were gone, but really there wasn't much to notice. Yet, there was a change, and like the silence, it was intangible. Her perfume, as subtle as it had been, no longer lingered in the air. Her presence, her heat no longer surrounded him. That unspoken tension evolving between them on a daily basis had dissipated with her departure. He missed her. He tried to tell himself that he didn't, just as he tried to pretend that he didn't care enough to care that she was out of his life. But he did. He wanted to believe that she missed him too and that she thought about him as much as had been thinking about her. But of course, if she had felt for him as he felt for her, she wouldn't have fucked Mr. Tattoo Man. Besides, there had been no notes under his door, no messages on his phone. If she had really cared, she could have easily gotten his new number from the phone company. Obviously she hadn't cared, which was his fault of course. How could she still care after his behavior in her apartment? Because of him, because of his actions, she no longer cared so she hadn't tried. He checked with them himself. She hadn't tried. And as much as he wanted to convince himself that it didn't matter ... it did. She did. More than life itself. Life. He could feel his life slowly draining out of him, day after day. Second after second and he felt so empty. He knew how important she was to him, he had known since Duane Barry had taken her, but somehow he had thought that he could live his life without her. He should have realized that he couldn't, he was a psychologist, after all. But he hadn't realized, not really; he hadn't understood his reaction, he had just reacted. Without thought, he had reacted and laid his rage upon her. He had been so cruel. The distance that saved him from his guilt had disappeared midway through his plane ride. And the guilt had fought with his dying anger for a futile battle before guilt won the war. And remembering that evening in her apartment, he knew that he would never be able to deal with the mortification he felt every time he thought of it, of her that night. And in the following days, stronger than the remorse that came with the way he had treated her, was the guilt that he savored the feel of her beneath his hands. He had replayed the image of a sodden-tee-shirt-clad Dana Scully with long legs beyond countless times. He thanked God for his photographic memory even as he lambasted his demons, his jealousy that had driven him to such emotional brutality. Even if she didn't love him, want him and he knew that she did, what he had done was uncalled for. Even if she had fucked Ed Jerse, his actions were unforgivable ... by anyone's standards. Then to make matters worse, as if his treatment of her wasn't bad enough, he had just cut her out of his life, as effectively as he knew how without killing her ... without killing him. Yet another blow that was designed to hurt her as deeply as he was hurting. And because of it, because of the isolation he had created, he was hurting now more than ever. She was as much a part of his life now as she ever was, just not in a corporeal sense. And so he was dying. He thought that when she uttered the words "so what if I did?" that he was dead inside. Just as he had thought he was dead inside when he came to the inescapable conclusion that *his* Scully had fucked Ed Jerse. He had been wrong the first time. He was also wrong the second time. He wouldn't even hazard to guess that he was dead now. It was happening in stages, each one worse than the next. He woke every morning in Tallahassee, Florida in a cheap motel, thinking of her, hard for her, wanting her, dreaming of her. He heard her voice. He smelled her hair, her perfume. He was lost in the memory of her, everything about her. He would lay there in a daze, replaying snippets of conversations they had had. He had always known that he was attracted to her. He had always known that he had cared about her, but until Mr. Tattoo, he hadn't realized that all of the women he had been remotely involved with since he met Scully (ooh, count 'em, four, he thought, derisively) had reminded him of Scully in some way, or had been a replacement for Scully, because he thought he couldn't have her. He had ignored the signs of jealousy. He had ignored the higher appreciation for the centerfolds and videos when they featured delectable redheads. He had never realized until she had fucked Ed Jerse that he had lusted after her with a rampaging need that he had suppressed and disguised as lust for other women, desire for other things -- the truth, the answers, little green men. He hadn't realized that he loved her. Loved her in a way he didn't believe he was possible of loving someone. Loved her in a way, he hadn't believed *anyone* was possible of loving someone. He had never realized until he had cut her out of his life that he loved her beyond doubt, beyond reservation, beyond