=====o================================================o===== "Rustic Suite" - Allemande (andantino) by Mary Ruth Keller (mrkeller@eclipse.net) Disclaimed in Prelude =====o================================================o===== -----o-------------------------------------------o----- Your honor's players, hearing your amendment, Are come to play a pleasant comedy; For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood, And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy: Therefore they thought it good you hear a play And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. The Taming of the Shrew -----o-------------------------------------------o----- Circle H Ranch Outside Maud, Texas Saturday, January 11, 1997 11:48 pm Steven Halberstam's leather boots rapped as he walked up the stone path to the cages. His brown hair was greying at the temples, but it was still full and luxuriant on his head. The florid-faced man of middling height had one other reminder of middle age, a slight swelling at his mid-section. His beauties had done their work for the night; it was time for their reward. He chuckled as his grandmother's voice rang in his ears: 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!'. When he reached the wire mesh enclosure, he set the buckets of meat down so he could unlatch the upper part of the door. The growls and howls that greeted him rose to a peak as the first chunks flew into the midst of the pack. He checked around for the one animal that was his pride and joy. At this time of night, its fur blended into the background, so all he usually saw were its red eyes, glowing like some specter. He tossed a juicy haunch at the embers, then the head dipped as his Leader ate greedily. The other canines were shifty, sneaky, little thieves who would never look you in the face for more than a second, but not Leader. He watched you come and go, and stared you down if you stayed too long. He had read of this species' intelligence, and after a few days, he knew all the things he had learned were true. Halberstam had never really needed to train the animal with cajoling and rewards. All he had to do was show it once, and the lesson was absorbed. He stared hard into the enclosure, but he knew where the dark beast was only by the light it blocked, not from any reflection that made it visible. If he were an old-fashioned mountain man, he would say Leader was a spirit animal, possessed of an unearthly intelligence that allowed him to bore into the soul of a person. He saw the red eyes, gazing fixedly at him again. A blink, then the carnivore returned to his meal. No, their work would attract the attention of the human animal he sought to catch, the man he thought he had put out of his mind forever. Until one day last summer, when he turned on CNN to update himself on the earthquake in Mexico, and there was *that* face. The confused, sleepy eyes, the sensitive lips, but behind it all, the keen mind of a hunter. More a tracker than one of these modern-day orange vest-wearing types with their helicopters, GPS receivers, and wildlife reserves ever had to be. As he descended to the ranch house, the handles for the empty buckets in his left fist, he smirked at the irony of it all. The man who had ruined his life with that carefully drawn profile, the too-perfect dissection of his character and soul, would come to him soon, following his pack, his pride, to his den. Here, on his turf, not in the Hunter's domain of the courtroom, he would exact his retribution. It didn't matter to Steven that he was a free man, since it had taken almost all his family's money to buy the lawyers for his defense. If the Hunter had not faltered, had not made one wrong assumption, all the high-priced attorneys in the world could not have kept him from the gas chamber. As he, Steven Halberstam, had seen his family and reputation torn apart by the modern equivalent of the lynch mob, the sensationalist press, so he would see his nemesis torn apart by his beauties. --o-0-o-- X-files Offices Second Floor J. Edgar Hoover Building Friday, January 17, 1997 6:16 pm Scully shifted in her chair. She had been listening patiently to the woman before her complain about her partner for nearly a half an hour, but now it seemed like she was winding down. "Agent Scully, I don't see how you stand to work with him! I mean, he's very polite and all, but he's so, so, ... " Scully nodded. Their second candidate in a week, Cynthia Mulholland, a petite brunette, twenty-two, was fresh out of secretarial trade school. She had impressed the partners with her cheerful, can-do attitude. Their original choice, a friend of Director Skinner's assistant Gloria, had been reluctantly released when her husband suffered a severe stroke. "Different? Totally focused one moment and completely spaced out the next?" Dana Scully favored the new secretary with a slight smile. "Cynthia, Mulder takes some adjusting to." "Give yourself some time; it took us almost four years to work out our differences and settle into our present partnership." She smiled again. "Go home and take a long, hot bath or spend some time with that handsome boyfriend of yours. Forget Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, the X-files, and the Hoover Building. We've appreciated your help with the move; I'd forgotten how many files and evidence trays we'd accumulated over the years." Cynthia returned the supportive sentiment. "What about you, Agent Scully? With Agent Mulder's side still tender you did most of the work. I saw your arms..." Scully leaned back in her chair. Her paranoid partner had refused to use the regular FBI office movers, and with what she knew from their latest case, Scully had seconded his concerns. So, the three of them had carted box after box of papers, slides, and samples into the elevator and out again for the better part of the week. Scully crinkled her nose. "That's what partners are for, Cynthia, now off with you." The girl hurried out of her office into the anteroom. Scully watched her bring down her machine, pack, and leave. When the outer door closed, she rose, walked to the barrier between their offices and knocked once. Mulder's droll tenor emanated from the other side. "You rang?" She turned the knob to enter her partner's disorganized working space. He had happily piled most of his files and notes on the conference table at the far end of the room, where they had lined the three walls with filing cabinets and map cases. Scully had set up his computer in the corner between the two windows in his office, next to his large new desk. In his only concession to his new position, he kept it executive-bare, except for a few personal items. The yellowed 'I want to believe' poster was thumbtacked over the computer, where it was visible from the desk, the conference table, or her father's old recliner. Scully, by contrast, had spent the last two days sorting and filing all the medical evidence pertaining to their strange cases as the data were brought upstairs. It was here that the unimplemented filing system she had worked out before being called down to Chiapas had proven a God-send. Her partner, however, was constitutionally