TITLE: "Patron" AUTHOR: Rebecca Marler info@bluemoonhorse.com RATING: PG-13, language particularly the F-word and sexual encounters. CATEGORY: X SPOILERS: None. However, the more you know of the X-files the more enjoyable the read. DISTRIBUTION: Distribution: just let me know and keep my name and email attached. KEYWORDS: X-Files, UST, Alternative Universe SUMMARY: During Fox Mulder’s absence, it’s up to Dana Scully to prevent Samantha from ending up as a work of art. ABOUT THIS UNIVERSE: This is the third installment in the Private Practice Universe. It is not necessary to read the other stories but you might be a tad confused without knowing why Samantha is alive! There is definite hanky panky between Mulder and Scully so if you don't like that sort of thing, bail out. AUTHORS’ NOTE: For the most part this story is from Samantha Mulder’s POV. Although the story starts with the sadness of Fox’s absence, trust me dear reader that Fox does return, alive, well and ready to take his relationship with Dana to the next level. /This story is dedicated to my brother, Daniel./ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ /Patron/ I. *"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for." Sherlock Holmes – The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.* ** Samantha sniffed the stuffiness of still air. She did not call out his name anymore when she entered his apartment. It had been more then two months since their last communication – a hasty lunch and quick goodbyes – that she now deeply regretted. Samantha went briefly through her brother's mail, looking for something that might indicate where he was – had been – was going. But it was the typical array of circulars and offers for credit cards. The mail was stacking up, and had slipped, causing envelopes to drift over and down the back of the kitchenette table. She didn’t bother checking his computer; she didn’t know much about them and if she inadvertently wiped any of his files she would be in trouble. However, Sam did look over his answering machine but the red eye was remained unblinking. Today, for some reason she decided to clean out his refrigerator. It gave her something to do and perhaps she felt in some way it was helping Fox. It was an easy job and quickly done as all of the food had long gone moldy and just needed to be dumped and then the trash taken down to the dumpster. She sighed and sat down on her brother’s leather couch and wiped her hands on her knees in a nervous gesture. The leather slid unpleasantly against the dampness of her palms. Samantha had never considered that she might live without her brother. Sam hadn’t been worried about Fox’s disappearance until Spender, in his oily reptilian manner had asked HER, yes her, where her brother had "gotten to?" The fact that Spender, who Samantha had long suspected was a bedmate to the CIA, didn’t know where Fox had vanished to, had begun Samantha’s chain of worry. If she truly believed him dead, then it was time to fulfill his wishes. Unaccountably she refused to take that step. No, she would not go the safety deposit box that the two of them never discussed. She would not activate her card to the Swiss bank account. She would not leave to Canada on a route that he had hounded her relentlessly to commit to memory. "Fox. Fox!" her cry echoed until it ended in a gulping sob. Tangled through her hair, her hands clenched into fists of desperation and she pounded her head. She had to pull herself together and felt an increasing inability to do so. She felt the deep need to run – to flee. The anxiety flooded through her making her breath quicken in shallow gasps. Since her mental breakdown in 1978, she had lived a shy, retiring life – made and kept only a close and small group of personal friends. Except for one art show, Sam had managed to avoid publicity and interviews, the glaring eyes of admirers of her work, and remained in the protection of the shadows. In the shadows she was safe. If no one heard her, if no one knew that she had been in the closet where her daddy had hidden her, she would not die. Tears leaked out from under her tight eyelids and she wiped the moisture away with balled knuckles. Could she leave the closet? Could she leave the darkness that promised safety? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ II. * "Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him." Sherlock Holmes - Hound of the Baskervilles * What Samantha’s next step would have been was questionable but fate took a hand to guide her. While attending a local open air art fair, to support a dear friend – Elspeth Moondragon – the flash of glowing red hair caught her artist’s eye. As if in a dream, she made her way to that beacon. "Mom, do you really think Bill would like that?" The tone showed the owner of the voice to clearly believe the answer of any sane person would be no. "Excuse me?" Samantha’s soft voice could have been lost in the crush of the crowd, but the redhead immediately turned and as their gazes made contact, Samantha was relieved to see recognition spark in Dana Scully’s blue eyes. For some reason, Samantha’s first thought was – "she looks tired." Scully's face had new lines and the shadows under her eyes indicated sleep that hadn't been restful. When Scully said nothing Samantha added hesitantly, "Hello." For a moment, Sam thought Scully would turn away but something changed her mind, the F.B.I. agent put a hand on the woman next to her an older lady with softly faded brown hair. "Mom, let me introduce a friend of mine. This is Samantha Mulder. She’s an artist. Samantha this is my mother, Maggie Scully." "I was wondering…?" Samantha started, glancing at Scully’s companion who, after a moments of polite conversation had turned back to purchase a ceramic soap dish shaped like a pig, " -- could I speak with you for a moment?" After a moment, Scully nodded agreement. "Mom, I’m going to go get us a couple of drinks. I’ll meet you back on this aisle." There was a moment of delay as Mrs. Scully insisted on Dana taking change to pay for her own drink while her daughter refused. Samantha’s nerves were stretched to the point where she wanted to scream that she would buy everyone drinks. She barely managed to restrain herself. As soon as they out of hearing range from her mother, Scully asked, "What did you want to speak to me about?" "Fox is missing." Scully raised an eyebrow and said nothing causing Samantha to stumble on with her explanation. "I haven’t heard from him in two months. I’ve gone by his apartment but he hasn’t been there." Seeing Samantha’s obvious distress, Scully felt pity and cleared her throat indicating a bit of defrosting. "It was my understanding that disappearances are Fox’s forte? Or at least Samuel Lebowitz, his partner, led to me understand this." "It can be but it isn’t this time. I know it." "Perhaps –" began Scully, her vision focusing at a far point on the horizon, however, whatever she was considering remained unspoken. With effort, she shook herself from her daydream and said, "That’s the last time I heard from him, too." The women faced each other, staring, their minds both on the same man. "You’re with the FBI; you can help me trace him," urged Samantha. Scully did not deny this but said as if in rebuttal, "I would need credit card numbers, social security number, bank information --? " "I can get that for you," said Samantha eagerly, feeling hope flood her body so forcefully that her eyes watered. She squeezed them tightly for a moment to clear them. "I’m not a miracle worker," cautioned Scully, as she pocketed the change and picked up the two diet Cokes. As they returned to find Scully’s mother, Samantha had one last request. "Could I paint you?" "What?" asked Scully so startled that she jostled the drinks. Mopping up the mess with a Kleenex, she added, "I though you did abstract work?" "Generally," agreed Samantha. "I like portraits though, if I find the person’s face interesting enough. The portrait can pay you back for your help." "That’s not necessary," murmured Scully, while Samantha fished out her artist's card from a copious purse. "We must find him." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ III. * "It is always awkward doing business with an alias." Sherlock Holmes – The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle * At the FBI everyone was paired, except, that is, for Scully. From department heads to the mailboy, all had noted Diana Fowley’s mysterious vanishing act four months ago. To make matters worse, after three weeks breaking in a rookie partner, he took a bullet meant for Scully and was paralyzed. Dana Katherine Scully had gained the label of a Jonah. Skinner, though not usually sensitive in breaking bad news, did inform Scully that she was on her own for a while, till he could find an agent brave or stupid enough to pair with her. Always respected, friendly and well-liked by her fellow agents, her downfall in popularity was harder on Scully then she would have thought. Alone at lunch, segregated in the basement, it seemed the world was passing her by. Friends she had known since the Academy had vanished to other jobs across the country and she refused to discuss her feelings with her family as it would have led to just more discussion about her career choice and the Navy. Typically Scully she had been seeking solace in duty these last few months: hunting down werewolves – the case where David Carpenter had taken a hit – , compiling any information she could find on aliens and abductions until she started dreaming of flying saucers, and of course the surreptitious work on the samples that Fox Mulder had left in her care. As the day wore on, her phone silent and the air oppressive, Scully pondered her conversation with Fox Mulder’s sister. If Fox had not left of his own violation, Dana knew she wouldn’t forgive herself for not following up immediately on his disappearance. It was the first 24 hours after a kidnapping that were the most crucial