TITLE: "The Lake at Gethsemane" (1/12) BY: Ten E-MAIL ADDRESS: kristena@ocean.com.au CATEGORY: S, angst, MSR RATING: PG-13 (violence and adult situations) SUMMARY: After "Gethsemane", a grieving Scully discovers Mulder's journals and finds that what is in them and her dreams might save not only her . . . TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Resolution to "Gethsemane", refers back to all four seasons. To paraphrase Vickie Moseley, MulderResurrection is included free of charge. (So what if that spoils the story - did you *really* think I'd leave him dead?) I have made several decisions in planning this story: that "Gethsemane" was set in late April 1997, not May; that all episodes in the show occurred to our Agents *in the sequence they were shown*, despite inconsistent dates (eg chronologically "Zero Sum" is set after "Demons"); and that Mulder is not Jewish (I mean no offence to the religion by this - I can see Mulder either way, but for plot purposes and lack of familiarity, I went on another course.) DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and the characters of Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting, and are used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, no profit will be gained. THANKS TO: Debbie Goldstein - I simply could not have found a better editor. Doctor Crockett - for all the medical help (So much that I think I'd better give you a break from Mulder & Scully and I for a month or so!) Vickie Moseley - for will & funeral advice, wonderful stories, and helping me get my first vignettes out there. And for your story "Lake of Stars", which gave inspiration here. Carol - for sitting patiently through my explanation of the characters and situation, so she could tell me how she, as a counsellor, would react. Fiona, Lisa and Tina - for rising to the occasion despite work, school, illness & lack of sleep, when a mad writer screamed across snail mail & cyberspace for their opinions. I owe you all! And Kelly Youse for giving a great observation in her XF Romantics Website on just why the Apollo keychain reminded Mulder of Scully. The X-Files: "The Lake at Gethsemane" (1/12) by Ten, written Aug/Sept, Posted October 1997 DAY ONE: Late morning "Agent Mulder died late last night, from an apparent self- inflicted gunshot wound to the head . . ." Scully was vaguely aware of the stunned silence in the huge room. A muted gasp somewhere to her left. /You drove him to it! Why are you all so surprised? You didn't care for him - no one did except me!/ She tried desperately to control herself, but sobs broke from her chest and the tears streaked from her eyes. Her professional mask had finally cracked - it was a surprise it lasted this long. It had been mortally wounded hours ago by a gunshot she never heard, yet should have expected. Should have prevented. /They invented you. Everything you believe in is a lie./ /The men behind the hoax, behind these lies, gave me this disease in order to make you believe./ Just what tipped him over the edge? "Agent Scully -" She pushed away from the heavy wooden table, hands briefly on the smooth polished surface - /Like a coffin/ - thighs sending the plush chair backward. Scully pushed out of the seat, racing for the door. She couldn't actually see it, but she knew it was - A blurry white figure hastily stepped into view and caught her. Not roughly, but she fought. "Agent Scully - Dana -" Skinner. She hadn't heard him enter the conference. She wiped at the tears and stared at him, agonised. There was alarm and grief behind his glasses. He knew. She saw him turn his head slightly and heard his voice say something to someone. Her ears were ringing and she couldn't pick up the words. She feared she might have another nosebleed right here where everyone could see it, then suddenly didn't care. She would welcome proof of her passing. A voice answered Skinner. It was Blevins. Skinner looked at her. "Come on, Dana. I'm taking you home." She let herself be led out the door, his hands on her shoulder and arm, steering. Then she ground her heels in. "No! I'm not going home - I have to do the autopsy!" "Agent - Dana . . ." He looked horrified. "You *can't*! Not of Mulder - no one expects you to. And in your condition . . ." "I've got the body - him . . . Mulder - under guard. There was only time for a preliminary examination before I had to front the meeting . . . Now I have to get the answers. I have to know it's him. I have to know they weren't drugging him, or that the black cancer somehow came back and drove him to it . . ." "At least get some rest first." "No, the sooner I do it . . .the sooner I'll know, the sooner we can go after those responsible -" She sniffled and gave a hysterical giggle. "- the sooner done the less chance of 'Them' tampering with the body . . ." Skinner had that face he wore when Mulder did something particularly ill-advised. But he escorted her to the autopsy bay and said he would hold her gun for safe- keeping. Two guards stood by the lockers, as ordered. Scully decided she was composed enough to proceed, though still rang for an assistant - a pathologist she'd worked with before and trusted. Melanie Dexter would ensure she did not miss anything through grief or fatigue. And Mel could do the incisions and so on which Scully could not bear to do herself. Not to him. His beautiful face . . . half-blown away. As if all of his guilt and agony within had finally exploded through skin and bone. She watched, trying to be dispassionate, as Mulder's completely sheeted body was slid from the locker and transferred onto a trolley. She followed it as she had followed him countless times. Him striding those long legs, off on another case, him being wheeled on an gurney, pale and unmoving and injured . . . Examination room. The squeal of a chair being moved startled her. She turned to find Skinner settling into a corner, out of the way. She opened her mouth to protest and he nailed her with a firm look. The one Mulder never obeyed. Melanie came in, ready to go. She was a willowy thirty year old sprite, able to separate herself with ease from the gruesome aspects of the job, but today she was solemn and silent. Scully knew Mel was aware this was Fox Mulder. She did not know about Scully's cancer, but probably would within a few hours. Wildfire. So she blinked but obeyed when Scully asked her to please help her tie on a face mask. At least none of her blood would drip on him and spoil the evidence. Evidence. Mulder was now evidence. She had tried so hard to keep her blood from dripping on Mulder all these months. Trying to shield him. Not telling him the cancer was spreading. Ten billion "I'm fine"s. Where had it gotten her or him? Melanie put a hand on the corner of the sheet, hesitating. She threw a glance at Skinner and the guards, then back to Scully. "Ready?" Scully professionally checked the outlaid instruments and the tape recorder. She nodded. Then she was on the floor, dazed. /How did I get here?/ Skinner was gathering her up, pulling off the mask and eye protection and loosening her autopsy garb. She felt limp. Useless. Apart from the fact her tear-ducts were in overdrive. She buried her head in his lapel, trying to get away from the sight on the trolley. She felt him pick her up and carry her. "No!" She twisted in his arms. "I have to know!" "Scully!" His shout stopped her struggling. "You cannot do this now. Tell me the name of another pathologist you trust to do this. I'll double the guard on them and have all the samples escorted and tests done under close supervision. You can perform a secondary autopsy if you wish after we get the results back. But not now. Now the guards will stay here while Agent Dexter helps you change, then I am getting you out of here." "I trust Melanie . . .and Doctor Iben." It was all she could say. Skinner put her in the passenger seat of his car and drove in silence. Scully got a nosebleed and was so past caring she wouldn't have bothered to clean it up if she wasn't in his watchful presence. It was a while before she actually took in their surroundings. "Where are we going?" "Your mother's." /How do you know her address?