unable to pass up such an opportunity for mischief. He kept moving the contents of the files from one neatly labeled folder to another, then endured her scolding and glares with twinkling eyes. From her tidy desk, she could look up, past her two visitor's chairs, to two rows of filing cabinets, all new, lined up like sentinels on the way to the outside door. Mulder was dancing in the middle of his room, shooting his orange Rawlings basketball at the hoop he had mounted on the windowless wall by the end of his desk. The space beneath their offices was the front waiting area, so he could bounce and shoot to his heart's content. He missed, and the ball rebounded in Scully's direction. Her eyes lit as she grabbed it with one hand and started dribbling around the room, pausing only to kick off her heels. Mulder had insisted the plush grey carpet be removed while they were in Miami (My seeds, Scully, my seeds!) and she had agreed, preferring a hard surface for her castered chairs. The janitorial staff had worked overtime mopping and buffing the stained linoleum, but the original flooring had weathered the years remarkably. Now, his eyes glittering as well, he feinted towards her, but she dodged to her left, keeping the desk between them long enough to take her shot. The ball arced just over his fingertips, hit the backboard and rebounded into the mesh of the basket, spiraling down into his waiting hands. He smirked as he faced her. "Well, Muggsy, care to face off for another three points?" She tossed her head. "Mulder, you know I can't block you. But," she teased, dropping her jacket on the desk, "there's always the distraction factor." Mulder smirked at the sleeveless ruby silk blouse under the prim grey wool suit, darker in spots from her perspiration. "You're such a wild woman, Scully." He rested the basketball on the stand on the right far corner of his desk. "Let's put that energy to some good purpose, shall we?" He passed her an X-File and slouched in his chair, watching her settle in the recliner. As she finished reading and closed the folder, she sighed. "Mulder, you really don't think these cattle mutilations are anything more than coyote attacks, do you?" Propping his feet up, he rested his head in the fingers he interlaced behind it, relishing their quiet time alone together. "Coyotes in Arkansas? Scully, that's reaching if you ask me." She shook her head, the helmet of red hair moving in counterpoint to her motion, picked up her jacket, and slipped back into her office. In the few minutes she was absent, Mulder collected her shoes, and, noting that the color matched her blouse, began clicking the sides together in his hands. On her return, she noticed his wistful expression. "Wishing you were still down below?" As he had closed the door to their basement office for the last time, he had drawn a considerable sigh and intoned, "Remember, thou art but mortal." He flashed a pensive grin. "No place like home? Nah." He pointed at the basket. "Our upscale digs have their compensations." Releasing her shoes to fall in his lap, he dropped his feet to the floor and took the newspaper clipping she was holding. 'Coyote Raids on Farms Cost Owners Millions', the headline shouted. After thumping his heels resoundingly back on the desk top, he scanned the remainder quickly. She reclaimed the Naugahyde recliner, pushing on the back to pop the footrest up. Her father's favorite chair, Margaret hated the shiny green plastic upholstery, but had hidden it in the attic rather than lose another piece of her beloved Captain. Mulder spotted it while searching the rafters for wiretaps with Byers, and had declared it 'excellent.' Margaret, who harbored fading hopes of making Fox Mulder an official member of her family, had willingly given it to him. The previous day, he had rented a truck to bring it back from Annapolis. Now her daughter was stretching and relaxing her legs in it, first rotating her feet, then rubbing her calves. Mulder dropped the paper on his desk. "Okay, Scully, *maybe*. But why cattle? If they can fill up on the dead and diseased chickens the farmers bury in the woods, why work hard to take down live animals?" Scully shrugged. "Perhaps the farmers haven't buried enough to keep them warm in the cold. Perhaps they hadn't buried any at all for awhile. Perhaps a few are rabid and attacking anything they can. I don't know for sure, Mulder." He continued to play with her shoes, sliding his fingers along the indentation her foot left in the inner sole, feeling the ridges her toes made. "But we should check it out?" She cocked her head. "Now, as in tonight?" Smirking, he held up a pair of airline tickets. Scully rolled her eyes, resigning herself to another weekend away from home. Crossing the room in two easy strides, he stood by the foot of her chair, and before she could protest, gently dropped her pumps back on her toes. "The game's afoot, Watson." Mulder bent over his grimacing partner. "Or do you want to be Holmes this time? We'll be leaving in two hours from National. That's just enough time for a quick dinner at CPK's and packing." As she growled and wiggled back into her shoes, he held out his hand to help her up. --o-0-o-- Circle H Ranch Outside Maud, Texas Friday, 8:18 pm Judge Harry Lamb rapped on Steven Halberstam's office door. The light passing through the opaque glass panel shifted as the occupant of the desk crossed the room and opened it wide. "Judge Lamb! Thank you for a wonderful dinner last Friday. Come in, come in!" The tall, elegant, white-haired man followed him to a plush leather sofa, set at right angles to his rosewood desk, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory. Halberstam knew the Judge preferred his Scotch neat and well-aged, so he brought the bottle of twenty-five year old Macallan's and two glasses with him when he returned from the bar. They savored the sherried aroma and smooth flavor for a few minutes before settling down to business. Judge Lamb placed his glass on a teak side table. "Now Steven, I could sit here, drinking your fine Single Malt all evening long, but I know you are a busy man, so please, come to the point." Halberstam smiled as he refilled their glasses. "Thank you, Harry. In a few days, I will be mailing a cassette across the border, and at some point soon thereafter, you may be asked to issue a warrant for my arrest." He met the Judge's eyes. "I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I would be if that warrant were actually approved." The Judge inclined his head. "I see. But Gene Arthur and I will have to, shall we say, go through the motions before we inform you?" "Indeed. The appearance of justice must be preserved." After the two shook hands, Halberstam escorted the older man to the front door of his ranch. "It's good doing business with you, Judge. You'll see a nice increase in your retirement fund by the end of the week." He watched as the white hair was swallowed by the spacious interior of a Rolls, waving as the vehicle sped down the driveway. --o-0-o-- Fortner's Family Inn Outside Fordyce, Arkansas Friday, 11:58 pm "What? You just have one room left?" Mulder frowned at Abner Fortner, the