No Quarter Given: Surrender
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Classification: SA, MSR, post-ep for 'En Ami'
Rating: NC-17, for sexually explicit scenes.  No
kiddies, please!
Archive: Just drop me a line and it's yours.
Disclaimer: Bare bones - not mine.  Though I wish they
were.
Summary: It can only end in mutual surrender.

Third in the 'No Quarter Given' series.  In order,
they are:

Abstinence
Greed
Surrender

and they can be found here:

www.geocities.com/mish_rose/Mishsite/NQG.html

Author's notes at end.

"There are certain words - ecstasy,
abandon,
surrender - we can wait all our lives,
sometimes,

not so much to use,
as to use correctly"
~ Carl Phillips

.... Surrender ...

Part One

"For a moment, I saw something else in him." Her words
are soft and bordering on compassionate.  "A longing
for something more than power.  Maybe for something he
could never have."

Lingering anger rises up in him at the easy way she
allows herself to feel for a man who has done nothing
but hurt them.  And here he is, a man who's almost
gone crazy with worry at her whereabouts, who's done
things for her he'd never do for anyone else... who's
gone to the end of the world to save her from the very
same son-of-a-bitch she is bestowing her sympathy
upon.

"I'd say he got what he wanted," he snarls, though he
knows she is speaking in more benevolent terms.  But
he can't help himself, the stress of the last few days
- the last few *years* - catching up with him in a
heartbeat.

Eyes filled with unfocused confusion meet his.
"What?"

"I can't believe this pity for a man who, in all
likelihood, wanted..."  You, he wants to say.  As if
every man in her sphere harbors a secret desire for
her body.  More so, they lust after her mind, seethe
with unfulfilled yearning for her heart.  Just as he
does.

He has no business bringing up the past, especially a
time when they'd both said and done things they later
regretted.  But he's damned tired of avoiding the
subject.  His world has changed so much in the past
six months and this is one last thing between them
that needs to be discussed.  This trip of hers has
brought back memories of another search - one where he
found her, only to lose once again. "Developed a taste
for cigarettes again, Scully?"

Her stricken look makes his jaw clench over his
jealousy.  She recovers quickly, however, arms crossed
with defensive ire.  "Say what you really mean,
Mulder.  I just had a weekend of double-talk and I'm
damned tired of it."

*She's* tired of it?  A mental picture of himself
throttling her is tamped down as he replies, "Think
before you do something like this again, Scully.  I
was scared, all right?  And you running off without me
was...."  Anger and worry are familiar;  he'd thought
when she'd run off to New Orleans he had been scared.
That's *nothing* like this - every time he'd closed
his eyes the past two days he could see her lifeless
body washed up on the banks of the Potomac.  "It was
fucking stupid."

She blanches at his language and bites back, "Oh, like
you've never done that to me?  Besides, I told you I
was okay."

She's right, but he's so incensed he can't think
straight, dismissing her logic with a cold,  "An 'I'm
fine' via Skinner didn't exactly set me at ease, you
know.  Especially when I knew you were with *him.*"

That gets him a red-faced, "I told you about the tape.
 If you'd gotten it, you would have known where I
was."

"Yeah, well that would have kept me warm for the next
fifty years," he sneers, not realizing just how much
he's revealed with those sarcastic words until they
are already hanging in the air.

"As opposed to me?"  Soft, deadly and precise.
"Excuse me, Mulder, but I think we need to clear up a
few things."

"Such as?" he asks with false bravado, too late for
back-tracking.

"Such as the fact that I am *not* your possession.  My
life is my own, Mulder.  Not yours, not anyone's."

He comes within millimeters of completing the
testament of so long ago.  It's there on the tip of
his tongue, the hesitant, "It's my life, too."  He
knows her life isn't his and he doesn't want to assume
anything.

The desire to take her in his arms and show her they
are tied together by more than the bonds of
partnership is pressing against his temples with the
throbbing need to surface.  But her reaction would be
defensive, to say the least.  Instead, all will to
fight suddenly gone from him, he tentatively ventures,
"And if I find that I want it to be mine as well?"

There it is, he thinks.  The first honest, sober step
since his stumbling confession that summer - another
personal incident they'd largely ignored.  The time
for sweeping it all under the carpet is gone, however.

He waits.  And waits.  She half-turns, stiff and
unresponsive, squinting against the sunset's dying
rays.

And still says nothing.