/ "I don't think you should be alone right now." They pulled up by the kerb. Scully stared listlessly at the familiar house. She still felt like a rag doll. It occurred to her Skinner had not given her gun back after the aborted autopsy. She had a feeling she would not be getting it back for quite a while, if at all. She sat unmoving as he came round. He opened her door and began to help her out. "Dana!?" Her mother came hurrying down the steps, William Junior at her heels. "Dana, what's wrong? What's happened?" he asked, frantic. Then he turned to Skinner. "Who are you?" All the bearing and front of the ship he sailed on. As usual. "I'm Agent Scully's boss, Assistant Director Skinner." He guided Scully over to her mother's arms. "I'm afraid there is bad news, but I think Dana wants to tell you herself. Is that right?" She nodded. "Yes, thank you, Sir. Please let me know . . . about . . ." "I will. When I know. Please get some rest. I'm sorry." He squeezed her hand and went back to the car. "Dana, what's -" Bill Jr cut off at his mother's look. "Let's get her inside first. It's okay, sweetie. Come on." They headed for the first sofa in the sitting room. "No!" Scully cried out. "No, the other one." Confused, they obeyed. The furniture had been moved since the last time she had to make this announcement. If she could just tell it on that sofa, following the ritual, she bizarrely thought he would then turn up alive . . . "Dana, love - can you tell us what's wrong? Is it the cancer . . .?" "No . . . no. Mulder . . ." She heard Bill Jr make a sound like "Not *him* again!" She saw her mother's fierce glare. It returned to her as a stare, full of worry and compassion. "What's happened?" "He's dead . . ." She looked straight into Bill's suddenly shocked eyes. "What?" he asked, stunned, anger yanked out from under him. "Who killed him?" Maggie gasped. "He did!" She sobbed. "He shot himself . . ." Fury rose in her like lava and focused on her brother. "I hope you're happy!" she screamed at him as Maggie turned even whiter and her elder sibling, her towering bear of a brother, suddenly appeared to be very, very small. "Everyone hurt him." Scully whispered. "*I* hurt him and he couldn't take it any more. He didn't know he kept me alive; I didn't tell him properly." Her voice rose back into a scream. "And I'm *glad* I'm dying now! I've got nothing else to live for!" She hit out at her brother, the sofa, everything. "I'll go to him soon. We'll reincarnate together - I don't care if Melissa is his soulmate. I can stand it just as long as we're together!" Then everything swirled again, and time and light and vision bent in on themselves. She felt herself being carried. Up stairs. Snatches of whispered conversation. "I'm sorry the guy's killed himself, but . . . did Dana *love* him? Is that why she stayed? All those long hours and injuries and going back after she was so sick -" "You never saw them together, dear. You wouldn't understand unless you saw them together. They were devoted to each other. Just like you and your father with the sea. A hard life; a lot of sacrifice. So much time away from family. But you wouldn't trade it, would you?" "What does she mean about Sis being his soulmate? Did he and Melissa have a thing -" "No. I don't know what she meant. Now hush, she might hear you and get upset." Bed. Mom's soothing hand on her forehead. The sound of a chair being moved close to the bed. /I should be in the chair. That's my role. Mulder should be in here, under the sheets and blankets. In the warm. Instead, one lonely sheet . . . And so very very cold./ There was a phone ringing. Scully began coming out of sleep, knowing it would be Mulder. Then she remembered. A chair was softly moved and feet padded quietly out of the room. She lay huddled in bed and listened for the door closing, but didn't hear it. She supposed they wouldn't want to miss any potentially alarming noises. Her mother would get the hall extension and be as quick as possible with the caller, then get back to her to ensure she didn't do anything she shouldn't. /Keeping your already dying daughter on suicide watch. Now there's a laugh./ Scully was grateful she could not remember her dreams. It was nighttime now, so some degree of sleep had been achieved. Another few hours less of her life. The same bitter taste in her mouth and drain on her soul as two years previously. Those days after New Mexico. But back then had not been suicide. Blame permeated her. Both times; her fault. She had sent him off into the desert with a bullet wound she had inflicted. Last night, she shot him again, in a sense. Right through the heart. Right next to the round Kritschgau put there. But the Defence Department man's bullet hadn't been the fatal one. And she'd let Mulder go. Knowing his turmoil, she still let him go into another desert. And she had spent today telling her superiors what they had waited four years to hear. Mulder's work in regard to aliens had been illegitimate. But he had not known that. How could he have seen what a puppet they'd made him? There *were* cover-ups, but the culprits were all too human. Their treatment of him enraged her, and how she'd had to be the one to betray his beliefs. She wanted to express all this in the meeting, but had broken down before she could. She was so tired. She was vaguely aware of her brother calling her mother downstairs. Footsteps going down. Then she was very aware of another presence in the room. Her spine tingled. She did not move. This feeling - she had experienced it before. She was not scared as she rolled over and looked up. "Daddy?" she whispered. He smiled. She was so glad. "Daddy, I'm ready to come. Is Mulder there?" His hand reached out to soothe her cheek. "Here, Dana. Take this, take it into your soul. It will set you free. Embrace it." She wanted it. He leaned over and touched her forehead. Warmth. /Funny how people always said death would be cold,/ she thought, then thought no more. END PART ONE OF TWELVE "The Lake at Gethsemane" (2/12) by Ten, October 1997 E-mail: kristena@ocean.com.au Disclaimer in Part One DAY TWO: Scully woke up mid-morning. Her mother was asleep in the chair beside her. Stretching under the blankets, Dana looked up at the ceiling. She was not dead. She was not with Mulder and Ahab. But it had not been a dream last night. She would be with the two most important men in her life soon enough. /Perhaps that's what Ahab meant about embracing. Embracing my own death and accepting it. That brings peace. I won't do anything with my spare gun to speed the process./ The doorbell. Maggie stirred then settled back in her uncomfortable position. /Poor Mom./ Scully quietly got out of bed and went out to the top of the stairs as she heard her brother answer the door. Skinner. "I'll be down in a minute!" she called, and hurried back into the bedroom. Maggie sat up, disoriented, as her daughter raced to pick up her clothes. Even though the skirt and jacket had been neatly folded, they were crumpled. Scully didn't care about her appearance, all she cared about were the answers. The truth. Mulder could still be alive. She came down to find Bill Jr angrily demanding in a low voice why his sister was still working in her condition, and just what her partner put her through. "Bill, butt out." Her voice was a bar of iron. She turned to the A.D.. He was holding some folders and his voice was regretful. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully. The DNA and bloodwork match Mulder's . . ." She crossed over and took the folders. She went and sat on the sofa, examining each page as the two men watched her anxiously. Corresponding DNA and fingerprints. X-Rays showed the metal plate and screws present in his left leg from the bullet wound to the femur, and the dental records were identical, down to every filling. The scars matched. The toxicology was clear. No evidence of the black cancer. The cause of death seemed cut and dried. /Suicide. Powder burns show he was holding the gun. No apparent sign of struggle. But someone could have made him do it. There could have been a fight. And the DNA and fingerprints could have been changed in the database . . ./ "I want to do another autopsy." That was it for her brother. "Dana - for heaven's sake -" "STAY OUT OF THIS! You know nothing about Mulder and me! I want to do another autopsy." Her boss hesitated. "Scully, Mrs Mulder is demanding her son's body be released so she can bury him and grieve. She wants to begin the funeral arrangements as soon as possible." Scully forced herself to face the body later that day - she had no choice if she could ever feel satisfied. There was just enough time to re-examine the scars, do another set of X-Rays, and draw more bloodwork. Scully herself guarded those samples all the way from his veins to the test labs. She sat close while they were worked over. The toxicology done again. General blood and drug screening. DNA. A match for Special Agent Fox William Mulder. It all matched, no matter how long she gazed at the X- Rays and photos of the scars and the lab result sheets. She was dying, he was dead; their work and partnership were in ruins. She gazed off into the sky, remembering the last night of his life. When he met her and Kritschgau at his apartment, her partner had stared at the bruises on her face - heavy makeup hadn't covered them properly - and asked: "What happened?" She deflected the question, not wanting Mulder to go Kritschgau's throat. Another betrayal of his trust in her. He knew. Mulder drove them both to the warehouse in silence. And she remembered his face there, at the site of the raided "alien" autopsy, when she told him about being given the cancer to control him. How he walked out. She followed to find him on the front steps of the building, speaking into his cellular, alerting police to the murders and theft. He was still on the phone, using it and the night to mask his face from her when the squad cars began pulling up. Then statements and a blur of activity. Crime-scene photographers flashing bulbs. She spoke so many words then. Not to Mulder. Scully had seen the look on the officers' faces when Mulder explained about the body. The same look she had given him through their partnership. "An *alien* body, sir?" He didn't jump to defend it with that usual resolute faith. "It seemed to be. More tests needed to be run . . ." His voice was unsure. For once he was not certain of his beliefs because of the blows she had delivered. "I wanted - I just don't know." Since he had even begun to believe it was all a hoax and lies, that helped her in a perverse way to deliver her findings to the meeting. There was no victory for her in that achievement. His last words to her. When he was going past, following a policeman to once again examine the scientist's body. He had not made eye contact. "I called you a cab. It's outside." Hardly famous last words. She knew his last actions. He went home and took solace with the only company which would not let him down. The TV. The Alexandria police found the set on. A tape was still playing. A documentary by eminent scientists, who were stating the strong possibility of alien life. /What pushed him over the edge? My cancer, or the lie? What was he thinking as he sat there, cradling the gun? Why didn't I call him?