proprietor of the only hotel for miles around the site of the mutilations. The light from the overhead reflecting off his bald pate, the little man nodded. Just before the agents had rung the bell on his front desk, he had settled down for the night. Now he greeted them, in his undershirt and shoeless, but not sockless, nor had he switched out of his brown woolen trousers. Mulder glanced over at his partner, who was leaning against the counter. Their flight out of DC to Little Rock had been delayed on the runway after boarding in National's usual Friday night rush, so they had just arrived. Scully used her no nonsense voice to reply, "We'll take it." She was propping her head up with her arm. Mulder felt for her. Abner was wiggling his oversized feet back into his leather slippers. "You folks realize it's the Honeymoon Suite? We built a little bungalow out back, a love nest that doesn't get used much at this time of year." Mulder blanched. But his partner was either more forgiving or more exhausted than he thought. "That's fine. It could be a bed of nails for all I care." She followed the short man back to the outside walkway, while Mulder hoisted both bags and brought up the rear. But Scully waited, keeping the door open, and held out her hand for her duffle. "Sorry, you're bushed too. Let's hope the sofa is comfortable." A look of mock horror on his face, he passed her bag over. "Ooh! And on our wedding night, Scully!" She allowed herself a tiny grin. "For me, partner, not you. I expect the room not to have a couch that would be anything more than a two-seater, and you'll have a rough time on that." She shook her head, then teased, "No arguments, the Head of the X-files Section is my personal priority." She grasped his shoulder, and he bent under her hand so she could reach his ear as she stood on tiptoe. "With luck, Mulder, it'll be a waterbed, and you can float the night away." He smirked as they trotted quickly after the little man, now shivering as he waited in the sub-freezing cold. The inn had ten rooms in the flat two-story structure, five on each floor, and they heard televisions blaring, water running, and snoring as they passed the various doors and windows. --o-0-o-- "Gee, how *romantic*." Mulder's mercurial nature switched to trickster mode as his red-haired partner's face contracted into an 'I don't believe I'm seeing this' frown. The room was decorated in PINK. Scully scanned the entire living space, taking in the pink wallpaper with columns of tiny red hearts, the pink lace curtains with bright red bows for tie-backs, and the pink lamps with little gilded turtledoves for finials. But it was the bright pink upholstery and lace bed coverings that staggered her sensibilities. Grimacing, Scully wondered if the bathroom was decorated in the same hideous color. In the same cool, rational voice Mulder used for interrogating nervous witnesses, he asked their host for a quick tour of the room. To their right, the little man was gesturing at a canopied, heart-shaped bed, with ceramic life-sized cherubs mounted on the walls around it. After Mulder and Scully locked eyes, she groaned silently. Directly in front of them was a pink overstuffed sofa and two side chairs, facing a white twenty-eight inch television that sat on a white table. Their owner moved the pink taffeta curtain around the legs of the table aside to reveal a collection of equally cloying Romantic movies. After reading 'An Affair to Remember,' Scully closed her eyes to avoid the rest of the titles. Matching white end tables flanked the sofa, supporting silver urn-shaped lamps with rose-colored shades. As the owner leaned into the bathroom to flick on the lights, Mulder caught her eye and stuck his index finger into his mouth. His gesture forced her to rapidly clap a hand over her own to keep from giggling at their sincere host. "Hey Scully, it's the Mary Kay Memorial Suite." Mulder treated her to what he hoped was his best sarcastic whisper as her crossed behind her, taking her bag and dropping both on the end of the bed. As the partners watched them bob up and down, the older man smiled. "All my wife's choices, God Rest Her Soul. We even had the floor reinforced for the water bed and the heater. If you folks want any dinner, Sal's stays open until two am. He makes a great omelette." As the proprietor left, smiling in parting, Mulder thanked him. The tall agent turned to face Scully, who had collapsed in one of the chairs to laugh out loud once the sound of footsteps faded. "I'll see about some heat, Scully. I think we'll need it tonight." She snorted one final time and looked over. "Well, these types of places usually have decently-sized bathtubs, though I can't guess what color it might be." She bounced on the sofa experimentally, then lifted an eyebrow. "So far, Mulder, as long as I keep my eyes closed, not too bad in the comfort department." As she shut the bathroom door, he grunted and fiddled with the heater's controls. A hum started behind him so he whirled. --o-0-o-- Scully stepped out of the sunken heart-shaped tub and wrapped herself in a plush pink body sheet. In her haste, she had left her robe in DC, and her pajamas were still in her duffle bag, so she called out for her partner, but heard no response. She poked her head out the door. He had moved their bags to the floor, dropping the suit and tie on his, but he appeared to be nowhere in the room. The terry cloth sheet was long enough that she could coil it around herself three times, and wide enough that it hung down past her knees. As she crossed behind the sofa to reach her bag, she caught a blob of dark hair in her peripheral vision and stopped. He was lying with his eyes closed, wearing his grey sweatpants and FBI sweatshirt, using his long black trench coat as a blanket. She bent over him, clutching the towel tightly. He had drifted into the first stage of sleep, but stirred as he sensed her nearby. "Scully?" Pushing himself into a sitting position, he regarded her contritely. "I'm sorry, but the only heat is for the water bed. Are you sure you don't want it? I won't mind taking the couch. I can watch TV and fall asleep as usual." He stood over her. "You and Cynthia moved most of the boxes and notes." Mulder waved his hand at the monstrosity of lace and satin. "You ..." Scully crossed her arms, preparing a quip that she hoped would give her the advantage. "What, and let you risk permanent brain damage watching all those videos?" When his eyes flashed, she smirked. "Those? Please, I have some standards." He sobered. "Really, Scully. I'd be okay." Pointing at his side for emphasis, she shook her head. "Doctor's orders, Mulder. Now if I can find a blanket, *I'll* be fine." One arm clamped around the towel, she searched the drawers and closets, finding nothing but two extra pink pillows. He cleared his throat. "Um, I think this place only gets used during the summer, if you catch my drift. That's why there's no heat, and since it's off on its own, we can't depend on the rest of the building to keep us warm." Her shoulders sagged. "I'll use my coat, then." He walked over to stop her with a hand on her back. "Go ahead and take the bed, please. You