Turning, he walks away, his long strides creating
distance between them as she shouts his name.  It's
not his name he wants to hear.  Her silence already
spoke volumes.

The cigarettes are familiar, and he can remember the
exact day he gave them up for good.  The day Diana
left for Europe, taking the last vestige of normal
life with her.  They used to share a smoke after
dinner, a smoke after sex, a smoke over files.
Somehow, he didn't feel like doing that once she'd
gone.

He settles back and lights one up, taking a long drag.
 He can see why this was part of the package; it's a
rush like no other.  Not as mind-bending as sex, but
definitely stirring, like pricking your brain with a
thousand needles.  Did Scully share a smoke with
Spender? Light up with the old bastard in an effort to
draw him out?  He knows the addiction is always lying
under the surface, ready to spring up at the slightest
temptation.

He knows she would stop short of - God, he can't even
think it, it's so repulsive.  Information, even the
secrets of the world, aren't that important to her.
But looking at her in that empty office, her eyes soft
with hurt... he realized then that the old man managed
to touch a part of her that has always been hidden.

*He* wants to be the one to touch that part of her.
He saw it once, so briefly it's hard to imagine it
really happened.  But it did, and he knows it's time
to try again.  There won't always be the opportunity.

Sitting back on the wrought-iron chair, he waits and
thinks of chances missed.  Of what ifs, of what could
have been said... of what *was* said but not heard.


.... futility ...

The Oncology Ward was deathly still at that time of
night.  He'd spent hours walking and thinking, doing
the wannabe hero dance.  Cancerman's offer, while
flatly rejected outright, was so tempting.  Using
Samantha to draw him in nearly broke him.  Not so long
ago, he'd told Scully he'd do anything for her.  But
he'd never imagined that his promise of *anything*
could possibly include betrayal of his very ideals.

His solemn figure walked through the door as she
slept, the beacon of her hair guiding him to her side,
where he brushed her ashen face with his fingers.
Softly, with a feathery touch so as not to wake her.
The cancer had taken its toll, the bruises under her
eyes speaking of the unspeakable strain on her body
and soul.  He felt the anguish begin to build in his
chest and he fell to his knees in supplication.

Why her?

The question repeated in his tortured mind over and
over as the tears welled up and overflowed, dropping
in hot pellets from his cheek to her hand.  His mouth
opened, intending to let it go, let the scream erupt
from deep within, but at the last second, he held it
in check, instead whispering a vow he heard not long
ago.

“I am to my beloved as my beloved is to me....”

..... his tears spent, his love spoken, he took a deep
breath and gave her hand one last kiss and knew he
wouldn't take the deal.  She believed in him and until
she was gone, he would do nothing to shatter her
trust.  Nothing, though he once thought he could do
anything.

His arrogance sickened him.

Cigarettes are a bitch, he decides.  Just like dying.
With disdain, he crushes the smoke into the ashtray.

And lights another.  So he won't die today.  Still
plenty of time for that.  Though he may become a bit
battered and bruised at the promise of the next Battle
of New Orleans, courtesy of Dana Scully.

Patrick is gone, but the hotel remains.  Still the
same; perfect in its cracked plaster walls and
bleached stone parapets.  Never changing, slowly
disintegrating in the humidity while man fights to
keep it alive.  It's made for hiding sin and
exorcising demons.

He sits and wonders when she'll arrive.  It's not like
he took special pains to conceal his whereabouts.  A
quick phone call to Skinner, requesting some time off,
then a cryptic email to her, and he is in New Orleans.
 Not the same exact room - that would have been too
creepy, even for him.  But he can see it across the
courtyard.  If he squints hard enough, he imagines he
can see the ghosts of a man and woman on the dark
balcony.  One dying, though she didn't know it,
striving to feel alive.

The other, stupidly giving her what she wanted, asking
for one thing in return.  Unspoken, but there.  And
like always, arriving a hair short of his goal.

He remembers it all, though it's been buried for three
years.  They were different people then - friends,
most certainly.  But they circled each other with wary
apprehension, only coming together for one night.  A
pact was forged in that damp, dark room.  One that's
survived to this day.  Promises made to never let that
night surface, though he's found it very difficult at
times.

.... encroachment ...

"Let's just say it ends with you doing the naked
pretzel with the 'Stranger' in an unfurnished fourth
floor apartment."  Vivid flashes of the two of them
rose up in an angry haze and his next words were
biting, as he knew just how very capable she was of
losing control.  "I'm assuming that's 'a priori' too?"