/ She'd wanted to. She sat on the sofa after taking the cab home and agonised over it, staring at the phone. Would he answer if she tried? How much hurt would be in his voice? She had fallen asleep - this she would never forgive herself on - exhausted from her injuries, the cancer, lack of sleep and all the confrontations and events. When the phone did ring early in the morning she woke up grabbing it, saying: "Mulder?" They'd placed Kritschgau in custody on their way to the warehouse, but somehow he disappeared from both there and the face of the earth during the night. The FBI committee pointed to Mulder's mental state of just a few weeks previously. How "the signs" were all there. His willingness to allow himself to be an experimental test subject of the doctor in Rhode Island. His behaviour, his threatening to shoot Scully. Imminent breakdown. An unsurprising result. She tried to argue with them, but they had all the facts. And facts were one thing Dana Scully lived by. She stared and stared into the sky, wanting to see a UFO, even if it was far too late. DAY THREE: Dana gave Skinner some reports she had written which held allegations of the mistreatment of Mulder and his quest. He took them, but she didn't think anything would come of it. Or the dark forces would conspire to delay any hearings until she was too ill or dead to defend her partner's memory. She also handed Skinner her resignation. He calmly tore it in two. "Sir, I only have three to six months left to live. I don't want to spent it as an agent for the FBI - whether on duty or on sick leave." "I'm not allowing you to give up." She noticed he glanced at the ash tray on his desk. "Stay on sick leave. The FBI owes you. Just because I haven't given you your gun back doesn't mean I wanted you to quit." DAY FOUR: Mulder had not wanted to be buried at Arlington. "No stars and stripes or trumpets or pretentiousness. Or waste of bullets." He wanted to be laid to rest in the cemetery at Chilmark, his boyhood home town. A place where for twelve blessed years he actually knew happiness and peace. Now Scully sat in a Chilmark church, eyes on the closed casket. There was no draped flag over it. A bunch of flowers sat on top. Tastefully chosen and arranged. They weren't Mulder. They were not his style. She looked down to her lap. One hand clung to a well- loved book of poetry she had treasured since childhood. The other supported a bunch of sunflowers, long stems reminding her of his fingers, his legs. They were too cheerful, too bright for this place and purpose. They were Mulder though, and he would have them. By habit, her hand went to finger her cross, then stopped as she remembered. She was not wearing it any more by choice. The chain lay in limp loops in her jewellery box. Maggie had noticed its absence. And how Scully was uncharacteristically wearing a silk scarf around her neck. "The cancer is in my lymphatic system, Mom. The nodes in my neck will begin swelling, so I'd better leave the cross off and invest in more scarves." "I can buy you a longer chain. Or a soft length of ribbon." Dana had no intention of wearing the cross again, but not for the reasons she gave. Her mother and Skinner flanked her. They were in all in the front pew on the left. On the right Mrs Mulder was surrounded by family. She was not acknowledging the Scullys, so they kept their distance. She had asked Skinner to perform the eulogy when he rang to tell her of her son's death, but only came up to speak to him here for a moment when the A.D. was briefly apart from Maggie and Dana. The Lone Gunmen were in the row behind. Scully didn't look any further. She did not want to know who considered themselves friend enough to Fox Mulder to show it now when he was dead instead of alive. She didn't feel she belonged here either. And she did not want to find the Cigarette Smoking Man amongst the mourners. There were no prayers. Again, Mulder's request. There would be poetry readings, of his own selection and ones any friends felt suited him. He had chosen the music, so "Jupiter" from Holst's Planet Suite filled the air, and the "Star Wars" theme. What she managed to listen to of Skinner's eulogy was carefully worded. Respect for his rebel agent was clear. Mulder's dedication and passion. His love of mysteries, how he helped so many people. "And now, may he finally have the answers he seeked." Then Skinner was motioning her to the dais. Scully handed her mother the sunflowers and stood. She placed the book carefully on the stand and opened to the bookmark. The William Blake poem. She was glad it was short; she did not think her emotions would allow her control for too long. For a moment Scully stared at the stained glass window beyond the pews. Her focus went to the coffin and stayed there, not touching a single face or even the book as she recited from memory. "Ah, Sun-flower! Weary of time, Who countest the steps of the Sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done: Where the Youth pined away with desire, And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my Sun-flower wishes to go." Dana saw her mother's face go a sick white. But even though tears trickled down her own face as she went back to the pew, she felt very much at peace. Maggie didn't say anything during the ride to the cemetery. She just sat in the back, holding Scully's hand tightly. Dana knew her mother had hoped her ramblings about wanting to die were just from the shock and grief. She wished she could spare her this pain, the loss of her second daughter. She wished she could fight the disease for the sake of her family. She did not want to. Mulder was gone. She was gone. It was that simple. She could not live without his passion, which gave her strength, and the love unspoken between them. Skinner found a spot to park a little way from the gravesite. Scully did not mind the walk. It gave her time to absorb her surroundings. She studied the greenery, the lovely little flowers, the varied headstones. None of the stiff formality of Arlington. "I like it here," she said, and realised her voice held relief and a touch of happiness. "I will like it here." "Dana, what do you mean?" Mrs Scully asked nervously. It was clear she had a good idea. "Mom, I want to be buried here. With Mulder, if I can get permission from his mother. I won't ask her today, of course. If she refuses, I've already asked the grounds keeper to hold the site next to it for me, just in case. I'm going to organise the paperwork and financial details." "No . . . not my baby girl, so far away!" "Mom." Scully halted and put her arms around her, the bunch of sunflowers straining her muscles. "I'm sorry, I don't want to upset you. I don't want to die, but I am. I've accepted it. I won't be far away from you, not in here." She touched her mother's chest. "And Arlington isn't who I am." /Mulder is who I am./ "But treatment could still help you." "It's unlikely. And I'm not going to have any more." Scully placed the sunflowers on the casket before it was lowered into the grave. /Soon, Fox. Soon./ She calmly watched. People began disbursing or coming up to the edge one last time. Then these latter people began turning to Scully. She was amazed to realise more people were going up to her than to Mrs Mulder. Were there more FBI people here than family, or were they just coming to her first, or what? Brief words of condolence and touching her hand. Like she was his widow. She saw Mrs Mulder being guided away and hastily went round to speak to her. She halted as the white-haired woman turned and stared at her. She had never seen so much hate even in the faces of horrifying killers. She backed off, and Mrs Mulder, bereft of husband, children and happiness, went on. DAY SIX: "Dana, phone for you." "Hello?" "Hello, Dana. It's Karen Kosseff." /Oh no . . ./ The last thing Scully wanted to do was talk to her counsellor. /*I* come to *you*, Karen. Not like this. You're breaking the rules./ She knew she was being irrational. She figured she was entitled. Karen spoke off her silence. "Dana, I heard about Mulder. I'm very sorry." "Thank you," she said quietly. It was six days since his death. The last time he'd died, he'd come back to her by now. Her mind wandered as she glanced at a calendar visible from the kitchen. April was gone now. What a horrible month. The anniversaries of Melissa and Mr Mulder's deaths, and Mulder's near death, all back in 1995. Now this year they could add Mulder again and drop the 