need to rest well sometime, and moving didn't help your shoulder or your wrist." Worn from the lifting and travel, she leaned into his touch. "I know, Mulder, it's just that this place is, is, ..." He glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, it makes my skin crawl too. Your Mother would love it if we used this room for its intended purpose, but that's not who we are, Scully. So go throw on those rad plaid PJ's of yours and settle in before you fall down." "Okay." She gazed up at him. "Thanks, Mulder." Returning to the sofa, he watched her lift her tan flannel nightclothes and brown wool socks out of her bag. Their subtle color contrasted sharply with the row of red hearts embroidered along the borders of the garish body sheet. Settling back, he heard the bathroom door close, and in a minute or so, open. As he suspected, she took the empty space by his feet at the end of the sofa, and raised both eyebrows at him. Sliding over to her, he gestured with his head at the bed, pushing on her shoulder. "Hey, no, Scully. All we have are our coats, and you'll freeze to death over there. Go." She crossed her arms and shook her head fiercely. The silent battle of wills was joined. He frowned. She set her jaw. Mulder found himself contrasting their present situation with the nightmare at Comity, almost a year ago, when they could barely stand each other's company. He had thrown himself at Detective Angela White at her home and the woman had reciprocated when she came to his tiny hotel room. The scene that ensued when Scully walked in would shame him to his death. Remembering checking her for her perfume, Mulder sniffed lightly and a puzzled crease formed in his brow. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you smell different." Looking over at him, she was surprised he had noticed, then was further baffled by his somber expression. Finally, she understood. Recalling her Solstice hallucination, she hoped that sharing her problems would pull him out of himself. "Remember how I thought initially that my case of the virus was just a reaction to the perfumes and dyes in the laundry room at the Boy's Home?" He nodded. "After we came back in off the streets, I developed a severe scalp rash from my commercial shampoo, so Susan suggested I make up a few self-prepared herbal cleansers. I've tried several this week, and this one seems to work the best. Mel always had skin problems and I must be developing them as well." He grinned. "You and Susan and those herbs. Which are they this time?" She lifted one corner of her mouth, her eyes glowing. "Guess." He inhaled again, enjoying the game, mentally identifying rosemary, calendula, and chamomile. As the grin traveled to one side of his mouth, she knew his dark cloud had lifted, and she felt her own aches. "Mulder?" His eyes still closed, still savoring this closeness they had worked so hard to obtain, he reached for her shoulder. "Hum?" "Are you sure about this? I mean, if I take the bed, you'll be able to rest, won't you?" He sobered. Standing, Mulder crossed the room to his bag, tugging his Oxford sweatshirt and his own wool socks free of the opening to pull them over his head and feet, respectively. He smoothed his hair down with both hands. "Scully, stop fussing like a mother hen. I've watched you rub that shoulder and crack your wrist more times this past week than I care to count. It's late, even for me, so go drift gently down the tides of sleep." But she was still keyed up from the travel, her mind racing, and she slid off the couch, pacing to expend her nervous energy. He waited until the physical exertion had drained her, then walked over to stop his partner with a hand on her arm. She sighed. Mulder settled her on the sofa, standing behind her. Worried that their last case had worn her down more than she was willing to admit, even to herself, he gently massaged the knots out of her muscles. The previous year, despite the return of the close friendship he was afraid they had lost, had been hard on his partner's body. In addition to the surgery, he knew the migraines, nightmares, and skin allergies were all reactions to the continuing stress they were under. Once her shoulders and her stiff left arm relaxed in his hands, he stopped, resting his forearms on the sofa back. Leaning until his mouth was close to her ear, he commented quietly, "It is a struggle, isn't it?" "Hum?" She tipped her head back to meet his eyes. He grinned. "Our investigations of the extra-normal, I mean." She raised an eyebrow. "Notice I didn't say paranormal, since oftentimes what we find is not beyond the realm of possibility, just unusual or unique." Mulder walked around the sofa to sit beside her. "I like to think of myself as a researcher studying the unknown, but we always run up against time limitations in our cases." He leaned back. "We usually have a death or some strange occurrence to find reasons for, like this case, okay?" She nodded. "We come here, ask a few questions, collect what evidence we can, and try to reach some preliminary - " He bowed his head. " - if contradictory conclusions, then fly back to DC to write X-File number whatever up and move on. We don't have the time to do follow-up studies because we're onto our next case, as you know." She leaned towards him, picking up his thoughts. "Something else vital to good research that we never seem to have, Mulder, is repeatability." He snorted in agreement. "Most of the phenomena we encounter are ephemeral, or the evidence is all hearsay, so it's difficult to track anything down to a fixed source." She chewed her lip before she continued, "You saw when I was working with Susan how many tests and trials we put those drugs through, and we're nowhere near ready to submit them for FDA approval. That process itself will take at least seven years, but you and I both know how well those extracts worked on the virus." Nodding, he twisted carefully to ease the cramp in his side. "We may both be on disability by then." Scully frowned. Leaning forward, she tucked her feet under herself and lifted his arm over his head, pursing her lips at his smirk so he would keep still. Too worn to argue, he submitted in silence as she slid her hand under his shirts to gently probe the damaged bone. Gratified for her attention, he watched her facial expression shift from concern to curiosity to relief before she sat back on her ankles. "You're healing well, Mulder, but would you like something for the pain?" He shook his head as she set one foot on the floor to cross the room for her bag. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he stopped her from leaving. "This is more important, go on." Her eyes defocused as she remembered her words. "Mulder, I know you believe most of what we've seen is real, whereas I don't. But I know you want proof of your beliefs, and only with that proof will I accept that what we investigate is the truth." He shrugged. She continued, "Well, I see the lack of repeatability as a big problem in nailing these phenomena down." She crossed her arms and leaned against the back of the sofa. "To experiment, we need to be able to vary the conditions of an environmental set-up and see how the phenomena change with changing circumstances, but for most of our cases, that's nearly impossible. Take, for instance, the case with the boy who had the dead twin brother in Maryland." "The Calusari?" he prompted. She nodded. "We're not monsters, like Klemper, so we can't take a set of twins born to another woman in that religion, kill one at birth, and stand back to see if the other develops psychokinetic ability, now can we?" Mulder closed his eyes. "Not only would that be immoral and unethical, we would never have exactly the same situations again, so it wouldn't be a true repeat of the case." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Or take Virgil Incanto. It would be great if someone could figure out why he was incapable of producing body fat ..." Scully lifted one corner of her mouth. "A dieter's dream, Mulder. But, yes, it would. We know a few of the genes and compounds involved in fat regulation, but we are nowhere ready to try them on people. In addition, until the Human Genome Project is complete, there won't be a standard DNA sample to compare Incanto's against. Without that, we can't know that if somehow, we produced more people like him, ..." He nodded. "We wouldn't just be producing more monsters." Scully rubbed back and forth against the upright cushions until she had hollowed out a slight depression. Watching her, Mulder grinned at her efforts. "Eugene Tooms could make a better nest than that." She snorted. "Tooms. He'd tapped into our other great dream." Mulder waved one arm in the air. "Yeah, I can see the book title now: 'How to live forever on fifteen livers a century'." He patted her knee. "Sorry, Scully, one of those almost was yours." Yawning, he rubbed his face. "This is getting deep; I must be having some effect on you." She lifted her chin. "That happens when two people work together as long and as closely as we have." Pensive, he focused on his hands. "Most of the time, we can't even meet Thucydides' criterion." "Hum? Which one?" Surprised, he looked over at her. "Not taking the first account that came along, but only recording those events he actually saw, or had verified the eyewitness accounts of? I did *something* at Oxford besides chase Phoebe, you know." They locked eyes. Scully stifled a yawn before checking his wrist. "Mulder, I'd love to talk more, but it is one ten." "You're ready to sleep?" She nodded, but a knock interrupted them. --o-0-o-- Annapolis, Maryland Saturday, January 18, 1997 1:04 am Margaret Scully awoke at the Pomeranian's bark. She pulled on her robe and slippers, descending to the main floor behind her now full-time canine companion. The stairs were a stretch for his short body, so his tail and hips tracked out a rolling spiral, that made her smile, as he bumped down ahead of her. She could see a uniformed man's silhouette through the glass in the door, and for a moment, her heart stopped. She flipped the switch for the outside fixture, checking out the front window as she did. "Charlie?" She noticed his face and hands were deeply freckled from his latest cruise. Her younger son was waving at the slit of light, grinning happily while she unlocked the door. Since he was just a few inches taller than Dana and herself, Margaret threw her arms around his neck, the stiff ends of his freshly-cut fuzz tickling her nose. She mused to herself that only if his hair grew slightly longer than regulations permitted, would he develop the same beautiful auburn curls Dana had. Margaret would never understand why her younger daughter had cut her tresses shorter and forced them into the severe style she had adopted after her abduction. After bussing her cheek, he whispered, "There's my gorgeous Mom." She ushered him to the kitchen, her hand tucked behind his elbow. "Are you all right?" "I'm fine. We made port a day and a half ahead of schedule, so I thought I'd surprise you and Val." He spun his hat in his hand. "Happy to see me?" She beamed at his crinkled nose. "Always. Let me fix you something for the road. Are you sure you don't want to call ahead to Alice and John?" He shook his head before stopping quickly in the downstairs bathroom. When he emerged, he took a seat at the kitchen table. "No, Val's mom would be up the rest of the night cleaning, you know that." He scooted the chair over to scratch the little dog's ears where it had curled on a mat by the heating vent. She watched him playing with the Pomeranian, then, when their eyes met, they laughed together at the thought. Valerie Scully came from a family of women who raised domesticity to a high art. Margaret had joked with her daughters at their wedding that, in the Lowry household, dust never even began to descend on the furniture, let alone settle, before Alice Lowry whipped a cloth over it. She was glad both her girls had found better things to do with their lives, despite Melissa's attachment to her earth mother lifestyle. Margaret glanced over at her younger son. "Well, Charlie, little John will have grown more than you expect, even though you've only been gone three weeks. I'd forgotten how fast they do at that age." She sobered. "How was the shock trial?" "Fine, Mom." He walked to the counter, patting her shoulder when he reached her. "They really aren't trying to sink the ship, you know." He took a white mug emblazoned with a blue anchor off the stand. "Actually, they're boring. Once we reach the test site, we just sit and wait, while the contract engineers scramble all over the ship after one of the charges is set off. Some of the old guys are ex-Navy, so they tell good stories. How were the rest of the holidays?" Margaret busied herself with the sugar, absently breaking apart lumps with a spoon. Charlie touched her shoulder. "Mom?" "I met Fox's new stepfather on Epiphany. He invited me down to Miami for a wedding ceremony for him and Caroline at his synagogue." Her face reddened. He stepped back, confused. "Oh? That was a bad thing?" She shook her head. "No, I enjoyed my time with them. Max is a good man, and Caroline deserves a little happiness." She rubbed her face. "No, Dana was almost killed down there, Charlie." He hugged her. "Where was that weird partner of hers at the time, Mom? Was he still on that homeless case or off chasing his aliens?" She rubbed his arm, before they filled their mugs, then returned to the kitchen table, where they sat side by side. "He was right there for her, Charlie. He worries about her almost more than I do. Someone's after both of them, as well as Caroline and Max, but all anyone will tell me is that I'm better off not knowing why. I don't like feeling left out; it's almost as bad as with you boys anymore." He held her hand, thinking. "Dad was right. Dana should never have joined the FBI. She should have been a regular doctor, so she could have had a husband and kids." Pursing her lips, Margaret shook her head. "No, she wouldn't have been happy. She loves what she does, and she and Fox are as close as two people can be, I suppose, so she's not alone." He grinned. "So you've been having some luck?" She sighed. "Unfortunately, it's not like that, Charlie. Oh, perhaps at some point far down the road, but