in finding physical evidence or witnesses. But how could she have known that his disappearance was anything but personal considering the drama of their last meeting? Thoughts of their argument and his damn secretiveness surfaced along with a contradictory frustrated rush of unfulfilled lust. She felt a sudden aching in her groin and stood up abruptly to break that chain of thoughts. No good to think of her and him in that way. It seemed that if Mulder had anything to say about it, Dana would remain celibate till the big 4-0. Mulder had made it confusingly clear that he did not want to Dana Scully's lover. "Get over it, Dana," she snarled to herself, and forcing painful images of Mulder's face and the warm feel of his hands away from from her mind she bent back to work under the perfect round pool of light from her desk lamp while far above her head, a conversation about her was taking place. "Isolation. She’s used to admiration and support from colleagues." Walter Skinner said nothing in reply to Spender’s utterance. This was a man who could move armies and sacrifice them without a moment lost to sleep – Skinner could not find such a powerful man contemptible, but it did not prevent him from intensely disliking Spender. Spender had possessed himself of Skinner’s desk chair, a psychological move to make the A.D. feel uncomfortable. He was curious enough to notice that it didn’t work. Skinner’s self-possession remained and he stood military straight, arms crossed, legs slightly spread as if preparing to take a blow. "As a woman, she’ll crumble even faster then a male counterpart." Spender waited for Skinner to inquire why he was so determined to destroy one of the A.D.’s rising stars. However, Spender's dramatic pause was in vain and Skinner’s continual silence began to irritate him. It wasn’t pleasing to have an audience that didn’t clap at all the right moments. "She’s an interesting study, don’t you think?" Spender continued with his oratory. "Intelligent in a masculine way, self-possessed, beautiful -- it’s almost a pity to destroy her." A muscle flexed in Skinner’s jaw. A comment, phrased almost as a dare, escaped. "If you can." "All men, and women, can be destroyed, A.D. We each have our breaking point. The equation of humanity is one easily solved." "Some people only become stronger after you break them," Skinner answered, his tone completely flat. "Is that what you saw in Vietnam? Men behaving above and beyond their abilities? How romantic," sneered Spender, standing up, his palms flat against the large wooden desk. "What I saw in Vietnam is how unpredictable people truly are under pressure," Skinner replied scathingly, adding, "Your wrong about Dana Scully." "Wrong? Is this said as a commanding officer, supervisor, or from a hopeless optimist?" "It’s given by a man that has been promoted because of his ability to decipher the people around him. I offer service to my country where my talents lie." "And so do I, and so do I." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ IV. * "The features are given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants." Sherlock Holmes – The Resident Patient * Samantha was dismayed. She had been sure that Dana Scully, who her brother had rhapsodized over being the most intelligent person he knew, would have found some trace of Fox Mulder. "I’m sorry," said Scully, ineptly as she saw the weight of her news drag down Samantha’s features. "What else can we do?" asked Samantha rhetorically, not expecting any response. "Search his apartment." Shocked, Sam’s eyes flew to met Scully’s strong features. "It’s got to be searched, from top to bottom." "That," Sam gulped, "I don’t know if Fox would want that." "He can complain to me about it." Scully gave Samantha a pair of latex gloves and clinically gave her additional instructions on how to conduct a search thoroughly and methodically. Samantha shivered as Scully snapped her own gloves on with a frightening efficiency. It made Sam wonder how many bodies Scully had dissected over the years. Something was wrong with Scully; Samantha had sensed it from the moment they had met at the art fair. It was as if a song was being sung out of tune; the rhythm was wrong; the melody distorted. However, Sam didn’t feel intimate enough with the FBI agent to probe her personal life and so they both were silently miserable over the same man. If Sam expected comments about Mulders choice of video material, she was relieved to find that Scully was, in all things, a professional. Each and every room was searched, just as Scully had said from top to bottom. Scully examined the floor minutely and even moved furniture so she could better examine the floor and walls. She took frames off the wall, examining the back, and even flipped the mattress. Occasionally, plastic bags would come out of the agent’s jacket pocket and tweezers dropped mysterious things inside. At the end of six hours, they both were dusty and exhausted. "Do you think we’ve found