'near', as well as the doctor's appointment where she received her death sentence. Far too much. She forgot about Karen until the gentle tones washed over her. "I know this must be a horrible time for you, and that you haven't been in to work. I just wanted to let you know I'm here if you want to talk to me. I think it would be a good idea for you to come in for a session, but of course it is your choice." "Thank you, Karen. I'm on leave. I know you are there, but I can't talk just now." "I understand. Please keep me in mind." "I will. Bye." /There's only one person I want to speak to. And unless you hold seances in your spare time, Karen, there isn't much point./ DAY ELEVEN: The will was read a week after the funeral. Since Mulder's death had been ruled a suicide, there was no insurance payout, but the division of money from his bank accounts and investments needed to be settled. Most of Mulder's possessions and money were left to Scully. Provisions had been made for his mother's financial security, and particular items were designated for the Lone Gunmen. That was it. That was the allotment from a life. Mrs Mulder had her lawyer sitting between her and Scully as a buffer. When all stood up, Scully went towards her again, this time determined not to be put off by those eyes. She would not ask about the grave yet though. "Mrs Mulder . . . I'm so sorry. I don't want his money - it won't bring him back. I-" "Keep the money," his mother said curtly. "It is very apparent you meant more to him than I ever did. I could say spend it on your cancer treatment, but since that's no longer an issue, use it to go far away." She reddened and moved quickly to leave. Scully blinked and let the woman pass. /How did she know? She must have overheard at the funeral how I've accepted the disease . . ./ She was too upset to fully comprehend it. When she arrived back at her mother's, Bill Jr was on the phone arguing with his superior, angrily saying he had to extend his leave because of extreme personal circumstances. "Look - I couldn't be there when one sister died and when my other sister nearly did too! It's not going to happen again. I have to have more leave - after all I've given in service over the years, I'm damn entitled!" He was so fired up he didn't notice her enter. Maggie did and came towards her. "Honey, your doctor has been trying to reach you. He said you haven't been in for treatment or anything." She held her hand up to stop an argument. "I know you don't want any more treatment, that you don't think it will make a difference now, but Dana, at least go in for a check-up. Please?" Dana shrugged, unconsciously fiddling with her scarf. "There doesn't seem to be much point. I promise I'll think about it." "How did the will reading go?" "I'm richer in wealth if not spirit. I'll tell you later. I'm going to go have a nap. And Mom, thanks for accepting my decision. I know it's hard." Scully found herself in a forest. It was dark, as usual. And somehow familiar. "Mulder?" she called, hoping to see a reassuring flashlight beam bobbing up and down as he came towards her. Nothing. Then she looked up at the sky. There were no stars. Not a cloud to block, but the sky was an empty black. Not one star . . . She woke up, breathing heavily. She knew that place, but it was no forest she had ever been in on a case. Where was it? END PART TWO OF TWELVE "The Lake at Gethsemane" (3/12) by Ten, Posted October 1997 E-mail: kristena@ocean.com.au Disclaimer in Part One DAY TWELVE: Scully turned her dream over and over in her mind the next morning, but could not work out why the forest was so familiar. "Mom, I might be out all afternoon. I'm going to Mulder's . . . To sort out his things." "Do you need help, sweetheart?" "I'm fine. I want to do it alone." She tried to lighten the mood. "Who knows what I'll find, after all!" /Nothing to give me peace. And I'll have to box up all his precious possessions and give them away because what use are they to a dying woman? But I need to see them; it's as close to him as I can be now. I don't want anyone else doing it./ At Mulder's apartment building, she got into the elevator with a couple from the same floor level. She recognised them from other days, but could not manage a brief smile or greeting. They were busy avoiding her eyes anyway, and hurried off as soon as the doors opened. /No one ever knows what to say to the widow. And Mulder wasn't exactly the most normal neighbour. They're probably glad he's gone./ There was number 42. Her life, her universe, her everything. Scully pulled her keys out and halted in her search for the correct one. She stared at the dangling keyring. Apollo. She lifted the disc of metal with her free hand and traced over it with her thumb. "You've never remembered my birthday in the four years we've been working together." That wasn't strictly true. Mulder had given her other birthday presents, but each time in their partnership it had been after the actual day. He was so buried in work that the significance of dates socially didn't seem to sink in until after the fact. To be fair, one time he *was* badly injured, and she didn't realise that what seemed to be agitated, semi- conscious babble was in fact him trying to tell her his gift was back in their office in his desk drawer. When he recovered enough to be lucid, he was very apologetic at her missing her birthday through sitting with him. His recovery had been the best present. Another time he turned up at her apartment door just after midnight, out of breath from running to try to make it. This time he was on time. And when he handed over the little box, there was such a look on his face, so serious and handsome, that her heart had raced madly, and for a moment she very much wished it was a ring. Key-ring. Close enough. Had he remembered this time because it could be the last birthday she ever celebrated? Her ramble to him over what she thought his gift meant . . . Why didn't she have the courage to just ask him? Did it mean she meant as much to him as outer space? And she had missed his birthday once. In 1994 . . . Enough of this. She sniffled and wiped her eyes clear enough to find the key. Once inside she did not know what to do first. She wanted to do nothing. His table, his chairs, his books . . . Scully wandered into the living room and looked around from the doorway. The evidence of that night was gone. Cleaned up. /Suicide. No! I won't accept that!/ Dana leaned against the doorway, wondering why she wouldn't. Because it meant he'd abandoned her? No, she did not feel angry at Mulder. Because she might have driven him to it? That was valid enough. Then she realised that on top of all that, what really bothered her was if he had done so, why hadn't he left a note, an explanation? Frohike had told her after the funeral that Mulder had left a letter with them for safekeeping after the deaths of Melissa and his father, to be given to her in case anything happened to him. But he had come and asked for it back soon after breaking into the fertility clinic. He did not return or replace it. She looked dully in the mirror, then hastily away, suddenly remembering another mirror in a ladies room and afraid of seeing a message in blood or his disembodied soul gazing at her. She took a deep breath and made herself look again. To face her image for several minutes in case he was trying to reach her. But nothing happened. His sofa. She managed a smile, thinking of the times they sat there and argued over theories or what channel to watch. The times when her control had slipped and she found herself wishing he would put his arm around her and kiss her. The times spent wondering whether he would love her on the sofa or take her into his bedroom. The time Mulder made them both a huge bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate topping and they ate it in large spoonfuls, nearly choking on their laughter and at the mess on each other's face. Scully's laughter filled the room. She could see him there, so adorably boyish, for a little while so free of the pain, and covered with ice cream, bringing the spoon up to his mouth - - bringing the gun up to his forehead. A gunshot. Her brain overlapped the happy memory with brutal reality. One shot and her partner was no longer sitting on the couch. He was sprawled on the floor, dead. She could not even take solace in the happy times. The living room was too stifling. Quickly she fled to his bedroom. Some clothes were piled in the laundry basket. She plucked out an orange t-shirt and remembered it. Under his leather jacket, as he stood waiting in the dawn at the site of a crime scene which had come to him in a dream. From a "nexus" with a child molester. Orange. She had thought it was a good colour on him. Until several weeks ago when she saw him coming towards her in that orange prison jumpsuit, handcuffed and lost. Scully put it back down and picked up one of his white t- shirts. She would have to wash all these before giving them to a charity shop. Remove his smell from them. She sniffed the cloth and crushed it to her cheek, trying not to cry. Then she saw his black leather jacket dangling off the open wardrobe door. She reached up and pulled it down. He always looked great in this. Though on his "lost weekend", the jacket with his white t-shirt