Title - Old Lady Leary's Cow (1/2) Author - Nascent E-Mail address - nascen...@hotmail.com Rating - PG-13 (language) Category - SAH Spoilers - None Keywords - Alternate Universe Summary - What if Samantha had never been abducted? Archive - yes, to Gossamer (others please request permission) Feedback - um...sure... --------------------------------------------------- "Old Lady Leary's Cow" part 1 of 2 by Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com) --------------------------------------------------- NOTES: I just got to wondering, what would Mulder be like if everything else in the universe were the same, but Samantha had never been abducted? Would he be happy? Doubtful. And since it seems to be so widely accepted that Scully would be balancing a fulfilled, domestic life with a successful career had she never heard of the X-Files, I had to ask myself--would _she_ be happy? Well, actually, I doubt it. Below is my case. I can think of at least a few people who'd be happy, though. (read on) SPOILERS: In a way, this story contains spoilers for several episodes, but if you haven't seen the episode, you won't recognize that they're spoilers, so I'll still say there are none. Still, if you're a real purist, stay away if you haven't seen: Pilot, Lazarus, One Breath, Terma, The Field Where I Died, Musings of a CSM, Demons, Redux II, and Patient X. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks, as always, to other fanfic writers and especially to archivists. Thanks to Pellinor, whose Deep Background web page (http://www.astolat.demon.co.uk/) was very helpful. DISCLAIMER: What follows is a completely shameless rip-off of The X-Files, which is the intellectual property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Twentieth Century Fox, not me. And I didn't get any money for it, either. --------------------------------------------------- National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime Quantico, Virginia October 13, 1996 Fox Mulder rested his head in his hands, massaging his temples fiercely as he gazed down at the open file in front of him. He couldn't concentrate, and the conversation two agents were having just on the other side of his cubicle wasn't helping at all. Dammit, dammit, dammit! He'd read the same line a dozen times and still didn't know what it said. His desk was cluttered with other folders, towers of paper threatening to collapse onto the floor, where they would be lost, indistinguishable from the uncrumpled throw-away attempts Mulder had made in writing the last profile. He had to finish this today. _Had_ to. Ten more cases required his recommendations, to be presented before his team on Monday. And at this rate, even if he worked all weekend, he wouldn't finish. The leering stacks of paper only made it more impossible to focus on the paper in front of him. He was beginning to suspect he wasn't cut out for this. Oh, sure, he'd done well at the Academy--had nailed every course with the same precision that had earned him spotless recommendations from his Oxford professors. During his two-year-training period in the BSU he had earned a reputation as a hard worker and a decent agent, assisting on cases called in from around the country, mostly cross-referencing M.O.s, though he'd done a little profiling on the side. His supervisor had reported that he had "a sharp mind and an eye for detail"--not exactly stellar but not bad either. Also not very unusual for the BSU. Agents were expected to be good. Almost a decade later he was still sitting in a cubicle. He'd started to pick up part-time profiling work about five years ago, but was only given the textbook cases--his "eye for detail" had been co-opted for the same reason classmates used to peer over his shoulder during tests--he'd always been an excellent memorizer. Applying what he'd learned years ago to cases simply wasn't that difficult for him. But the real cases--the tough cases--never crossed his desk. He knew he wasn't going anywhere. And when he was wrong about a case they _did_ give him (although he was usually close), he felt like he was walking backwards. He'd once asked Gerald Therussis, the BSU's top profiler, how he did it. Therussis' answer had been disappointing: "I don't really know. You just have to get inside their heads." At Mulder's unsatisfied expression, he'd added, "Don't worry--you're not missing anything. Inside a killer's head is not a nice place to be." _Nonetheless..._ Mulder thought. Even though he knew, intellectually at least, that academic success was no real predictor of professional success, he'd expected more from himself. "Don't worry about it, Mulder," his friend Reggie Pardue had told him after his profile had failed to catch a child molester. In a nutshell, he'd predicted the man was middle-aged, unmarried man without children, and the criminal had turned out