anything?" asked Samantha, rubbing the grit and strain out of her eyes while Scully suppressed a yawn. "Hmm, too bad he didn’t leave a convenient diary with the last entry stating exactly what bridge he was going to throw himself off of," muttered Scully sarcastically. At Sam’s look of reproach she added apologetically, "I don’t think this was a place of violence – just a victim of sloppy cleaning." The two of them had settled at Fox’s kitchenette and while Scully continued to talk, Samantha idly sketched with a stubby pencil on the back of junk mail envelopes. "It just looks like he left one day and didn’t come back. The only thing unusual were these." Scully held up a plastic bag that contained what Samantha thought looked like watch batteries. "Bugs. Listening devices. The don't seem active now but the question is who would have put them there in the first place." Samantha frowned but didn’t reply. Unfortunately, a name immediately leapt to mind as to who would want to plant listening devices in her brother's apartment. "Are you sure that your brother didn’t just take off?" questioned Scully for about the tenth time. "No, I mean yes, I’m sure and no he didn’t just take off. I agree that he has a habit of leaving suddenly on trips but he has always sent me a postcard or called me while he was gone. He knows how I worry." "Did he say anything to you about a trip? The last time you saw him?" countered Samantha while Scully drummed her fingers impatiently against the table’s Formica top. "No," said Scully shortly, obviously not interested in discussing her last encounter with Mulder. "What was he like?" Sam persisted, "Did he seem strange?" "Your brother is always strange," said Scully caustically in reply. As an artist, Samantha was acutely aware of the bone, tissue and muscle that formed the face. A line had started to be engraved from Dana’s nose to the outer rim of her lips, a sign of repression, sadness, and control. It made her fear what for Dana if Fox didn’t come back. Abruptly, Samantha changed the topic. "Your very unhappy. Is it Fox?" Dana Scully took a moment to look at her – really look at her. Samantha’s eyes appeared guileless, innocent. Scully had never seen her wear makeup and she looked younger then her years, her face baby soft, with long brown hair scraped back into a ponytail. Sam’s clothes were serviceable, but careless. "We had an argument – of sorts – miscommunication," Scully looked away, refusing to meet her companion's eyes. "He’s hurt you, hasn’t he?" "I don’t think I really want to discuss this…" began Scully and for the first time in her short relationship with Samantha, she saw Fox’s sister filled with a powerful emotion. "If we are going to find my brother, we don’t have the luxury of personal problems. I want him back." In the furious anger, Samantha she shoved all of Mulder’s mail off the table and her last word ended with a sputter. The still air was filled with rasp of Sam’s harsh breathing. Scully gave her a moment to regain control before saying softly, "Yes, he did hurt me but I don’t think what was said then has anything to do with today. It was entirely personal and very embarrassing. I thought he was avoiding me and that is why I didn’t pursue his whereabouts. Obviously I was wrong about his reasoning – as always." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ V. * "I value a woman's instinct in such matters." Sherlock Holmes - The Adventure of the Lions Mane * True to Samantha’s wish, Dana Scully found herself sitting for a portrait. For several days, Scully was placed in different poses by Samantha’s cool hands and had sketches in soft black pencil done of her face. The FBI agent quickly learned that Samantha the artist differed from Samantha the sister. Once the pencil met the paper, conversation stopped and Samantha’s timidity and uncertainty ceased as if a switch had been flipped. Her hand moved with sure strokes and sketches were finished quickly, set aside, and a new page started. Realizing that Samantha wasn’t going to be conversationalist while she worked, Scully amused herself by examining Samantha’s living space. It was not a loft apartment developed to suit the sudden craze of commuters to live downtown, but a true, run down loft with tiny planes of glass filling the walls to provide the light that Samantha craved for her work. Samantha’s furniture was first generation garage sale: a recliner that didn’t move and a sofa that endangered those who sat on the middle cushion. In between the lumps of furniture were expensive works of art - several bronzes of tortured human torsos, something modern and brass that looked like a garden sculpture, along with several paintings – all abstracts – on the wall. On a trip to the bathroom, Scully took the time to examine a huge black and white photographic print of a house facing the ocean. The scene was surreal, stark but not unpleasant. The label underneath said that it was Martha's Vineyard. Sometime into the second week, Samantha had