and jeans gave him the appearance of the Fonz from "Happy Days". Or Elvis. Desperately wanting to be close to him, Scully removed her sweater and put on the jacket. She tugged the lapels so they overlapped tightly against her torso. Fortunately there were zippers in the sleeves so she could fold back the arms easily and not lose her hands in them. She sat on the bed and watched herself in the mirror, face pale above the blackness. Her scarf looked odd next to the jacket and she removed it. For the first time in days she examined her neck, dreading what she would see. But it did not seem to have started swelling yet. That would come. Sometimes the area did feel swollen and tight, but that was when she'd been crying. If the tumour grew, it would distort her face . . . She dropped her gaze from her reflection. She felt cold and put her hands in the pockets. Her left hand encountered a piece of paper. She drew it out. A magazine clipping. About brain tumours. How Baltimore surgeons have discovered that an oil taken from the liver of dogfish sharks can cut off the blood supply to a tumour and slow its growth. How trials were very encouraging; so much that human testing was hoped to begin within a year. The scientists were hoping to produce the oil artificially to prevent plundering the sharks. /Oh Mulder . . ./ She curled up into a ball on the bed and cried. DAY FIFTEEN: Two more Mulderless days had passed. No more trips to the forest in her dreams. She did not approach Mrs Mulder about the grave. Time enough for that in a few weeks. She went home to her mother's to eat and sleep at night. During the day she spent long hours going through his belongings, arranging and packing them. The tank and its remaining fish were quickly send to her nephew - she could not stand the silence of the only witnesses to her partner's last minutes. For a start she had the radio on for company, but kept finding links in the songs to her and Mulder. The sad songs made her feel upset, and the cheerful ones made her painfully aware of her lost opportunities. She lived in his jacket. Maggie told Scully that Mulder had phoned her the day after the dinner party to apologise for calling her daughter away on work. He hadn't been able to talk for long as he was preparing for the expedition up the mountain, but he *had* called. Bill wasn't in the house at the time, so her partner was spared his wrath. The navy had ordered Bill Jr back to his ship. Dana and Maggie tried to soften the blow as best they could. Dana and Bill talked and achieved an understanding, crying as they hugged. "The Government don't care," Bill whispered, shattered, as Dana held him. She felt so sorry for him to have to learn a truth she had encountered ages ago. "We serve them; give up everything - and they don't care." "They just use people. Mulder understood that. That's what he was fighting to expose, and that's what he was up against. Don't hate him, Bill." "You really did love him?" "I do love him. He was my strength. I never told him before he was gone; but I am glad I can tell *you* that I love you, big brother." "I love you too, little one. I wish I could be here for you -" "You are with me wherever I go. Don't forget it. That's an order." He shakily saluted her. "Aye aye, Starbuck. And Dana, Mulder would have had to have known what you felt about him. I may not have picked it up, but I haven't been around much. If you were with him day in and out for four years and radiated that strength, then he would have known." Karen rang again. Scully knew her mother must have told the counsellor where she could be reached - and what she was doing. Karen's voice was unbearably kind. "Dana, people are concerned about you. People who care for you very much." There was a pause. "Why are you packing Mulder's belongings?" "I don't want anyone else doing it." "How are you feeling?" "I'm okay." /Don't ask me about failing Mulder. Don't ask don't ask don't ask . . ./ "Do you think you're letting yourself have enough time to grieve?" "I need to do this. Thank you for calling." /Please leave me alone./ She knew Karen would not phone again if she didn't give her any encouragement. Karen wouldn't push the issue. There was a pause, then: "Dana -" "Karen, I have to go. I know you're there for me, and I'll come if I need you." She stared at the jacket in the mirror as she hung up, wondering what conclusions the counsellor would draw from it. Now she was back in the bedroom sorting again. She still couldn't face being in the sitting room for very long. She would have to deal with it soon. Sometimes she found herself staring at his computer and wondering if she had the strength and the curiosity to go through his files to find out just what was there. The magazines and videos were in one pile near the dresser, the last of the clothes over there, books . . . While carrying an armful of socks to a box, Scully accidentally bumped against the video pile. Some of the videos dominoed underneath the dresser. Cursing, she dumped the socks on the bed, which was rumpled from the times she kept lying down there. Not to nap, she didn't seem to need to, perhaps driven on a final burst of energy - but to think of him. What could have been. She would never wake up in this bed in his arms. She got down on her hands and knees and began laboriously restacking the videos. She had to reach right underneath to catch the final strays. Wiggling and straining her arm, she muttered angrily. Mulder's long arms wouldn't have this problem. The back of her hand brushed against plastic. /Strange . . . That can't be a video cover; it's up on the *underside* of the dresser./ She peered under and thought she could see something. She turned her hand over and felt along. Plastic. A box. Something stuck underneath the dresser. It took a bit of manoeuvring to work the box free from securing strips of packing tape, but eventually she brought it out. A disk holder. "Dana . . ." Frohike said as he opened the door, tailing off as he eyed the leather jacket. "Hi. The 'collection' isn't ready to be picked up yet. Are Langly and Byers here too?" "Yeah, come in." She looked determinedly at the three men. "I want - I need you to do something for me. It's very important." "You know we'll do whatever we can." She held out the box full of disks. "I found these hidden at his apartment. I tried accessing some of the files but it looks like they're all password protected. I tried all the words I could think of, but no luck." "Why do you want to open them?" Langly asked. "What do you think they are?" "I think these are his journals. The file names are months and years. Would you please do this for me? Would you please crack them, beginning with the most recent files?" Byers hesitated. "Scully . . .are you sure you want to read these, if they are his journals?" "Yes. I need to know." His tone was worried and compassionate. "You could find just what you want. And things you never wanted. You could be saved and destroyed within the space of a paragraph. Something he wrote he could've changed his mind on a month later." "I want to know why he killed himself. What he was feeling. I want to know Fox Mulder, and this is my only remaining chance. Even if it is painful. I live with pain." Reluctantly, they agreed. Scully was not surprised; she almost always won arguments through sheer force of will. Perhaps that's why Mulder ran off a lot - he couldn't win outright verbally, so he'd try another tack. And she'd won their last argument of all. Apparently she had convinced him that alien life was one big lie. But the only light it had made him see was that of death. Nighttime. She sat on the sofa, idly looking at the window. At the pane which used to hold the "X". She and Mulder had joked about that "X", or rather the countless ones put up there. About the poor sap who must have camped out somewhere nearby on the orders of X, the man, to keep an eye out for the signal. X the man did not look like the type to just stand around waiting for it himself. The phone rang. She hurriedly answered, hoping it was the Gunmen with news. As she heard her mother's worried voice, she focused on Mulder's answering machine. She would play back his message in a few minutes. Hear his voice and pretend for a moment . . . "Dana, honey, why are you still at Fox's? Are you okay? Dinner's been ready for ages." "Oh, Mom, I'm sorry, I lost track of time. I won't be home tonight. I have to finish something here. It's important." "You'll be worn out." "I'm not tired," she said truthfully. Langly dropped off two disks and a slip of paper. "He uses a different password for each disk. Once we cracked it, we didn't have to access all the files. We're leaving that to you." She gazed at the flat squares of plastic, biting her lip. He turned to go, to give her some privacy. "Langly, wait. Here - you can take some of this with you." She pointed to the telescope in its box and some of the packed "collection". Scully really wanted him out of there, but she was frightened to open the files now she had them. A delay was in order. Lack of words had hurt their relationship. What would too many do? The Gunman soon left. Scully sat at the computer desk. She turned the machine on, put the disk in, called up the list of files. Then for twenty minutes she studied the patterns on