Her eyes darted away; he saw the memory envelop her as
well.  She had the grace to flush, which gave him some
amount of reassurance.  "I think you know me better
than that, Mulder."

He did, which was why he asked in the first place.

Does she think of that night at all?  Does it arc
through her body in the dead of sleep, awakening her
to a need so powerful she can't breathe?  If he was
asked before a judge, he'd have to say no, knowing her
as he does.

But a simple, needy part of him sometimes looks past
those cool blue irises and sees the red beyond.  The
scarlet silk robe, the ruby red nails, the almost
orange tint of her hair against the eggshell linens.
The flush of completion that painted her body and his
with rosy sweat and tears.  Hot, vivid memories of sex
and abandon that she cannot deny.

He takes a long drag of the cigarette and thinks of
cancer.  Despite her remission, he still lives with it
every day.  It eats at him, and he's had enough.

.... engagement ...

It stung, the steamy, slow blast of water that
drenched his skin.  But the piercing accusation in her
eyes was more painful.

He hadn't seen her for at least two hours, ever since
Diana and her team had whisked them away to suffer the
humiliation of decontamination.  But he could see her
treatment at the hands of the technicians was just as
harsh as his; her eyes were red-rimmed and he winced
at the sight of the scrub brush burns on her arms and
neck.

He wanted to say something to her, but couldn't make
himself speak.  The final shower wasn't the place for
conversation, anyway.  Too hard to talk business when
you and your partner were mere feet from each other,
naked and sore.

That thought made him grimace, his brows drawing
together with the memory of another naked, sore
silence.  He didn't want to think about that.  It was
years ago and had nothing to do with the moment at
hand.

Instead, he turned his back to her, affording her some
privacy.  He felt her mind working, however.  Sensed
the betrayal she felt.  And really, he wouldn't know
what to say to her if he could.

The water shut off abruptly and he turned, catching a
glimpse of the tops of her breasts before she gave him
her back in return.  As she walked away he lingered,
peering over the wall like a peeping Tom, unable to
resist the lure of what he'd seen only in his dreams.

Well, not *only* in his dreams.  But struggling to
save her in Antarctica, he wasn't stopping to look.
And he really should put the other out of his mind.
He *had* put the other from his mind.

Hadn't he?

Once in the locker room, he'd fine-tuned his control
to a simmer, adjusting his words to the more familiar
joking.  Before he could get past her ire, they were
prodded again in a final examination.  He sat, his
anger at her avoidance of him growing by leaps and
bounds.

"They've burned our clothes."

At last, they were alone, and all he got was a
dispassionate observation.  He countered with one last
attempt at normalcy.

"Hey... I heard gray is the new black."

It didn't work.

"Mulder, this stinks, and not just because I think
that woman is a... well, I think you know what I think
that woman is."

Christ, he thought - we're back to Diana again?  When
was she ever going to tell him what she really wanted
to say?  No matter what it was, he wanted to hear it.

He knew what she thought of Diana, that wasn't the
point.  He was tired of anger and non-communication.
Speak to me, Scully, he wanted to shout.

"No. Actually, you hide your feelings very well."

Sarcasm worked... a nice deflection.  And she bought
it - hook, line and sinker.

Despite his snide comment in that locker room, he
spoke the truth - as far as he's concerned, anyway.
Kisses on the cheek and brow, the shimmer of happy
tears when touched by a moment of their lasting
friendship... these come easy to her.  And he can't
deny that it's manna to his starved soul, especially
when he's battered and broken by yet another setback
in his lonely life.

But they've traveled so far, and he's so tired.  She
once stood in a room very much like this one and spoke
of a cycle of frustration.  Like a time bomb waiting
to go off, it sits and festers until exploding in a
fury of emotions long repressed.

He knows now what she meant then.  And if he's good
enough to keep his distance after giving her his body,
then he's damned good enough to love her now after
waiting so long.  If she can allow their worst enemy's
untrustworthy words to seduce her away ... when *he's*
plied her with poetry from his soul....  If she won't
see any of that, then the explosion may well sever the
partnership forever.

Taking a deep breath, he wills his anger to subside.
He wishes for strength, knowing this final battle must
be won.  He has no other choice.

&&&&&&&

She really doesn't want to do this, but it's not her
nature to be a coward.  As if the past three years
weren't cowardly enough, she thinks with a rueful
shake of her head.