decided on the pose and the clothes she wanted. "Don’t you answer your phone?" Scully asked, as the obnoxious ringing continued. Samantha pulled herself away from the study of Scully’s earlobe and peered around the edge of the canvas at her model. "Phone?" "That ringing," explained Scully as if to a child. "Oh that’s not the phone, that’s the doorbell. I always turn the phone off when I’m working." Samantha put down her wet brush and made her way to a wall where an intercom was mounted. "Yes?" "Sam, I’ve got to talk with you. I’ve been calling for hours. Are you working?" "I was," Sam said, irritation plain in her voice. "Come up, Stef." Stef was a rambling jumble of long legs and arms, loosely connected. Other then a short glance at Scully he paid no attention to her and immediately started a conversation that seemed to have begun elsewhere. "I knew you would be upset." Samantha seemed used to this sort of conversation from her friend and continued making a herbal tea, handing a cup to Dana and placing another in front of Stef who was sitting on a rickety kitchenette chair. Dana was dressed in a black evening gown and she pulled a fuzzy sofa throw over her cold shoulders. "It’s so unlike him. Who would have thought?" Stef wrapped bony fingers around his chipped Garfield mug and hunched over it as if it could bring him warmth. "Who are we talking about?" Samantha asked, taking a seat herself. "Vance. The police called me first you know. We had been close." Samantha glanced at Scully, who only raised an eyebrow. "What has Vance done this time? If it’s uncharacteristic then he must have gotten married," Sam commented coolly, blowing on her tea. "He’s dead. He killed himself." Samantha put her mug down abruptly. "You must have gotten it mixed up Stef. Vance would never kill himself," Some part of Samantha said as she felt her head floating, a balloon of helium with her body as a string tied to the chair. "He did, he did, he did," chanted Stef, his voice rising a bit hysterically at the end. At Sam’s glazed stare, he gained control of himself and continued his explanation. "Slit his wrists in a bathtub. Romantically Roman and all that shit." "Your definitely have it mixed up – Vance would never kill himself that way – Drinking poison in front of all of his friends at a party – or a dramatic leap from the tallest building in town – I could believe." Scully could clearly see that Samantha had suffered a blow at Stef’s news. By the time she had bundled Samantha’s friend out the elevator lift, the artist had recovered some of her equilibrium. "I know I’ve asked you a lot, Dana but –" "I can look into it for you," supplied Scully. There was something about Samantha that made you want to help her. It wasn’t that she was manipulative or pathetic; you just wanted to help her. Without the protection of her brother, Scully felt some obligation to stand in his stead. "Just a little more information. To make sure -- " "Make sure?" "That it wasn’t murder." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VI. *"This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses, which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie." Sherlock Holmes - The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor* ** It wasn’t hard for Scully to ingratiate herself into the investigation of Vance Ziegler’s death. A flip of her federal id usually cleared a path through the regular blues though not without a wave of resentment following her wake. She also felt the tension in the air as they registered she was a woman, and a good-looking one at that. Inside it irked her, but outwardly she faced down their attention with a business like air. Upon seeing Ziegler’s apartment, Scully at first thought he might have been burglarized, but listening to the conversation of her law enforcement brethren it was apparent that this mess was its typical state. Dirty piles of clothes, old food, unclean plates, and full cigarette ashtrays made Scully comment dryly, "Rat's nest." They pointed her down a narrow hallway to the one bathroom the apartment boasted. Detective John Doggett was the man in charge of the investigation and he was standing outside the bathroom door. Doggett was a tall man, slender with Norwegian blue eyes, and he did not move aside at Scully’s badge flash. He seemed a typical New York cop and Scully wondered at first how she could get his pride to defrost enough for her to gather information to satisfy Samantha. However, when he learned that she was a trained pathologist, his tough cookie attitude changed. It turned out in Scully's favor that because of a union strike, the coroner hadn’t made it to the apartment and Doggett wanted a professional opinion as quickly as possible. Scully explored the bathroom. It was a small affair, with a wall hanging sink of sixties pink, a pink commode that was continually filling, and a dead body in the bathtub. The heavy smell of feces, death and blood hung in the still air of the windowless room. She estimated