the curtains; an insect which landed on the outside of the pane. Angry with herself, Dana pulled her gaze back to the listing. The april97.doc beckoned her. Taunted her. Was the truth in there? Could she bear it? Did she *really* want to find a suicide note? She clicked on the file. His words filled the screen. And at the top of the page she read: END PART THREE OF TWELVE NOTE: I am not making up the reference to the shark oil tests on brain tumours. I found mention of it in an English womens' magazine a few months ago. "The Lake at Gethsemane" (4/12) by Ten, Posted October 1997 E-mail: kristena@ocean.com.au Disclaimer in Part One "Mulder, oh God . . . Mulder what did I do to you?" she cried out. Then her gaze fell on the next line. The Harold Spuller case at the start of April. Not this one. Her hand still went over her mouth, fingers shaking. She seized the mouse and sent the arrow key down to the bottom of the document. She read the last entry. It was before the last case. Before Mulder was contacted about the "alien" in the ice. She had been denied a suicide note or explanation. But the cracks were there. Cancer snake? Again? He'd been dreaming about this for how long? Since she told him about the tumour? She scrolled through the entries backwards, most recent into the past. She found one dated after his release from hospital a week and a half before the ice alien cometh, after he was given the all clear from the memory- seizures. She closed her eyes, remembering. She had only gone out into the corridor for a few minutes when it happened. His screams cut through the walls, terrible to hear. But the fright was minor compared to him suddenly falling to his knees at the Cassandras' summer house. She had been so scared he was having an aneurism and would die right there. "Oh Mulder, trust you to remember that! Don't you realise I cared more for you than I did for myself?" She knew she was very angry about his trip to Rhode Island. Even now. He hadn't told her about wanting to contact the Cassandras or undergoing this treatment and even though it was a twisted thought, she was very jealous he was pursuing Samantha at a time like this where he'd assured her he would keep looking for a cure. Then she found the entry on Friday 11th April. For her. It *had* been for her . . . And the ice-alien - he would have seen it that way too. A bargaining chip. Why he'd pulled her out of her mother's dinner party. What had he said? "This is not some selfish pet project of mine." It *was* selfish. A selfish desire not to lose her. Scully struggled not to cry. The tears would interfere with her reading. They would render her useless. And she had so much to do. She clicked on the file for March. This time she read it from top to bottom. Mulder's connection with Max Fenig. His guilt over the man dying while trying to bring him proof of alien life. His guilt over Pendrell. /More deaths he's taken on as his own fault./ Her birthday. /And if it was hard to part with it you probably figured you could get it back when I died./ The thought slipped into her mind before she could help it and was tossed out with anger and horror at herself, her cynicism. He'd given her an important part of his life. Scully reached out and traced those three little words with her finger as they sat on the screen. /My back? Does he mean the tattoo?/ The phone. Her phone. She managed to find it and answer. Skinner. "Agent Scully, we're all very worried about you. I've spoken to your mother and -" "Thank you for your concern, Sir. But I'm fine. I'm rather busy at the moment. Thank you for thinking of me. It's too bad none of us thought as much about how Agent Mulder was. Goodbye." Hanging up on him didn't make her feel better. She scrolled a bit more, wiping away tears. The date . . . when he got Skinner to help him on a case while she was undergoing tests. "Skinner did *what*?" She gaped. Skinner had struck a deal with the enemy for her safety. Mulder had *tried* to. "Oh God." /Skinner, what on earth were you . . .?/ She stared at her phone, but did not try to contact him. She hoped he was not coming over to see her. She couldn't handle it at the moment. She read just what Skinner had done to cover up a crime. She nearly choked. She remembered waking up in hospital, drained from the tests and the knowledge that radiotherapy was not improving her condition. Mulder was there, slumped with his head in his arms on the bed, asleep. He appeared to have had just as rough a time as her. How could she tell him about the progress of the cancer? He told her some details of the case, the bees, the disappearance of the evidence. Not about confronting their boss with a gun. /When I gave my resignation, is that why he - did Skinner still think there was a way to save me?/ /How does he know about that? I never mentioned it to him./ "I was trying to protect you . . ." she whispered tremulously. "I so much wanted to protect you and look what it drove you to . . ." To her he *was* strong - to survive all he had over his life. Oh no . . . The Eddie Van Blundht case. Did she really want to read this? She jumped over the rest. Maybe in a few hours. Not just now. She glanced at her watch. Nearly 11pm. A long day. Knock at the door. Hopefully the Gunmen with more disks. Her mother. White and sick-looking and holding a picnic basket. "Here's some dinner. I . . .I thought you might be hungry . . ." Dana let her come in and hugged her. She wanted to get back to the computer, but it was also the last thing she wanted to do. "Thanks, Mom. I'm sorry if you've been worried, but I was caught up in something." Her mother's eyes flicked to the bright square light of the computer screen. Scully had flipped the wordprocessing program onto the safety of the program manager screen when she heard the knock. "Dana. I know you are determined to follow your own path in how to deal with the cancer -" Her voice caught. "- and you want to be independent, but I have to be selfish about it. You're my only girl now, my baby girl . . .and if you are dying, I want to be able to spend time with you instead of you being shut up in here in your last days. You'll be with Fox soon enough." She looked sadly around the apartment. What remained of Dana's heart broke. She and Maggie hugged fiercely for a long time. END PART FOUR OF TWELVE (The cool=love re the keychain was an observation made by Kelly Youse on her XF Romantics Website.) "The Lake at Gethsemane" (5/12) by Ten, Posted October 1997 E-mail: kristena@ocean.com.au Disclaimer in Part One As they hugged there was another knock at the door. Byers with more disks. It broke the mood. The Gunman left immediately, but when Dana turned back to her mother, she was Scully again. "Mom, I need to do some more searching. But I'll make an appointment with the doctor for as soon as I can, tomorrow if possible, and would you be able to take me there? I need you." Maggie promised, clearly relieved, and left when her daughter promised to let her know the appointment details in the morning. Scully went back to the computer. For a second she thought she had found his last entry. "Mulder, I didn't!" /No . . .God no!/ The police had come as she was on her way to call them. She assumed neighbours had heard the noise, and that still could have been the reason. She had not known Mulder had been there with her . . . "Please don't be angry with me . . ." She was crying and sobbing and pleading at the screen. Even though she sounded like a little girl begging forgiveness from her father, she was not. It was to her lover. Her Mulder. She tried to remember just why she had done what she did. /You just dismissed my conclusions on the case, you didn't take me seriously in the office when I needed your reassurance . . . you didn't believe I could possibly have a date! It hurt . . ./ They were a couple. And just like any couple in a relationship, there were misunderstandings. Things he thought small were major to her - how would he know? What was perfectly clear and logical to Mulder was not to her. She'd had no inkling of his thoughts on the matter, apart from smouldering, suppressed fury. But now here were his reasons. His incredulous and arrogant tone about her having a date was suddenly crystal clear. /I had a side too, Mulder. I had my reasons. I told you about the desk - but it wasn't really just about the desk... He's a psychologist! He should have known what I meant! But Dana, he's also *a man* . . . Why didn't we talk? Did he forgive me for this?/ Then she saw the next sentence. He'd taken it all on himself again. So much pain and guilt and suffering. How could he survive with it all? How indeed? "Mulder . . . I stayed because I loved you. Couldn't you see that? You *knew* I didn't blame you for the abduction or the cancer!" But wait - had she actually ever *told* him? "Oh God . . ." she realised. "I thought we had . . . an unspoken understanding . . ." She buried her face in her hands. Perhaps throwing out her hospital diary had not been a good idea after all. What he had got to read would not have been much, not enough to understand all she wanted to convey. And they'd never really resolved that horrible time because other things suddenly swept them up . . . The day she phoned him from the hospital. The day he brought her flowers. Mulder recorded his nightmares, and they chilled her with their horrific detail. But to him they were nightly occurrences, calmly catalogued. /You were the first one I called!