The sun is setting through the airplane window, a red
glow to her left that signals the descent into New
Orleans.  Trepidation comes with the approaching
darkness - the last time she lost herself to red in
this city, she thought she'd never find her way back
again.

It's been a long, difficult journey, but she can
finally admit fear.  Her innate pride, drilled into
her mind from years of military life, wouldn't allow
her to experience it, even while she was dying.
*Especially* while she was dying.  Ahab's daughter
never faltered.  She may stumble, but she always pulls
herself up by the boot straps and marches on.

So now, she can let the nervous flutter in her stomach
blossom.  It's no longer wise to hold it in; he can
see right through her with those old eyes.

.... fissure ...

"Is that what you think I want to hear?"

"No."  Truthfully, she didn't know what he wanted to
hear.  All she knew was that whatever it was, she
couldn't say it.

"You can believe what you want to believe, Scully, but
you can't hide the truth from me.  Because if you do,
you're working against me... and yourself."  His eyes
bored through her, searching while revealing his fear.
 "I know what you're afraid of.  I'm afraid of the
same thing."

She chose to ignore it.  It was easier that way.

"The doctor said I was fine."  The argument was weak
and she knew it.  But she wouldn't let her fear take
hold.  Not in front of him.  Never in front of him.

"I hope that's the truth."

Moments later, the vision of Harold Spuller shook her
to the core.  It made her want to go back inside and
beg for Mulder's embrace.

Silent tears wound down her cheeks and she trembled,
her hand on the door handle.  It's not shameful to
need comfort, she told herself.  He won't think less
of you.  He can give you what you need.  Physical or
emotional... he can give you life.

The slash of light on the icy sidewalk from the front
steps beckoned.  She took a deep breath, then held it
in when she saw the door beyond fly open.  His
unbuttoned coat swirled around his body, lending the
fierceness of a dark angel's wings to his beloved
form.

He walked slowly, head bent, steamy puffs of breath
misting the air.  As he left the sharp illumination of
the hospital, he began to blend in with the night,
turning away from her to approach his car.  It was no
more than twenty yards ahead, parked on the street
directly in front of her.  This was her chance.

Wiping her cheeks with gloved fingers, she allowed
herself to calm, a deep breath relaxing into a small
smile.  She could make it all go away.  Make the fear
flee with just a touch of his lips to hers.  Gripping
the car keys, her hand stole around the door handle
once again.

He slipped on the ice as he stepped off the curb, a
muffled, "Shit!" reaching her through the frosty
windshield.  Slumping against his car, his shoulders
sagged and the white exhales got faster, deeper.  She
could only see a dim shadow of his profile, but she
knew his breakdown was eminent.  It was there in the
black defeat of his somber figure.  One hand,
unprotected against the freezing temperatures, rose to
his face and he worried his brow, his whole body
shaking with silent sorrow.

A ragged gasp broke from her as she joined in his
sadness, a fresh barrage of tears flooding her eyes.
She couldn't bring her misery upon him.  She could
only watch as he fought for control.  It wasn't fair
of her to want comfort from him when she had none to
give.

She couldn't stop herself from dying.  And she could
not bear to sap his strength in the futile attempt.

After a few minutes, he composed himself and left,
recklessly spinning the vehicle's tires on the frozen
pavement.  She started her car and headed in the
opposite direction.

All paths lead to him, eventually.  Even those
littered with broken promises and shards of lost
moments.  Hopefully, this trip is the one that will
bring her home.  She's tired of walking by his side
only to veer off in a tangent because of fear.

The bump of the landing gear makes her gasp and clutch
the arm rests.  If she can conquer her fear of flying,
she can certainly do this, can't she?

.... establishment ...

"I think she just wants us to think she's strong,
independent."

Her eyes flashed to his; she knew the words were
double-edged.  He wasn't just speaking of Marty Glenn.
 They sliced through her with all the force of a
fingertouch, not meant to hurt, but to awaken.

For a brief second, she let him speak to her,
absorbing the acknowledgment of her strength.

"It's important to her."

She accepted it and moved on.

The taxi weaves through evening traffic, nearly
colliding with several vehicles on the packed freeway.
 She's traveled this route before, and knows it will
be just a few more minutes until she's there.  She
wonders if it still looks the same, then decides that
it must.  Nothing ever changes in this ancient city,
certainly not the French Quarter.