that Ziegler had been dead for about 8 to 10 hours, although the temperature of the bathtub could have effected rigor mortis. He was a white male in his forties, black hair, blue eyes, with a tattoo on the right hip. Slit wrists were submerged under water, cradled between his legs, barely concealing his groin. When the body had slumped into the tub, water had splashed over the side. Scully gave the bath mat a critical eye as she straddled it and stepped over it backward. "So?" asked Detective Doggett, "Any answers?" Scully stripped the latex off and took a moment to compose her thoughts. "Suicide in this manner is a very long process, probably hours. It takes a while before you loose enough blood that death is no longer a question. However, once you reach a certain amount of blood loss, you enter a state of euphoria." "So a determined man," surmised Doggett. "He might have started it, to see what it was like, or to experiment with the idea of death, but the lack of initiative caused by blood loss prevented him from stepping back from the abyss," added Scully. She looked back into the bathroom and found her eye drawn to the 60's flower petal clock hanging crookedly on the wall. "That clock is wrong." "Yeah, must have been a power outage or a brown out. That’s common in this neighborhood. When we got here, the bulb at the sink was blown too." "Has anyone entered the bathroom since you arrived?" "No. It was obvious he was dead. They waited for me and I was waiting for the coroner." "Then there is one thing I can contribute. The bath mat got soaked when the body relaxed in the tub. If you look at the mat under the commode, there is an impression of a shoe – from the size I would guess a man’s. Someone sat there and watched him die. Considering the matting of the fibers, I would guess that someone watched him for a long time." If Doggett was surprised, he was too much of a pro to show it. He returned her announcement with his own cool question, "What’s the FBI’s interest?" "Actually it’s his associates that the FBI has an interest in," lied Scully without lying, as the two walked back to the shambles of the living room. "Tax evasion?" inquired Doggett, showing the typical contempt that the local law enforcement have over FBI intrusion. "This doesn’t seem related to what else I am working on, however, I would like to keep in touch," Scully handed Doggett her card, which he returned with one of his own. Leaving the dead behind her, Scully went home wondering what exactly she was going to tell Samantha Mulder. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ VII. *"Watson here will tell you that I never can resist a touch of the dramatic." Sherlock Holmes - The Naval Treaty* Her key clicked softly in the lock and she tossed her coat wearily over the back of the couch. It was late, the trip to Ziegler’s apartment had delayed her homecoming and it was sometime in the early hours of the morning. Suppressing a yawn, she slipped out of her heels and padded softly to her bedroom. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she was about to unbutton her blouse when she noticed, as the Three Bears had, that someone was already in her bed. "Mulder?" she breathed out in surprise, her voice hardly above a whisper. Scully was not the screaming type – screaming out in surprise got you or your partner killed. He didn’t awake and from sitting, she laid back and touched his arm, calling his name a bit louder. He blinked a few times, before fully opening his eyes. "Hallo," he replied softly. It was a good thing for Fox Mulder that Dana Scully knew how to hold her temper. "Where have you been?" At this point, Scully would have thought she could not be surprised. She was wrong. "Russia." Scully rolled onto her back, attempting to collect her ragged feelings as she stared sightlessly at the ceiling. A warm hand crept into hers. "I’m glad to be home." She thought of what she would say and then heard the soft snuffling snore that revealed that Mulder had fallen right back to sleep. She watched him in silence. When emotions have been strung to long and too tight, sometimes they’re not enough of them left to feel. Gradually her breathing slowed, her eyes drooped and she joined him. She was startled awake by ringing of the phone. Fumbling for the receiver, her mind tried to fit the pieces together of the events of the night before. John Doggett, the detective of yesterday, was telling her something about autopsy results. She rubbed her eyes one handed while her brain tried to shake off the miasma of restless sleep. "No, I’m fine, just a bit groggy. Go ahead." She turned, positioning a pillow behind her back. The autopsy, finally completed, had revealed nothing except what would be usual from a healthy male committing suicide but if Scully was disappointed it didn’t show in her voice. The bed was empty and if it hadn’t been for the sound of the shower she would have thought Mulder’s sudden appearance had been only wishful dreaming. "When the