to be a sixty-year-old, married man with grandkids. "Your profile was good, it's what anyone would have said. We can't always be right about these things." But Mulder had worried. So much so that he'd avoided profiling for awhile. But when Arnold Schletzenbaum's wife died, someone needed to take over the full-time profiler's cases for a few weeks, and Mulder had reluctantly taken the assignment. At the time, he'd been cautiously optimistic, but now he regretted it. He couldn't crank this stuff out--who was he kidding? He tried to read the sentence in front of him one more time. Thankfully, the phone rang. "Mulder," he answered automatically. "Hi, Fox," said a familiar female voice. "Samantha!" Mulder relaxed back into his chair, fiddling with his pencil. "Hey, how's it going? I haven't heard from you in months--why the sudden call?" "To say happy birthday!" she answered chidingly. "Did you think I'd forget?" "Wha--? No--I forgot. Oh. Thanks." Mulder suddenly felt even worse--thirty-five years old--another year had snuck by and he'd done nothing he'd meant to. What had he meant to do, though? Get married? Get promoted? Get a life? "It's Friday--I'd like to take you out to dinner," his sister was saying. "Thanks, Sam, but I don't think I'm up for a drive to New York tonight." "I'm in Washington." "What? What are you doing there?" "Taking my brother out for his birthday, since obviously no one else was going to do it." There was a smile in her voice, but something else behind it, something strained. "You didn't have to do that, Sam," Mulder told her. "I'm actually really busy, I wasn't planning on coming home until pretty late." Silence. Mulder cursed himself. Samantha obviously hadn't come all the way down here just for his birthday--he couldn't remember her having even called on recent birthdays past. Come on, Mulder, do _something_ right. "But maybe we could have a drink later," he suggested. "You still have the key to my place, right?" "I'm calling from there." "Okay, why don't you go check out the Mall and I'll meet you at my place around 9? You can spend the night at my house. I don't want you driving back tonight." "Oooh--do I get to sleep in your big queen-size bed?" "It's _my_ birthday, _my_ bed," he rejoined. "What about dinner?" "I'll have to take a rain check. And _I'll_ buy the drinks. I think there's some Chinese food in my fridge." "How long's it been there?" "I don't know--a week?" "I think I'll try the restaurant on the corner." "Ask for Danielle to wait on you if you do. Listen, I have to go, Sam, but I'll see you tonight, okay?" "Okay." Her voice sounded small and young to him, although she was, he reminded himself, thirty years old. He hung up the phone and went back to the report, but his concentration was even more fractured now. He hadn't spent a whole evening alone with Samantha--unless occasionally crashing on her couch counted--in years, and the thought made him distinctly uncomfortable. The awkwardness was compounded by his guilt at feeling uncomfortable. Did she want something? _Focus,_ he reminded himself. Right. The profile. Two hours passed and he'd actually finished reading the file and the VICAP cross-checks. He'd just pulled a template up on the computer to start writing when a deep voice startled him. "Agent Mulder." He turned around to see a man he didn't know standing by his cubicle. The man was tall and well-dressed, wore no badge. He looked vaguely familiar, but Mulder couldn't remember where he'd seen him before. "Yes?" he asked. "I'm Raul Bloodworth," the man said, extending a hand. Mulder shook it, wondering if he should recognize the name. "I just happened to be passing through," Bloodworth said smoothly, "and I thought I'd introduce myself. I wonder if you have time for a cup of coffee." "Actually, I--" Mulder began, but Bloodworth interrupted. "Please. I insist. I've heard about you, wanted to meet you for some time. You see, I'm something of a friend of the family." "I'm sorry," Mulder began, "I don't think I know--" Again, he was smoothly cut off. "I knew your parents quite well a long time ago, Fox, but we'd grown apart. I'd very much like to hear how they're doing." Mulder sighed, resigned. He supposed he could take a short break. "All right, but I'm afraid I can't talk too long. Maybe we could arrange to have lunch sometime, if you're around much, Mr. Bloodworth." "That's quite all right, fifteen minutes will do." Conversation on the way to the canteen was the sort of casual chitchat Mulder had never been very good at--the weather, a joke or two about the fallout shelter in which the BSU was stationed--the National "Cellar" for Analysis of Violent Crimes. Bloodworth glossed over Mulder's awkwardness with graceful ease. When they reached the canteen, he ordered two coffees, insisted on paying, and gestured at a seat near the window. As soon as