their work is, well, different. They've been through so much together it's as if they have their own little culture just for them. Fox and I had a nice long chat about his admiration and respect for her. In fact, he broke down crying as told me he would rather die than let anything happen to her, but he thinks of Dana as another sister, more or less." "Oh." He sipped his coffee. "So the tomboy's struck out again. Figures." Margaret faced her son. "Charles! That's not fair! Dana is very content with their relationship as it is. She's tried so hard, at least be happy she's been promoted. She'll have two other agents working with her and Fox soon." "Really? Sometimes I think we're all too much a part of some rat race to success." He sighed. "America needs to return to its roots to be good again." Margaret touched his arm. "Have you been listening to that Far Right nonsense on the radio?" He shrugged, finishing the last of his coffee. "It's hard to avoid these days, you know. It's all throughout the military. There are even groups who don't think Hitler was such a bad guy." She gasped. "Charles O'Shea Scully! Do you know what happened to Caroline's family? Her parents were killed at Dachau, and Max was there!" He walked to the counter to place his mug in the sink. "Mom, it's okay. I'm not saying I believe all that stuff, just that it's out there. You've told me about Caroline already, so I know that part's a lie. But, our country is in such bad shape with all the crime and the breakdown of the family. Sometimes you wonder if the old days weren't better, despite all the prejudice and poor hygiene. That's all." He lifted a thermos from under the sink and poured the remainder of the pot into it. "I'd better hit the road. Scranton's still a long way off." He held up the bottle. "Thanks for the black gold." She joined him, hugging him from behind. "I know. I'm glad you stopped by." As they walked to the door, they kissed each other on the cheek. "Give everyone my love." He nodded, then headed out to his car. Charles Scully looked up at the house as he backed out, and smiled. Margaret's hand flew up and down furiously, the beat matching the wag of the tail on the Pomeranian, tucked under her other arm. After he cleared the front bushes, he straightened the wheel and accelerated, punching the radio's tuner buttons until he found a repeat of G. Gordon Liddy's talk show. --o-0-o-- Fortner's Family Inn Saturday, 1:10 am Mulder and Scully exchanged puzzled glances at the rapping sound before he walked over to answer the door. Abner Fortner stood outside, his head almost obscured by an armload of blankets. "Thought you folks might need these tonight. Sorry there's no heat in the place." Scully joined them to accept the covers as Mulder thanked the man and closed the door. She dropped the grey blankets on the sofa and began to snuggle under two of them. Crossing to the bed, he returned with two pillows, resigned to the understanding that he would share the couch with her tonight. "I was so beat when I dropped the bags on that thing I didn't see how revolting it was, Scully. Check this out." Holding up a pillow, he pointed to the swans embroidered with gilded threads on the pillowcase. Scully rolled her eyes, but took one for her head. She curled up against the back of the couch, pulling her covers up to her chin. Angling himself sideways, the tall agent leaned against the other bolster, stretching his long legs out, and throwing a blanket across them. "Sorry to drag you out of town on a weekend." She opened one green-blue eye to focus on his anxious face. "It's all right. I asked you to take me with you when you run, and I knew what it meant when I did." She lifted one corner of her mouth. "I can only clean that apartment so much, and we should be able to wrap this case up fairly quickly. I'd rather be out here with you than listen to you complain about cockroaches and preying mantises on my cel phone." Grinning at the memory, he watched her eyes slide shut, and heard her respiration settle into a relaxed rhythm. He gazed at the auburn hair that had fallen over her face, regretful that since they would begin screening new agents next week, this would be more or less their final case for just the two of them. It would be fitting for her to be right, but perhaps, it would be something more and they could argue, creating and destroying theories with comfortable abandon. Either way, life felt very, very good right now. He studied their reflection in the television tube, then shifted his eyes back to her. She looked so peaceful when she slept, until a nightmare came, and he fervently hoped she would be free of those tonight. He twisted to reach behind him, turning off the light and resting against the sofa back, gratified he could help her to some ease. --o-0-o-- Dana Scully was floating on the sea. Not physically floating, but sailing. She and a small band of monks with her were crossing the dark Atlantic Ocean seeking lost souls to the west. She looked down at the rough woolen socks that her order had authorized for the voyage, glad not to be barefoot in her sandals. She lifted the skirt of her brown robe and giggled. She wiggled her hips, watching the knees below her flex. She dropped her skirt and raised her hands to her chest. She touched her face, then her head, feeling the bald skin and ring of short, curly hair. When she took a deep breath, the air was so heavy with salt she could taste it. She listened to the waves as they lapped against the boat. Someone called to her, "Brother Daniel, come quickly! Brother William has cut his leg! Bring your bag!" She turned to view the speaker, who was on the starboard side of their large coracle. Brother Charles was always waxing and patching the skins to keep them afloat through this long journey of exploration. Scully's feet stepped over the lines coiled on the wooden planking and she (he?) ducked under the faded canvas of his (her?) tent, lifting a grey leather bag off the deck. He checked the packets of herbs, seeking out his supply of dried thyme as he followed the sounds of concerned voices to the stern. Four of his fellow monks were gathered around a supine figure, one of them pressing down on the man's calf with the hem of his robe. Brother Daniel pushed him aside, exposing the deep gash. Daniel rested a hand on the shoulder of his injured companion. "Brother William, how did you do this?" Daniel and William had entered the monastery together, passing through their novitiates the same year, and shared a cell at St. Anselm's. A frightened pair of hazel eyes met his own. "I was raising the third sail and caught my leg on the support peg. You won't have to take it, will you?" Daniel sobered. He pushed several clean cloths down on the wound and gestured with his head to one of the lay brothers to apply the same even pressure he had. "It's too soon to tell, William." He turned to Father Brendan, who had joined the small group. "Father, I need a fire started quickly." The older man nodded, the gesture sending Brother Andrew towards the bow where he fixed their small meals of porridge and fish. A fire was a hazard on a leather and wood craft, so Andrew