forensics team was sweeping the room, they did discover shards of glass around the faucet and on the floor under the sink from the shattered light bulb. Of course with this guy’s cleaning skills, it might be a guess as to how long it’s been there." "Check for dust on the fragments," suggested Scully. She heard the shower stop, and glancing up saw through the slightly opened door, a very fine view presenting itself in the mirror. She lost several sentences of Doggetts’ conversation but was able to blink and re-focus when a towel was wrapped around Mulder’s waist. The conversation must have ended but Scully didn’t remember hanging up. Suddenly she was standing in front of Mulder, their hands clasped palm to palm, fingers tightly laced, and their bodies strung tight as wire. "I missed you." - said at the same time, one deep and masculine, one lighter and feminine. Then the attraction, the need, was too strong, and she bent to him, her cheek resting on his collarbone. One of his hands, now free, came up to invade her hair and the crying started. "It’s okay. I’m back," he mumbled, and that just seemed to make the whole thing worse. The dam broke - and grief - and fear - and sadness tumbled down the jagged rocks of pain and loneliness. Mulder seeing her defenseless, gave. By the time her clutching became embracing, she and Mulder were lying on the bed. "I love you," Mulder said seriously, looking into her fearful eyes. She blinked and swallowed. "I love you," she returned in a watery voice. He kept her gaze, unfazed by her reply, and continued, "When I was in prison, I thought about you. How we parted – " "Prison?" "Hush – just listen. I thought about how we last parted and knew that the only reason to come back was to explain it to you – make you understand – " "Prison?" The law-abiding Scully fastened on that one word. "Dana, forget about the prison part," he said exasperated. "Let’s work on one explanation at a time." "Okay," she agreed obediently. "Do you want children?" Scully eyed Mulder owlishly. With Mulder, questions weren’t as simple as they might appear. It would be easy to give a flippant answer and obviously neither of them wanted one. "I’m assuming you’re asking if I would want children with you – and if this is a proposal I think we’ve started it backwards? " Mulder interrupted her, too impatient to wait. "If we - - If we – " he was blushing and thinking about how their last physcial encounter had ended not how Dana had expected, she filled in the blank "make love?" "Then a child is the result." She felt his ribs give as he exhaled. Unlike a normal person, Mulder’s pronouncement couldn’t be completely laughed at. Invaded with a parasite, he had accurately predicted other events and insisted that he had seen the future – many futures (reader see Sleep). "Boy or girl?" "Does it matter?" "Well, not really but it would make it easier to plan the nursery." VIII. * "It is part of the settled order of nature that such a girl should have followers." Sherlock Holmes - The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist * Samantha entered the gallery of very good taste, with just a slight beep as her legs swung by the discrete electronic eye. It had been hard to win wall space for her work but as it was that perhaps all of her hard groveling had been pointless as nothing of hers had sold. So it hadn’t surprised her to get a phone call from the gallery owner, asking that she drop by today – it was probably her walking papers. Consulting her watch, Sam saw she had arrived early so she started to stroll through the displays, noticing that one friend had recently sold a bronze. "That should help with the grocery bill," muttered Sam under her breath, struggling with the conflict of gladness and jealousy. Her own stomach twinged, indicating that it was in agreement about selling something being good for Sam’s grocery budget. She turned the corner of the next wall and was startled to find herself facing one of her own canvases. She looked back to the front of the gallery to confirm that yes, her paintings had been moved to a location that provided better viewing and light. Had Rick lost all business sense? Had he lost his mind? "Her work is exceptional don’t you think?" came a soft voice behind her, and Samantha turned suddenly, surprised again. Her purse dropped in the turn and scattered items rolled everywhere. "Here let me help," said the newcomer, and while the two quickly gathered up Samantha’s things, she eyed the other covertly. She had short strawberry blonde hair cut very stylishly and freckles over a fair complexion. Although Sam might not wear designer clothes, she recognized them when she saw them. Rick interrupted the two women by making introductions. "Alexis Duberry, Samantha Mulder. Alexis is having lunch with us Sam. She’s a great admirer of your work." Samantha slung her heavy purse back over her shoulder and said nothing. Her ears must have heard wrong – Rick treating her to lunch? He must expect her to pay