As they exit the interstate, time begins to fall away.
 White pavement and steel give way to red brick and
black, ornate iron fencing.  That he chose the same
hotel is very telling, indeed.  He waits for her,
quite possibly in the same room where it began and
ended.

He came all this way to prove a point, just as she had
three years ago.  She had no choice but to follow, so
she has, going so far as to pack an overnight bag.

Whatever he wants, she will do.  Anything.

She tells herself this with conviction.  But a small
voice deep inside clamors for attention.

What if he asks for the impossible?

.... penetration ...

She walked from her bedroom in the dawn shadows,
dressed and complete once again.  A movement to her
right startled her, but in the fatigue of a mostly
sleepless night, she was slow.  Before her fumbling
can produce her weapon from her back, he stood, hands
raised.

"It's okay, it's me."

Sagging, she continued to the kitchen and flipped on
the light.  Its glare was harsh, and she hoped he
couldn't see the circles under her eyes she took such
pains to erase.

"Mulder, what are you doing here?"  Her back to him,
she busied her shaking hands with the makings of
coffee, her words soft and resigned.

From the living room, his reply was sheepish.  "I
never left."

Too protective.  He was always getting too close,
invading her space sometimes with suffocating silence
and phantom hugs.  She could see his arms twitch at
those times, hands clenching in his pockets with the
effort not to reach for her.

It's oppressive; the last thing she needed.  She
wanted to rail at him, tell him to stop pushing.  Stop
trying to pry her apart.  But she was so very tired,
defeat creeping up on her, though she wouldn't let it
surface.  "I told you last night I was fine.  You
should go get some rest."

The glass carafe bent her wrist, anchoring her to the
sink.

"I couldn't."

She turned at his emotional, husky answer.  Fury
filled her chest, her face, and she lashed out,
knowing that he was the last person she should hurt
with her words.  "Will you stop?  This is not your
problem, Mulder, and I won't have you hovering over me
like a nursemaid!"

In the dark of her living room he blended in, but she
could make out the visible flinch, the hands in his
jeans pockets curling into fists.

"You need help, Scully."

She turned back to the sink and muttered, "Jesus,
Mulder... it's just a nightmare.  I have them all the
time."

"You wake your neighbors with screams all the time?"

Lips pursed, she wrenched on the cold water tap and
tried her best to ignore him.

"Damn, Scully... when I got the call from the police I
thought -"

"You thought what?" she bit out.  "That Pfaster had
returned from the grave to finish what he started?
Sorry to disappoint you."

"*Disappoint* me?  What the hell are you talking
about?"

God, here it comes, she thought.  She could no more
hold it back than she could the tides.  It will hurt
him... this was her last fleeting thought before her
tongue took over.

"Did you make another file for my record *third*
appearance in the X-files, Mulder?  Or is it fourth
now?  Surely Padgett's obsession with me counts,
doesn't it?"  Her voice was loud to her ears, grating
on her frail nerves.  She wished he would just leave
her alone.  Leave before her words broke skin.

"Scully," he began, soothing.  She could feel him move
forward and the alarms sounded in her brain, urging
her to swift, slicing destruction.

"Or do you just have a folder with my face on it,
labeled 'been there, done that'?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew they'd
done the job.  Just as she wished in the next instant
that she could take them back forever.

Cold settled over her, awash with the icy stone of his
silence.  At any second, she'd break into tears, just
like she did last night in his arms after he arrived.
And that's not something Dana Scully was used to
doing.  If she allowed herself to dwell on her lack of
control, she'd crawl up in her apartment and never
venture outside again.

The carafe pinged against the porcelain sink as she
turned, the apology already on her lips.  "Mulder, I'm
-"

The soft snick of her apartment door was deafening in
its finality.  Stunned at her callous behavior, she
stood there, the effort just to breathe weighing her
down.

No, she wouldn't cry.

Her body moved as the last brick fell into place
around her heart.  Fingers that shook held the carafe
under the stream of water.

It's bleeding, she thought with wonder.  Tiny drops of
water seeped through the glass, pushing through the
crack, the pressure to escape undeniable.

A gasp made a crack of its own in her battered, glass
soul.  All that she was, all that she felt, began to
seep through, washing away the mortar that had held
those bricks in place for so long.

One tear broke through the dam, then two.  Crumpling
to the floor, she cried.  For herself... and for him.

Then she stood, straightened her jacket, and moved to
the telephone.  Despite the early hour, she remembered
the "Call me anytime," she heard as they parted a week
ago after the mandatory sessions ended.