they sat down, Bloodworth lit a cigarette. He offered one to Mulder, who shook his head. "So, tell me, Fox," he began. "How is your mother?" "She's fine. Do you mind if I asked how you knew my parents?" "I worked with your father for awhile, years ago. I heard they were divorced some years ago. I was very sorry to hear that." "Yes. That was a long time ago," Mulder answered uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about his family. "But your mother's doing well? Her health is good?" "Yes. She's fine," Mulder repeated. "And your father?" "He's fine, too. Retired. But I guess you knew that." "Good, good. Does he still enjoy hunting?" "Occasionally." "Ever go with him?" "No. I did a couple times as a boy, but I never liked it much." "Too bad. I think he always wanted a son to share that with," Bloodworth answered, leaning back. "What about your sister?" "My sister?" "Samantha, right?" He drew the name out slowly. "She was just a baby last time I saw her. I imagine she's grown up now." "Yes, yes she is," Mulder said, watching Bloodworth's eyes. "She's doing well. In fact, I'm seeing her tonight." "For your birthday?" Mulder tried to mask his surprise. Did everyone know but him? "Yes. For my birthday." "How very nice." And so it went. Bloodworth continued asking polite questions, to which Mulder gave evasive answers, until Bloodworth had finished his coffee. "Well," he said, standing. "I very much appreciate your taking the time to chat with me, Fox. Perhaps we'll bump into each other again. Please give my regards to your mother." And he was gone as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving behind three smoldering cigarette butts. Mulder shook his head to clear it--what a strange man!--and returned thoughtfully to work. --------------------------------------------------- Hoover Building Washington, D.C. At that same moment, Assistant Director Walter Skinner put his feet up on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and took a long swig of _his_ coffee. _This_ was living. Christ, what a great job he had. --------------------------------------------------- Washington, D.C. October 13, 1996 Mulder saw Samantha's car parked on the street, adorned with New York tags. How was she affording the upkeep of that thing in the city anyway? She was watching TV on his couch when he entered, but she sprang up to approach him. There was an awkward second while they both decided whether or not to hug, and finally Mulder went to her and pulled her to him, aiming a perfunctory kiss at her cheek. "How are you?" he asked, releasing her. "I'm okay," she replied, stepping back. She picked up her coat, he helped her into it. "Still working at that bar?" "No, I'm at a different one now. But I'm in a play again." "Really? What's it called?" "You wouldn't like it." He put a hand on her back and guided her out the door, down toward his car. "How do you know? What is it?" She gave a short bark of a laugh. "Really, Fox, you'd hate it." End of discussion. They ended up at a bar he knew down in the Foggy Bottom. Not one of those loud, college bars, but one expensive enough to attract an older clientele. Conversation in the car was strained. She told him she'd had to find a new apartment because her new salary wasn't enough to keep the old one and yes, she'd broken up with that Mark guy months ago. Yes, it had been her decision. He told her things were going well at work, but that he wasn't sure he liked it. "Then you should leave," she'd said. "I still don't understand why you wound up here anyway. It was a compromise to keep Dad happy, wasn't it? You managed not to _dis_please him by being something as lowly as a cop, but you still avoided the military. Clever." "Dad wouldn't have been happy whatever I did," Mulder said, surprised by his own honesty. She ignored him. "Fox, you of all people--you can do anything you want. If you're not happy, you should leave. With your skills, your intelligence--you don't have to stick with something you don't like." Mulder sighed, turned his face away as he heard the silent words at the end of that sentence: "like I do." She'd always believed he was better than her at virtually everything--it had been invigorating as a teenager, but as an adult he'd come to feel guilty for his apparent success. He didn't know why she still--at their ages--looked up to him like that. It put distance between them, and the distance depressed him. They entered the bar, which was not quite crowded, and took a table. Samantha ordered a Manhattan, Mulder a scotch. "So how's it feel to be thirty-five?" she asked, trying to sound light. "Oh, I think I'll let you find that out for yourself," he answered. "Did Mom or Dad call you?" "Not that I know of. I didn't check my machine, though." "They never call me." He pursed his lips, furrowed his brow. "Still?" "Still. Well, Mom called