kept the coals in a deep cauldron for safety and control. Now, he carefully stoked the smoldering embers, bringing the heat up gradually. Daniel looked over at Brother William's face. "Be at peace, Brother, we are all in God's hands. I'll need to clean this wound carefully with one of my concoctions as soon as it is ready. Did you injure yourself in any other place?" "No, Brother Daniel, only there." He touched his shoulder again. "Then I'll step away to prepare it for you." Father Brendan joined him as he traversed the deck. "How bad is it for our dreaming brother, my Son?" Daniel considered. "All is not lost, Father. Although the wound is jagged, there is no wood lodged in it, and our brother's favor with the Blessed Mother has kept him from grievous harm once again. No major blood vessels were severed." Daniel dipped a leather bucket over the side of the boat, and looped its rope handle over the hook at the apex of the tripod that suspended the cauldron up off the floor. Adding thyme, some rosemary for the Virgin, and a touch of rue to honor William's grace he sent a quick prayer to all the Saints as he stoked the fire so the water would boil. After bubbles began to roil the surface, he dropped in the dried herbs, waiting through twelve Pater Nosters (for the Apostles) to give the leaves time to release their vital oils. Turning, he called back two of the lay brothers and the three returned to the injured man. "Now William, I need to move you to the cauldron, but I'm applying a tourniquet first." Daniel took a long piece of cloth-covered rope and a smooth branch from his bag, using them to stem the blood flow. Brother William blanched at the throbbing in his leg as his fellow monks carried him to the bow of the ship. Father Brendan laid his hand on William's shoulder. "Have courage, my Son. God is with you." The brown ring tilted up and down, then the monk gasped as the hot tea ran over the wound. Daniel dabbed carefully at the drying blood, exposing the white edges of the tear. He dropped his needle and some sinew in the water, stoking the fire to bring the water to a boil again. As long as his patient could take the heat, he washed carefully. Brother William, for all his sensitivity, bore up bravely until Daniel was certain the wound was completely cleaned. Daniel planned his stitches. He laid his hand on the monk's sweating forehead. "William, you know what I have to do." His companion closed his sad eyes, making Daniel wonder, not for the first time, why such a gentle man as William looked so guilty and lost so much of his life. His patient tensed as the hot needle pierced his flesh, but kept silent until Daniel finished. "How is it?" the injured man croaked. Daniel began packing up his supplies. "The Blessed Virgin had smiled on you once again, William, and you will recover without a limp." Daniel clasped his fellow monk's hand, then wrapped the leg in more soft cloths. "We'll carry you to my tent, where you can sleep while the rest of us work double shifts for you." After the monastics exchanged small smiles, Daniel gestured towards the canvas. The lay brothers carried the lanky body towards his little shelter, but a wave struck the sturdy boat, jostling the man out of their arms. Father Brendan sounded the alert and all hands, including William's, were set to the sails and lines. Dana heard the injured monk call to her, so she sat up. --o-0-o-- "Scully, you okay?" Dana Scully was bolt upright on the sofa, breathing heavily. Mulder sat beside her to lean in front of her face. "I had to visit the little girl's room, and you were mumbling when I returned. You want to tell me what's on your mind?" Scully considered the dream images carefully, then lifted her eyes to his. "Mulder, may I examine your leg?" He smirked. "Only my leg, Scully?" She shot him the Look. He swung them both onto the cushions. She pushed the elastic band up over the knee on his right limb, then his left, inspecting his smooth skin. Satisfied, she pulled the cloth back down to his ankles, and noted his puzzled expression. "I dreamt you and I were monks, crossing the Atlantic with Saint Brendan and that you had cut your leg. I was the healer and was patching you up." She glanced down at her hands, clasped in her lap. "I know it's silly, Mulder, but I had to be sure you were okay." He smiled at her. "No, Scully, it's not silly. You've just assembled a very interesting story to amuse your mind as you slept. It's nice to know someone worries about me all the time." He shifted his weight and pulled up the right pants leg again. "The cut was here?" He ran his finger over his calf, raising an eyebrow as she started. "It's interesting you should put one there. Phoebe hit me pretty hard with an oar when we were punting on the Cherwell once, and I caught my leg there on one of the supports. It's only a faint scar now, but it hurt like blazes for several days." "What time is it, Mulder?" "Nearly three. I was hoping not to wake you when I returned, but you were already sitting up." Nodding, Scully curled against the sofa back and make a mental note to check tomorrow, , to see if a second room had become available for her to move into. If not, they could stop by an outdoors/ camping store for a cot. Even though they had both gravitated towards it, the scratchy pink couch wasn't nearly as comfortable as Mulder's futon, or the new sofa he and the Gunmen had helped her move in. With all the stakeouts, field cases, and long car trips or airplane flights, she probably fell asleep around Mulder more often than she dropped off in her own bed. Scully smiled to herself. In the best of all worlds, she could easily see them forty years from now, partners to the end, sitting on some park bench in Florida, fussing at each other. She checked his face, pleased at the relaxed set to his jaw and forehead, and listened to his regular breathing. Restless still, she decided to use an old trick her grandfather had taught her. She synced her respiration with her sleeping partner's, matching the deep inhales and long exhales. Just before she dropped off, she shifted until she was lying face up. But before she lost all sense of the physical, she heard him whispering words of comfort to his long-lost sister. --o-0-o-- Mulder was running down a corridor. Not running in long, loping strides, but stumbling and tripping over his (her) long skirt. She (he) lifted the material off the ground with both hands, as she constantly forgot to do in these dresses that were the height of Twelfth Century fashion. Mariamne knew something was very wrong with the Duke. She had to bring the Bishop to administer Extreme Unction immediately, so she pounded with both fists on the cleric's door. The elderly scholar, a guest in the great house, opened it a crack. Mariamne waved. "Father, come with me. The Marchioness fears the Duke has reached the end." Reaching for his sash and box of wafers, the Bishop of Leeds followed the chief waiting woman to the Ducal chambers, where he could see the Marchioness' red hair bobbing in prayer. She stepped back, but refused to relinquish her elderly father's hand, even after the old man breathed no more. Mariamne hovered by