/ her mind protested. /Oh yes, Dana. I'm sure he welcomed the joyous information you shared with him, and the honour of first place. I finally opened up to you and look what it was about. And your eyes . . . you were so sad; I didn't want to make it any worse after that. I was wrong. I should have known you'd research. I should have known from Sam's abduction and mine that lack of information makes you as desperate as being given all the grisly details./ /I never told him how much strength he gave me . . . Oh God, if I had let him in more, I would have gained so much more. We could have saved each other./ She couldn't feel angry at him for leaving her. She could understand him not wanting to watch her die. She skipped to another month. Doing a search, she eventually found out what the "Scully- soothe" method was. Mulder had found the best way to get himself off to sleep was to imagine himself back in her bed, just like the night of his drugged fever. To recall her right there beside him, stroking his face, telling him it was all right. Needing a break and with dawn yet to make the apartment golden, she opened some of his desk drawers and started sorting. After a while she found something in the stubble of a scribble pad at the bottom. Dated November 1994. He sat in the ruins of his life Waiting for the end of hers The dried tears had set his face to stone No movement. The phone rang It was a tolling bell Booming "She's dead. Your fault." He did not stir The machine spoke for him "Hello, this is Fox Mulder. Leave a message please." And though he couldn't stand it He owed it to her To answer To hear the cost of his crusade first hand. He snatched up the phone "I'm here." And waited for damnation . . . But instead Found two lives moving out of the dark. She would not get that phone call of salvation. Her arms ached to hold him. "Oh, Mulder . . . I'll be with you soon." END PART FIVE OF TWELVE "The Lake at Gethsemane" (6/12) by Ten, Posted in October 1997 E-mail: kristena@ocean.com.au Disclaimer in Part One DAY SIXTEEN - early morning She sat for ages, mind blank. Then reality encroached. She sniffled and the tears came again. She managed to find some tissues and as she was wiping her nose, a thought struck. /When was the last time I had a nosebleed?/ Scully's mind raced. The last time - it couldn't have been too long, surely. The cancer was a runaway train now. But she had not bleed since in Skinner's car going to her mother's . . . Days ago? Around two weeks ago . . . And her neck wasn't swollen at all. She felt drained and tired, but her grief and lack of care of herself would account for that. Not what should be going on in her body at the moment. Her mother took her to the doctor that morning and sat with her. Scully could see Maggie's surprise when she mentioned the lack of nosebleeds. She hadn't wanted to get her mother's hopes up. Dr. Jarinine decided to take a look at the tumour by direct vision telescope, putting a fibre optic laryngoscope down her nose. A little TV screen showed the sinus cavity. Maggie could not bear to watch it, she was focused on Dana, holding her hand. But Scully watched the screen. The telescope's vision, as if it was a tunnel explorer, searching for the motherlode with a lantern fixed to a hard hat. The tumour was not there. The doctor gasped, causing Maggie to inadvertently look at the screen. "What's wrong?" "It's . . .it should be right there . . ." he whispered, incredulous. Dana studied the image. The cancer was completely gone. Maggie crossed herself. "Are you - are you sure the equipment isn't malfunctioning?" Dr. Jarinine shook his head. "There's no way it could be. We can see the telescope's progress, and the feedback is clear and strong. Right there is where the tumour was. Dana - we'll check your bloodwork, make sure your lymphatic system is clear, but . . ." He began carefully removing the DV scope. "You are cured." Scully stared numbly at her mother, who was hovering between joy and concern, and at the doctor, who was in a state of amazed shock. She didn't feel any of those things. She felt cheated and betrayed. /I was ready to die . . ./ Scully left her mother, saying she needed time alone, and wandered in a daze. She found herself back at Mulder's apartment around noon. A note had been slipped under the door. The Lone Gunmen. They'd accessed more disks and when she was ready they would drop them around. She went and lay on her side on the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. /I should tell Mom that it's okay. That I've moved out of the dark. But I haven't. I haven't really./ She was cured. But how? It couldn't have been the treatments - not when the cancer was in her lymphatic system on an inexorable path. The doctor had suggested perhaps her last tests had accidentally been mixed up with someone's who had the cancer at the more advanced stage. That she was in fact responding to the treatment all of a sudden and . . . But that quickly? The tumour *completely* gone? Ahab. The vision of Ahab. Him touching her. The warmth flowing through her whole body, cleansing her. A miracle? She'd seen enough amazing things in the last four years. And been a part of one when she came out of her coma. The coma. She'd had this feeling of warmth and peace, especially when Nurse Owens was around - then woken up. The same feeling from the other night. A serenity, as a balance was restored in her body. A serenity also sensed when she met Jeremiah Smith. She had not connected it with her coma at the time, but it had gone a long way to her trusting him when he turned up at her apartment asking to speak to Mulder. And other times. Not as strong, but there. In the hospital after rescue from the SS Ardent, where she and Mulder nearly applied for old age pension together. The times she woke up at Mulder's bedside as they fought the retro-virus - she kept feeling something important had happened and she was missing it. And each time he was a little bit better. The amazing recovery of Mrs Mulder. Nurse Owens. Jeremiah Smith. Her father - or the image of him. Healers? Alien healers? Changing appearance to suit the occasion? Was that why Mulder managed to survive such odds? Why would they keep healing her and Mulder? She remembered Mrs Mulder saying how her cancer "wasn't an issue any more". She had interpreted it as his mother realising she had accepted her fate. But now . . . had Mrs Mulder known she was healed? Had Cancer Man told her? Pulled the strings to get both women healed? Made Mrs Mulder insist on getting her son's body back so the second autopsy would be a rush? Kritschgau had explained why Mulder was so useful to the Government. To feed the lie. But if these *were* aliens . . . To cover alien life . . . It was too much to think about. She couldn't believe she was even entertaining the thought of miracle healers, human or alien. There had been Samuel Hartley. Unsubstantiated. Kevin Kryder - well, there was a place for miracles in her life. Shapeshifters - the "Pilot" who held her hostage twice, once looking like Mulder, then changing into a more deadly form. Somehow... She'd felt strange around him, but the situations and an icepick at her neck could account for that. Definitely no serenity sensed there. Eddie Van Blundht. No. He was completely different to that "Pilot" and Nurse Owens. Dana just knew. There was another connection in there she was missing. Her coma and something to do with her dreams . . . Something . . . She was too tired to think straight. The forest again. Still shrouded in darkness. Mist curled around the trees. Not a star to be had. Scully began wandering through the landscape. She could see enough not to stumble. It was completely quiet apart from her noises and breathing. /What's that?/ There was another noise. Lapping water. She realised where she was and raced forwards. She burst out of the trees onto the shore of a lake. Her lake from her coma dreams. But the water was strange. It was full of stars. As if the heavens were collected up and poured into this place. Sparkling eternity before her eyes, drifting gently back and forth. /My life, my universe, my everything./ "*Mulder*?" Frantically she scanned the star-water she could see through the mist. No sign of him. No rowboat. Scully picked a direction and began running around the bank of the lake, searching desperately for the pier. "MULDER????? MULDER! Please answer me!" She could feel him, but she couldn't see and it wasn't strong enough - She woke up. "No! No, dammit, I was so close!" she screamed, then sank down and buried her face in her hands. /I could feel you close, Mulder . . . But it wasn't close enough. It was not just a dream. Are you back on that bridge spanning two worlds? Do you want to come back from the dead to continue with me, but can't find the way? Or are you trying to give me a message? The lake is so different for you. What does that mean? Why was it so dark for you? I've been in there before, I got in there again. I will come back for you./ How? She needed to increase their connection. She knew she had to. Her eyes fell on the note on the coffee table. Within five seconds she was dialling the