at Christmas. Invited me up. But I was going to be with Mark's family." Mulder shook his head, amazed at how what was supposed to have been a family had somehow managed to become four entirely separate people. After Samantha had dropped out of college to marry an actor, Bill Mulder had all but disowned her, and Teena Mulder had not spoken to her for months. When the marriage broke up a year later, the inevitable "I told you so"s had driven Samantha away from all of them for awhile. Fox had tried to be supportive, but she hadn't seemed to want his support. Again, he'd failed her. "So," she was saying. "About the Bureau. Have you ever considered, I don't know, going back to school?" He was surprised. Why would she think that? "Why--have you?" "Ummm...no." She stopped, apparently at a loss for words. After a moment of silence, Mulder thought of something else to say. "Seen any good movies lately?" At the same time she said, "I noticed the fish were doing well." They both grinned awkwardly. Before Mulder could speak again, she reached across the table and took his hand. "Fox, I have to tell--" she began, but Mulder cut her off. "Hey!" he called, waving at someone who had just entered. Samantha turned to look. Mulder breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized someone he knew--and who was her hot friend? --------------------------------------------------- Washington, D.C. October 13, 1996 Margaret Scully sank back into the steaming tub, luxuriating in the embrace of scented bubbles. She was a lucky woman. Though it had been hard to adjust to life as a widow, she couldn't really complain. Not with her four beautiful, successful children--well, Melissa still had issues with that second part, but she was working them out. Washington, D.C. October 13, 1996 Every fiber of Dana Scully's being had resisted this night. She was tired, she wasn't in the mood. She was too old for this. "I'm older than you are," Melissa had protested. "Are you calling me a loser?" "I'm not calling you anything, Missy," Dana had replied. "I'm just saying--" "It's a nice place. Too expensive for college kids. Please, Dana--" "I thought you found it when you were in college." "Well, I wasn't exactly hanging out with other college kids." Dana expected there was a story there, but she didn't want to know it. Missy had won, Dana had agreed. Even though she knew her sister's ulterior motive--Melissa assumed Dana needed a date. Dana didn't need a date. She'd had a couple of dates since she'd broken up with Jack, and they had been decidedly unpleasant experiences. Somehow, by the time she'd graduated from med school and the academy, single had become synonymous with desperate. And she was neither desperate nor interested in it. Not that she wouldn't mind a relationship. She just didn't want to have to go about weeding through the chaff to find the wheat--there was much too much chaff out there. She didn't have time. She had a lot of work to do. Melissa had driven to her place, and they'd taken a cab to the bar even though Dana wanted to drive. "I'm not going to drink much," Dana had protested, but Melissa had overruled her. "Always be prepared," she'd said. So here they were. Dana disliked the place immediately. It's walls were made out of large, red, metallic panels. The lighting was dim, and the place was festooned with candles. Music from the 80s drifted under the buzz of conversation. At least the voices were loud and--thank God--there was no dance floor. To her chagrin, Melissa's plan seemed to start working immediately. As soon as they were inside the door, a man waved to them and called out her name. Dana wondered if her sister really was psychic. Then she recognized him and knew her sister wasn't psychic at all. Fox Mulder, from the Cellar. What was he doing here? Why was he waving at her? Melissa had seen and was already walking to where he was seated at a table with a woman about Dana's age. Mulder was standing up, securing two chairs. "Agent Scully," he said finally, smiling widely. "Please, won't you join us?" "Agent Mulder," she answered, praying that the other woman wasn't his date. Not that she wanted to be, but...this was already looking very awkward. "What are you doing in this part of town?" "Celebrating my birthday, actually," he replied. He said it almost too flippantly. The two women automatically wished him a happy birthday, and he smiled again, gestured to his companion. "This is my sister, Samantha. Samantha, this is Dana Scully, a pathologist who works at Quantico with me." Dana smiled thinly. "Actually, I'm at the Forensic Science Research Center, across campus from where Mulder works. But we see each other around. Looks like we had similar ideas tonight, Mulder--this is _my_ sister, Melissa." There were handshakes all around, and then Melissa sat down, forcing Dana to do likewise. "Well," Mulder