anything he had ever believed in. Some psychologist. He hadn't gone out at all on his vacation. Ha, vacation, he thought with a laugh devoid of emotion. In Florida, he had stayed inside his room all day, returning to Washington paler and gaunt. He had rented a VCR and some porno flicks all featuring redheads on the video jackets. And he had thought of her. Scully. Dana. He had believed every night that it would be his last. No man could possibly live in such pain day after day, but he had continued to wake up each morning. Thinking of her, hard for her, wanting her, dreaming of her. Loving her and hating her ... and hating himself even more. He also thought of him, Mr. Tattoo, Ed Jerse. He had actually found someone that he hated more than himself. He had an insane urge to visit Mr. Tattoo in the psycho ward in Philly. Taunt him and hurt him; make him tell him all the sordid details. He wanted to find out from the only source he knew of what Dana Scully looked like in the throes of ecstasy. He wanted to ask the pretty boy with the burnt arm if she was a screamer or if she bit her lip and kept it inside. He wanted to know whose name she cried out when she came. He wanted to know if it was his. Mulder. Fox. Fox, she called him that once. And he had rebuffed her, made up some lie about making his parents call him Mulder. He hadn't wanted her to get too close or him to get too close to her. He laughed without humor, only with pain. As if the intimacy of his first name could have made them any closer. As if the formality of his last name would keep their feelings for each other at a friendly distance. Even then, when so many things that would draw them ever more into each other, had yet to happen ... even then, he'd known how much she could meant to him. An d consequently, how much she could hurt him. Oh, and how she'd hurt him. He was a dying man, dying in stages without her. And he was without her because she had hurt him or he had hurt her. It was all mixed up in a painful jumble in his mind now. Only one thought stood with any clarity. He missed her. The shrill cry of the telephone ringing jarred him out of his thoughts. He stared at it for a moment and then realizing that he was once more back on the job, he picked up the phone, "Mulder." "Mulder?" His heart stopped beating. He thought he had prepared himself for her voice; he thought that he was prepared. He had thought ..., but no, he couldn't do this; he just couldn't. He missed her, an anguished voice interjected. I miss you, he thought he'd said it aloud, but then he realized that it was only in his mind and he was grateful because she had hurt him. He couldn't tell her. He wouldn't tell her. He wouldn't let her know how much she meant, when he meant nothing at all to her. Just a friend. She wouldn't fuck a friend. Make me Ed Jerse, he thought. Then she'd fuck me. A dim memory of anger, pushing through countless layers of guilt, peeked through. She'd fucked Mr. Tattoo. "Agent Scully, does this call pertain to a case you or I are currently working on?" He heard the ice in his voice and was relieved to observe that the soldier still marched on. Helpless and on the fringes, the lover cried, 'how am I doing this? How can my voice be so cold? Why am I not crying her name? Why do I not tell her that I miss her, I love her?' "No, I just --" she broke off. She sounded lost and he refused to question why. If anything she should be bitter and angry because of the way he had treated her and he had treated her that way because she had hurt him. She had betrayed him, broken his heart, destroyed him. She had fucked Mr. Tattoo, Pretty Boy, Ed Jerse. "I just wanted to talk to you, Mulder. Explain ..." Her voice trailed off. "If this has nothing to do with F.B.I. business, then I suggest we," the lover surged forward, heat lacing the word, remorse breaking his voice, but the discipline of denial was well-ingrained and quickly he retreated, "we have no need to continue this conversation." He hung up and sat silently for a moment staring at the phone. He picked up the receiver again, laying it down on his desk. As if in a dream, he stood up in one fluid movement and walked over to the door, locking it. The tight click snapping into place seemed enormously loud to him. He stood stock-still for a moment and leaned his head against the hard surface, feeling a build-up of tension shuddering through every line of his body. He took a ragged breath and backed away from the door and slowly turning, he returned to his desk. Shutting his eyes briefly, he then reached out for the Lone Gunmen's latest dossier detailing homicidal leprechauns and set it to the side. He laid shaky hands upon the desk, surveying the now empty space before him, and then crossing his arms over the surface, he laid his head down upon them. And he cried. He missed her. End Part Seven ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~