the noblewoman's shoulder. "M'Lady, tis done. Come away for a while." Finished with his office, the Bishop addressed the tiny woman. "My daughter, hear your friend and be at ease. His soul is with God and you have done all you can to set this estate aright for its new Master." Mariamne took the hand of the woman she had tended since they were both children. She led her to a separate chamber hung with heavy tapestries, where two high-backed chairs were set up, side by side. Diana, no longer Marchioness of Cornwall, sank onto one of the benches that lined the attendance room to grieve in her friend's arms. "Mariamne, he was so good to me. I know I was the unwanted girl, the only child he and my mother had, but he never lifted his hand against me." The tall woman stroked her Lady's hair. "You never gave his cause, Ma'am. A more considerate and attentive child than yourself never lived on this earth." They looked over as the Duke's eldest son, Richard, her stepbrother, approached them. Kneeling, he took Diana's hand. "M'Lady, as long as I draw breath, this is still your home. After a decent interval, my wife will come from Somerset, and we will settle here in the Ducal seat." He rose. "But now I must away to pay my respects to my Father and my fallen Lord." He turned on his heel and left. Diana rubbed her tears away with one hand, leaving the other in the tall woman's two. "I don't trust him, Mariamne. When Catherine arrives she is likely to throw us both in the dungeon to exact her revenge for her brother's death at my father's hand. We must prepare ourselves for her." The waiting woman stood before her mistress. "But the people love you, Lady. Surely they would protest." When the Marchioness raised her eyes, Mariamne could see the deep tracks of grief written there. The noblewoman spoke slowly, "The people will respect the succession, as they always have, and as we must, Mariamne. Otherwise there is no law, and this fair land has suffered too much anarchy from King Steven and Margaret of Anjou assuming they knew better." "What are we to do then?" The Marchioness closed her green-blue eyes, and gave herself over to her exhaustion for a moment. "Let me think, Mariamne." She rubbed her forehead, concentrating. Resolved, she stood beside her friend. "We must leave here tonight, and make for St. Briget's Convent, before Richard can rally the guards against us." She glanced down at her hunter green velvet and brocade dress. "Not as we are, but as we did as little girls. My departed Lord was about your size, and I can cobble something together." They slipped back into the dead Duke's empty chamber, Diana placing a final kiss on her father's forehead before covering his face with the sheet. As the two women rummaged through the chests of drawers in the room, Diana exclaimed, lifting a stained pair of short leather breeches from the bottom of one of the stout oak boxes. "Here, Mariamne, his gardening trousers." They smiled at the memory of the old man on his knees in composted manure, trimming his prized roses in mid-Summer. "These will make us completely inconspicuous." She found a second pair that was only slightly less stained, and two black leather jerkins. Once changed, the women pulled on old riding boots, after Diana stuffed cloth in the toes of hers, and they regarded themselves in the mirror. Mariamne pulled gently at Diana's long red curls. "Our hair, M'Lady." The women locked eyes. "Indeed." A few minutes later each had administered a rough cut to the other, and the clothes and hair were tossed on the brazier. Mariamne stoked the flames until all was ash, down to the ornately carved yew buttons, and not a moment too soon. They could hear the new Duke ordering a watch placed on the old Duke's body, and two soldiers took up positions outside the door. Mariamne opened one of the windows in the audience chamber and leaned out. "The creepers will carry your weight for one trip, but I will need something more substantial." The Noblewoman and Attendant knotted several sheets together, Mariamne descending first. Diana slipped the loop of cloth over her head and tossed the sheets to the woman below. They would stow their escape ladder in one of the town's rubbish heaps. Diana climbed nimbly down, and the women slipped into the shadows and alleys. Several times they ducked to hide from massing troops, more as they approached the town gates. Once there, they concealed themselves in a little-used archer's tower, huddling close to each other to keep the cold at bay. Diana lifted her head off her servant's knees. "How are we to depart?" She had to rely on the tall woman's knowledge of the inner workings of the serving sides of the manor. "At the changing of the guard, the water gate will be free for us to slip out. It has been dry this year, and we may not dampen our feet as we go." Diana dropped her head back on Mariamne's lap, taking comfort in the presence of her closest friend. The tall woman stroked her hair until they heard the guards calling to each other. "It is time, M'Lady." When the red-haired woman nodded, they made their way stealthily to the low opening by the front gate. Mariamne pushed the wooden grating to one side, letting Diana through first, and they tumbled into the dry moat, climbing the far side at an angle to lessen its pitch. It was not until they were almost to safety in the bushes that an arrow whizzed by them and the watch at the north tower spotted them. "There they are!" The two women scurried into the cover but Mariamne's long legs quickly outpaced Diana's and she fell further behind. The Marchioness gritted her teeth, forcing her long-disused muscles to their limit, throwing herself into the cover as more arrows peppered the bushes. Mariamne peered through the bushes. "Where now, Ma'am?" But there was nowhere to hide with the woods full of guards, so soon the two women were dragged out of hiding and set on their feet before the new Duke. Mariamne whispered to her Lady, "I'm so sorry, Ma'am. We were almost there." --o-0-o-- "Almost where, Mulder?" The tall agent awoke to his partner's confused face and sunlight. "Mulder?" He sat up, the dream receding. Fully dressed in a grey wool pantsuit, but shoeless, Dana Scully was kneeling in the center of the sofa, her hand on his shoulder. He blinked at her. "This is odd, Scully; you dream we are monks on a sea voyage, and I dream we are a Marchioness and her attendant escaping family intrigue." He lifted an eyebrow at her. "You were the noble one." When she laughed out loud, he found himself joining in. Still smiling, she scrubbed his hair playfully. "Thank you, Mulder, just tell me one thing. Were you obedient and faithful?" He nodded. Her eyes glittered. "Next time I'll try to have that dream. I'm glad you have a cooperative bone somewhere in your body." He tipped his head at her. "Yeah, right. It may be your best shot at keeping me in line. What time is it?" She held his left wrist in front of his nose. "A little after eight, Mulder. You hit the shower, and I'll check to see if any regular rooms are available tonight. One stay in the Pink Palace is more than enough for me." --o-0-o-- End - Rustic Suite - Allemande