said, gesturing expansively. "I'm probably the envy of every guy in here." He paused while they smiled politely, then: "Can I get you two something?" Dana was about to say no, but Melissa jumped in smoothly. "Sure. I'd like a Long Island Iced Tea and Dana'll have a bloody Mary." Dana started to protest but was silenced by a glare from Melissa. Mulder went to the bar to get the drinks, leaving the three women alone. Samantha sat between them, twisting her hands on the tabletop. "So," Dana said to her, trying to make conversation. "Do you live around here?" "No, up in New York City. I just came down for Fox's birthday." "That's nice of you," Dana said, smiling. "I don't think I've ever gone to see _my_ brothers on their birthdays." "Oh, well, it's not something I've done be--much." Dana sensed something beneath the surface of what Samantha was saying, but only nodded encouragingly, tried to change the topic. "What do you do in New York?" "Well," Samantha said reluctantly, "I work at a bar. And I do some acting." "Any plays I'd know?" Samantha's smile suggested that she didn't think Dana would go to see this kind of play. But her only response was, "I doubt it, it's off-Broadway." "Those are the best ones," Melissa assured her. "What do _you_ do?" Samantha asked Melissa, shifting the focus from herself. "Right now, I'm working for a lobbying firm here in D.C." Mulder rejoined them, handed out drinks. "Lobbying for what?" he asked. "Holistic and transcendental medicine," Melissa replied, turning to him. Dana tried very hard not to wince, but failed. "We're seeking legislation to require that HMOs cover the costs of psychological healing as well as physical healing." "I see," Mulder answered. Dana watched his expression shift from the usual intense interest displayed by men near her sister to cool politeness. _We should move on, Missy,_ she thought. _This isn't advancing your plans for either of us._ "I've heard of holistic healing, of course," Mulder said. "But what's transcendental medicine?" Melissa launched into an animated explanation, and Dana sat back and sipped her drink. Judging from Mulder's expression, if Melissa wanted to set Dana up with him, she wasn't going about it very well. That was okay with Dana--she wasn't interested anyway. After Jack, she'd had enough of relationships with coworkers, and even though Mulder was only barely a coworker, just someone she might see in the cafeteria, there were other reasons. Oh sure, he was attractive enough, if a little overweight. But she'd had an acquaintance who went out with him a few times, told bedroom stories in the ladies' room. If that woman had been the kind he was interested in, and if the bedroom stories were even half-true, she was pretty confident they wouldn't be very compatible. She looked at Samantha. The woman seemed to be anxious about something, she was watching only Mulder. Dana felt certain they'd interrupted something. But Mulder had been so insistent about inviting them over.... "What do you think, Scully?" He'd asked her a question. She turned back to him. "Excuse me?" His eyes laughed a little. "As a doctor, I mean. What do you think about holistic and transcendental medicine?" "Oh," she said carefully. "Studies have demonstrated a relationship between mental well-being and immune response. But it's hard to say whether other factors contribute to that--good mental health is usually correlated with low stress, good sleeping and eating habits, and other things which are conducive to good health in general. Whether attitude can actually _heal_ a patient is questionable, but I'd say it probably goes a long way to reducing stress and assisting with the body's normal functions. I don't think that someone _else's_ attitude can cure a person, though." "Afraid I'd have to agree with you," Mulder said to Dana, with an apologetic smile at Melissa. Melissa didn't seem bothered; in fact, she gave Dana a barely masked grin of encouragement, as if to say, "He's perfect for you." Dana immediately stood up to leave. "Well, it was good to see you, Mulder, but I don't want to interrupt your evening with your sister--" Mulder seized her wrist. "Stay," he said. "You're not interrupting." At his touch she shivered, feeling as if a gust of wind had blown past her. She felt confused, sank back into the chair. He left his hand on her arm, and the feeling didn't subside. His touch, firm but gentle, felt very comfortable, familiar, even. _You haven't had _that_ much to drink,_ she told herself. But it wasn't the sexual feeling she might have expected. She extracted her arm from his hand--only a second had passed but it felt longer. Melissa broke the silence. "Do any of you know that man at the bar?" she asked, gesturing with her head. "The older one, in the black coat, with the cigarette. He keeps staring at us." They all took covert