Lone Gunmen and asking them to bring over the latest disks, quickly. They did so. How much more would she have to read to strengthen her link with her partner? "Only one way to find out," she muttered determinedly, and began picking disks and files at random. She read how he sometimes visited Melissa Scully's grave late at night to stand and talk to her about her little sister. About his guilt over her death and how by the same token he had been so glad it was not Dana and he hoped Melissa could forgive him this. How much guilt he felt even over Queequeg's death, but how he had never really liked the dog because Scully had given it such visible affection. Affection she kept hidden from him. The times he recalled Scully's presence beside his bed when he was injured, how it made him want to get better and how he felt such healing warmth and safety. /Because I was there, or the healers . . . Not now . . .not just yet . . ./ He had a nightmare where they had two daughters. Twins. The Eves. Scully's red hair and his brown eyes. His diary entry that day she woke up from the coma. She wanted to read more on how he had been affected by her abduction, but those disks were still with the Gunmen. Even though there was only one password per disk on the whole, he hadn't been as predictable with the words as the other time she'd broken into his files, and it was still taking time for them to go through the options. It was clear in his entries how much she meant to him. Not just on the big cases, but day to day. Just walking into work knowing she would come. How one look from her would replenish his soul. His bold touches in the cases after her return. Touching her neck and cheek at the Mount Avalon research site, wiping the sauce off her face at Delta Glen. She could still feel those touches, how her skin burned. He knew he was overstepping the mark, but he couldn't help it. His near-involvements with Dr Bambi and Det. White, because he had realised his feelings for Scully were love, and he had panicked, thinking she wouldn't feel the same and it would ruin their partnership. So he looked elsewhere, but then realised he was kidding himself, that he could not feel this way about anyone else. And how Scully didn't seem interested in going out with anyone else either. Pusher. That case proved his theory. And shook him up badly. He felt guilty he didn't have the strength to break Modell's control of him. The screen was becoming a blur. She yawned and pulled her glasses off and stumbled to the sofa. She sank down, hoping she had covered enough to get back into the forest. She was not in the forest. She was on the shore of the lake - she could hear the lapping, but could not see any of the star-water for the mist. Scully walked forward cautiously, trying to reach out to Mulder in her mind. The mist parted. The pier was before her. And out on the lake was a rowboat. Occupied by a lone figure. "Mulder!" She ran out onto the dock. The wood moaned yet held. She gazed out at her partner, across a distance of about fifteen metres. He sat in the boat, totally unmoving. She could see his face clearly in the uplight from the shifting stars. He was unresponsive to her yells and pleas, even though his gaze was unwaveringly on her face. "Mulder, hold on - I'll bring you in!" She reluctantly pulled her eyes away and looked for the tie-rope. There was nothing attached to the dock. She looked back and forth between it and the boat. No rope line. Nothing to tether him the pier, to the ground, to life? Nothing for her to pull him in with. The boat was just sitting out there, rocking gently. "All right, then. I'll come to you," she whispered. A little detail like that wasn't going to stop her now. She sat down on the edge and pulled off her shoes. She was wearing a trenchcoat, so discarded that and a few other items of clothing before remaining in her blouse and suit pants. It felt a little silly to be so safety conscious in a dream or vision, but she didn't want to take any chances with getting to Mulder. She put her legs out and turned over, bracing her body with her arms as she lowered herself towards the star- water. Her stockinged toes touched the water but did not go in. The water wobbled. Startled, Scully hauled herself back up and peered down. As she had pushed up, she felt . . . resistance? The water, or whatever it was, was practically solid. She dropped her shoe in. The surface rippled out around the shoe. The shoe did not get swallowed up. It lay on the water. Water like almost-solid jelly . . . Scully accepted this concept in a second. Swim or walk, whatever it took. She slid off the dock and her feet landed on the surface of the lake. She swallowed and clutched at the pier, thinking she would lose her balance, but the "water" was a little soft on top, moulding around her foot and toes, yet not over it. Ripples fanned out then vanished. It was supporting her easily. A skyful of stars winked and sparkled below her. Footing established, she let go of the wood and headed towards her partner. "Mulder? Mulder, it's me. I'm coming. I'm going to take you home." No response. /Take him home . . . His spirit is here, but what about his body?/ Closer and closer she walked, focused entirely on Mulder. Then it dawned on her that the slight give beneath her feet was turning into sucking. She looked down. The star- water substance was coming up over her feet. Panicked, she tried to pull her left foot out. She managed , but it was an effort. Frantic, she tried to hurry to Mulder. She was almost there, about five more metres . . . But the lake was pulling her down into its depths. The solidness was draining away beneath her, sending heavy liquid over her ankles, her calves, her knees. "Mulder! Mulder, help me!" It was like wading through heavy marshland. Hips, waist, chest. She struck out for the boat in a desperate swimming stroke, but the liquid wouldn't allow it. Only one reaching arm and her head were above now. She couldn't quite touch the boat. Mulder was gazing towards the docks. /A fly in amber./ Then she realised. /This is where my world ends . . .my dream, my beliefs, my facts . . . I've passed out of my realm of possibilities. This is Mulder's place -/ She called to him one last time before going under. His hand grabbed hers. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Scully was sitting in the boat directly in front of Mulder. His hands were holding hers tightly. "Mulder, thank God! Are you okay?" She squeezed one hand and tried to pull her other out of his grasp to touch his face. She couldn't - his hold was constant - and although he was looking directly into her eyes, he was still not responding. "Mulder, please. Come on, talk to me. I know you're in there." She was vaguely aware she was not wet, but dismissed it. "I know, Mulder. I know you. We can't leave it like this." She squeezed his hands, trying to make him feel the connection. She found she could move his left hand and arm and raised his hand in hers to her face. She rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek and kissed it. His mouth parted slightly and she saw a spark in his eyes she was sure was not a reflection of starshine. "Mulder?" she asked hopefully. He let out a strangled moan. The pressure of his fingers increased and his arms began shaking. "That's it, come on," Scully whispered. "Come back to me . . ." She could feel him, not just his grip and his body close to hers, but she could feel him spiritually. There was a connection, but she could sense her strength was maintaining it. Mulder was trying to reach her, but his soul was weakened, she could feel it. The tiniest hint of his voice speaking her name. But not spoken out loud. She heard it in her head. She leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. "If you can form a nexus with a child molester, Mulder, then surely you can create one with me. Concentrate; let me in. Let me into your mind." She felt him then, and reached out with her mind as if it were arms, encircling his soul and supporting it. Holding him up. /Where are you, Mulder?/ /Yes, Mulder. Yes, it just . . .disappeared. But that doesn't matter. Where are you?/ /No. I refuse to accept that! I've been here before. I know this state is *not* death. It may be close, but not the final end. More like a place for a soul to rest and decide whether to live or die./ /Don't lie to me. You are not dead and I want some answers. Better than answers, I want the truth!/ She pushed her will deeper into his mind. She could feel he was startled and was trying frantically to block her, but his soul was too weak. Was he injured? Drugged? Dead . . . Memories. There were memories here. She realised she could access his memories as simply as a computer file. And she did. She was staring at a TV. His TV. The documentary on the existence of alien life. It was hard to see the screen because she kept blinking and her vision blurred up because she was crying. Feelings and splintered thoughts: She was seeing that night through his eyes. He was on the floor of his sitting room, leaning against the sofa, right hand on his knee. Cradling a gun. She felt his thumb move as if it were her own, tracing the contours of the weapon. Then he lifted the weapon towards his head. Scully cried out and watched in horror. END PART SIX OF TWELVE