for her share of the meal. However, it seemed the afternoon was on Rick as he paid for the cab, tipping generously and then opened the door for Duberry and Samantha at a posh new French restaurant that commanded a premium view of the city. Samantha was even more impressed, as their party was ushered in due to reservations. She was going to order just a salad, in case Rick reneged on the bill, but when Duberry ordered a New York filet, and Rick a chicken Parmesan, Sam took the plunge and chose a salmon. When Rick didn’t even blink at her extravagance, she knew something was strange. Duberry kept staring at her through ultra-blonde lashes and Sam was finding it hard to relax. The woman’s gaze made Samantha wonder if she had lettuce caught in her teeth. The restaurant was fashionably lit at the tables with wall sconces, lending ambiance to the setting that surely be reflected on the bill. Samantha started to wrap the shadows of the restaurant around her – the noise of shuffling dishes, and tinkling silverware quieted and she could feel her calm returning as she started to disappear. Samantha had perfected disappearing to an art. She knew the day that her stepfather had said certain names in front of her, that even he had forgotten her presence. Sometimes a friend would laugh nervously and call her a witch, but Samantha knew that her powers were nothing supernatural – they were ones built under the extreme stress of needing to survive. Samantha listened to the drone of voices throughout the restaurant – rising and falling – the tinkle of the silverware and glasses, and the sounds of the French language, usually when the pass door from to the kitchen swung. She relaxed, breathing deeply and rhythmically. She became one with the heavily paneled walls. From her safe place she could watch Alexis and Rick and even find their dance of conversation amusing. The dance was intricate. Alexis and Rick obviously knew each other, though it seemed their acquaintance was casual. They spoke of mutual friends and connections, mentioning names of people that Samantha faintly recognized were large financial contributors to the art world. Obviously Duberry was the reason for the posh lunch and the star treatment. Rick was what one century would have called a "sharp fellow." He sniffed out patrons faster then Wall Street made them and he had a business acumen that had never failed him in spotting up and rising talent, and the money that could finance the shows at the right location with the appropriate audience. Not an artist himself, the slender, black-haired second generation Italian, seemed to have an instinctive flair of understanding what possessed an artist, no matter what the medium. "Samantha?" She melted back, entering their world again and regretting the loss of her role as onlooker. She guessed that Rick needed a pet artist to show off and she must have been the only one in town. Once Rick realized that he had Samantha’s attention, he said, "Alexis has decided to buy three of your works and wanted your recommendation on which three." If someone had hit Samantha in the solar plexus she would have had more breath. "I’m flattered," she managed to stutter out almost on a level tone. Did her voice squeak? No, it was fine. Alexis smiled, tiny and perfect white teeth showing under her perfect lipstick. How did one’s lipstick stay perfect during a meal? A trick to be mastered by only models. "Which three of those displayed at Ricks’ would you feel represent your best work, Samantha?" "The three most expensive ones,’ replied Samantha before she could think of a more polished answer. "No really, which ones? I really like to choose what the artist views as her personal favorite. It seems that those pieces have more of the creator’s vision and heart in the image." Alexis Duberry leaned forward, her elbows on the table, now bereft of lunch and dessert, and her so pale hands gently folded into each other. Since Duberry seemed to really want to know, and Sam felt no reason for subterfuge she replied honestly again, "No, I really did mean what I said. I price the paintings I care for higher." Duberry gave a short nod as if agreeing of understanding. "Boiling Point, Nexus and Day of Blue," added Samantha. "Amazing," exclaimed Rick, smiling even more. "Those are the three that Duberry had tentatively selected." You could almost see the ka-chings going down in Rick’s eyes. Thinking of what Rick would gain in commissions, Samantha wished she had ordered the Lobster but as it was her stomach was starting to roll and twist from the excitement on top of a rich lunch. "I think I need to use the ladies’ room." "Me too. I’ll show you were it is." And as the two quietly entered into the realm of a women’s world, a check of makeup, the adjusting of the slip or the bra strap, Samantha looked into the vanity mirror and shattered her world. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ /The next chapter is almost finished and will be posted over the weekend.~/