glances in the direction she had indicated. Mulder started. "That's strange," he said. "That man came to see me this afternoon--I've should tell you about this, Sam...." He trailed off. Mulder waved cautiously at the man, who seemed not to notice. The man extinguished his cigarette and made his way out of the bar. "That's so strange," Mulder said, as if to himself. "Fox, I'm actually pretty tired," Samantha said suddenly. Mulder considered her for a moment. "Okay," he said finally, sounding defeated. "Why don't we go back to my place." It wasn't a question. Mulder and Samantha stood up, pulling on coats. "It was nice meeting you," Mulder told Melissa. Then, to Dana, "See you around, Scully." "Yeah," she answered, still a little dazed. "See you around." She turned to Samantha. "It was nice meeting you." After the proper exchange of goodbyes, the two Mulders left the bar. Melissa leaned across the table. "What was _that_ about?" she demanded conspiratorially. "What was what?" Dana asked. "I think Samantha wanted to be alone with him, that's all." "Not _that._ You. A minute ago." "What?" "You had the weirdest look on your face." "I don't know what you're talking about." "Come on, Dana. You were interested in him." Dana felt a sudden surge of irritation. More fiercely than she'd intended to, she replied. "No, actually, I wasn't at all. And I knew that's what you were thinking, and I don't want to discuss it. I don't appreciate how you're always trying to force your definition of a life on me, particularly when it involves finding me the men you believe I need." "Oh, fuck you, Dana," Melissa said dismissively. "Don't pull your little oversimplified feminist independence crap with me. You know I don't think women need men to be complete and all that. But there's nothing wrong with a good lay now and then, and it might do you good." "And you think you can pick the man to provide it?" "Dana, I just asked you to go out and spend an evening with me, have some fun. Why do you have to turn it into some kind of solicitous agenda? And even if I _did_ have an agenda, even if I _were_ trying to get my sister laid--you're a fucking FBI agent and you cut up dead bodies for a living--with that kind of background how can you be scared of such a simple thing like the birds and the bees?" "_Scared?_ I'm not--" "So scared that you have to make me into some kind of threat--" Where the hell had this fight come from? Too late to turn back now. "Oh shut up, Missy," Dana said. "I'm not in the mood for your goddamn psychoanalyses." "Don't take your unhappiness with your own life out on me." "What do you mean--my unhappiness? I'm quite happy with my life, thanks. This is exactly what I'm talking--" Melissa was on a roll. "Oh, come on, Dana, who do you think you're fooling? Here's a psychoanalysis for you: you've always been so driven to be Daddy's perfect little girl that now you don't know what to use to drive you anymore. You're unhappy with your perfect career because you don't know why you're doing it, and you're unhappy with your personal life because you don't think a driven person should have one! What you just _don't get_ is that--" "Missy, I don't need you to tell me what the fuck I should do with my life!" Dana cried, louder than she'd intended. Faces turned toward them and she lowered her voice, leaning across the table. "It's none of your _fucking_ business, all right? We're very different people, you and I, and you don't know the first thing about why I do anything, so why don't you just leave it _alone_." Melissa stood up, grappling with her coat. "I am just _so_ glad I tried to spend quality time with my sister this evening," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You didn't," Dana answered coldly. "You were looking for someone else." Melissa downed the remainder of her drink in one swallow and stormed away, calling back over her shoulder, "Hope you have cab fare." Dana clenched her fist around her glass, furious. How _dare_ Melissa draw such conclusions about her? She had an excellent job, was highly regarded by her colleagues and widely rumored to be headed for chief pathologist. Of course she was happy. Wasn't she? Of course not. But that wasn't her sister's business. It wasn't because she'd been "Daddy's little girl"--she hadn't. It certainly wasn't because she needed a good lay. She already knew why it was. The reason had been begging for her attention at the back of her mind for months now, and for the first time she allowed the reason to surface. Dana Scully had joined the FBI because she wanted to be a part of something on a higher plane. She wanted to be part of justice. And although she could rationalize to herself until the end of the world that she was helping that cause much more as a teacher than she ever could as a single person who'd been taught, deep down, she felt like the