After a groggy, "Hello?" echoed over the line, she
found her voice.

"Karen?"

It's after eight p.m. when she walks into the hotel.
Not realizing just how much her silence in Cancerman's
empty office had affected him, she'd expected him at
work the next day.  It wasn't the first time they'd
argued and it wouldn't be the last.  Things would
return to normal after a couple of days... they always
did.

It was only after two hours of reading the same file
over and over that she'd phoned Skinner.  Vacation
time?  Mulder never took vacations... only when it was
forced upon him.  As she'd sat there, his last
vacation came to mind with sweeping dread.

<Ironically enough, it's a place I've always wanted to
visit.  A spiritual journey.>

While she'd been in Philadelphia.  She never did find
out where he'd gone that time....

"Ma'am, may I help you?"

Blinking, she realizes she's standing before the front
desk.  Patrick is gone, she thinks absently.  Then
again, Ana has been dead for three years.  She only
existed for one night; it makes sense that Patrick
would have moved on as well.

"Um, yes," she says, then clears her throat.  "I'm
looking for a man - he would have arrived this morning
sometime?"  She feels foolish.  She knows Mulder is in
New Orleans, he told her that he was going there in
the email message that had arrived shortly after noon.
 Delayed just enough to give him time to get away;
delivered just quick enough to stop her from haring
off in a panic after phoning his usual haunts with no
success.

He knows her so well it's uncanny.  Six words that
conveyed his location with pinpoint accuracy,
compacted into one simple, telling line.

You know what I want, Ana.

So dramatic, almost melodramatic, but then again, this
is Mulder.  Emotional, intelligent, able to aim with
swift sureness at the most vulnerable, hidden part of
her.  Designed to bring her running with the demand;
to bring her to her knees with the name.

Sentimental, hopeful memories provided his exact
location, though now she feels maybe she was wrong in
her assumptions.  She should have asked the Gunmen and
made sure.  But she didn't want the curious looks;
Mulder had already hounded them in a search for her a
couple of days ago.  And she'd phoned them earlier,
trying to hide her concern with casual questions.  No,
they hadn't seen him.  Was anything wrong?

She hates lying. *Everything* was wrong.  Panic
trickles back into her body as the inevitable
approaches.

What if he didn't want her to follow at all?  He's
still reeling from his mother's death.  And though he
said he was free with a wistful smile, the loss of
Samantha must still sting.

"Miss Ana?"

Her mouth drops at the soft query.  Recognition dawns
on her face and she smiles at the young man,
remembering his shy, wide-eyed adoration.

"Manny?"

He smiles in return, maturity adding a few inches to
his height and serious warmth to his eyes.  "One and
the same, Miss Ana.  So nice to see you again."

"Where's Patrick?"  The memory of the handsome clerk -
and her shameless flirting - makes her cheeks pinken,
but her question is steady.

"He moved to San Francisco about a year ago, Miss Ana.
 Fell in love and moved away."  He winks.  "I
understand he and Martin have their own bed and
breakfast now.  Doing very well."

With a rueful grin, she concedes that even the fates
conspired to throw Mulder into her arms.  Looking
back, she knows she probably never would have ventured
onto the chaotic streets in search of a sexual
partner.  Her dance card had three names... Patrick,
whose door *definitely* opened in the other
direction... Manny, whose youthful innocence was a bit
*too* naive... and Mulder.

That porridge was *just* right, said Goldilocks.

Clearing her throat, she says, "It's Scully, Manny.
Dana Scully.  Not Ana."

"I know that, Miss Ana," he replies with a slow grin.
His voice drops to a low purr, and he slides a key
across the dark, rich wood.  "And I've been told to
tell you that he's waiting."

The years fade away to a point in time she's come here
to remember.  To a man who once followed her into
insanity, only to pull her out and quite literally,
save her life.

Can she re-capture Ana's courage?  Her open nature and
frank speech?  It's not Scully, and to be honest, she
doesn't want to embrace Ana's faults as well as
strengths.

Maybe an equal measure of both women would get her
through this.

"He's waiting for you, Miss Ana."

Yes, she knows, she tells him with a nod.  Once again,
she pulls herself up by the boot straps, reaching for
the key with shaky fingers.

"Which room?"

Manny's eyes smile, though his back straightens with
professionalism.  "326.  He said to send you right up
when you arrived."

End Part One

=====
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