few weeks Agents spent in her course didn't mean very much at all in the larger scope of things. And although she deeply loved the autopsies that occasionally came her way in local or bizarre national cases, her contribution to justice being served against the killer felt incremental. Her research, of course, that would contribute too, but the applications were so distant. And her ideas had been far from revolutionary--anyone could think of them, execute them. How had this happened--so unexpected? How could someone with as much education as she come to feel like just another cog in the machine? Missy was right, sort of. Dana Scully finished her glass slowly, studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the bar. --------------------------------------------------- Somewhere in Micronesia October 13, 1996 Alex Krycek stretched out his left hand to take the glass from the young, white-clad man with the tray, who then bowed and left. Krycek adjusted his sunglasses and sighed, watching the scantily-clad women frisking about in the pool before him. He'd earned this vacation. The fact that They'd given it to him proved the fools were still stupid enough to believe he was playing along. Soon...soon he'd make his move. He leaned over to solicitously kiss the blonde woman reclining beside him. She smiled. Soon...soon she'd make her move. --------------------------------------------------- Washington, D.C. October 13, 1996 Samantha walked so quickly away from the bar that Mulder had to lengthen his stride to keep up. "What's going on?" he asked finally. She tried to sound lighthearted. "I'm just tired. Sorry to interrupt your flirtations." "Flirtations? I wasn't flirting. Melissa Scully was a nutcase--a very attractive nutcase, but a nutcase nonetheless. And Dana Scully--well, let's just say she has a reputation." "What for?" "They call her the 'Ice Queen.'" Samantha turned on him with a ferocity he had completely not expected. "Oh, and so since you don't think you can fuck her, why bother talking to her?" He gave her a shocked expression. "Sam, that's not what I meant, and you know it. I've had only good impressions of Scully. I'm just saying I wasn't flirting with her." "What was that bit with grabbing her arm?" "What bit?" "Telling her to stay." Mulder looked down at his sister. She knew, probably, that Mulder had only wanted to avoid the awkwardness of his conversation with her, so had tried to keep Scully between them. But had she seen the other thing? When Mulder had touched her arm, he had the oddest sensation. Not erotic, but of a similar intensity, at least in the beginning. It had been nice, comfortable, familiar. But it had been gone pretty quickly--he'd forgotten about it until now. He didn't want to talk about that. "What's bothering you, Sam? Why'd you really come down here?" "Fox," she said in a low voice, looking past his shoulder. He caught the warning and half-turned to look. The silhouette of a trenchcoat-clad man was standing on the corner. At his mouth, the red embers of a cigarette glowed. Mulder frowned. "I don't like that guy," he muttered, feeling for his service weapon. He started toward the man. At that moment, a bus pulled up, and Bloodworth boarded it. Just as Mulder reached the back of the bus, it pulled away. He shook his head in consternation, went back to his sister, who was waiting for him at the other end of the block. "I don't know what he was doing," he said, in answer to the question in her eyes. "Really, though, Samantha, why did you come?" She sighed, defeated, and her eyes dropped to the ground. "I...I wanted to tell you something." Mulder put his fingers under her chin, lifted her face. "What is it?" he asked, as gently as he could. He was determined not to fail her now. She took a deep breath, then said it as she exhaled. "I'm pregnant." Mulder hesitated, but was very careful not to react until he knew how she needed him to react. He simply continued to hold her chin. "What are you going to do?" he asked evenly. Her lower lip was starting to quiver, and in the light of the streetlamps he could make out the tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "I--I don't know. I want to keep it, but I don't have--I don't--" "If that's what you want to do, I can help you with money," Mulder said gently. "Don't worry about Mom and Dad." "I--I'm not." She was crying now. "I'm worried about the baby. Fox, I don't think I'd make a very good mother." Mulder did the only thing he knew to do--wrapped his arms around her. She pressed her face against his shirt and he stroked her hair. "You'd make a wonderful mother," he assured her. Her voice was muffled in the folds of his coat. "How do _you_ know?" she asked bitterly. He couldn't tell her the truth: he didn't. ------------------------------------------------------ End 2/2 Nascent (nascen...@hotmail.com)