TITLE: The Gates of the Country Part 1 of ?

AUTHOR: J. Nelson
   
E-MAIL: blackleyj@yahoo.com
   
You can visit this story and all my other stories at my site
http://www.geocities.com/blackleyj/index.html
   
RATING: PG-13
   
SUMMARY: Scully has moved on.
   
SPOILERS: If you watch X-Files, you'll recognize the various
references throughout.
   
CATEGORY: Post-Requiem.  Scully/Other; MSR?; Baby-fic?;
Mulder-return?
   
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully,
Walter Skinner, The Lone Gunmen, Maggie Scully and
Alex Krycek belong to FOX, Chris Carter and 1013
Productions.  No monetary gain is being made from this
piece. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.  All other
original characters belong to J. Nelson.
   
FEEDBACK: blackleyj@yahoo.com
   
The Gates of the Country
By J. Nelson

"Some people change, others hang on 'til they can't anymore"
- Black Lab 

January 2002

Later, when she thought back to her glory days as an investigator,
those mysterious nights of intrigue and drama seemed numinous yet
as genuine as if they had occurred the previous evening. Once upon
a time, nefarious miscreants had littered her orderly life, sullying
a planned existence with unscheduled forays into despair and
heartache. Today though, as she stood in front of her picture
window, in the middle of her picture perfect life, those days of so
called cops and robbers had once again become front and center in
her rescheduled life.

"Dana?" His voice was hesitant and full of longing for answers to the
questions posed by a secretive and puzzling telephone call.

The world outside was a vast wasteland of spindly limbed trees, the
ground withered and barren. It was sprinkled with wisps of snow,
as if the world was a cake, and confectioner's sugar had been
haphazardly sifted over its desolate expanse. She ached for the
respite of summer, with its unbearable lightness and intense heat,
yet her soul felt at home in the bitter cold and the surreal, yet
comforting, loneliness of an Atlantic winter.

"Hmm?" She knew he would ask questions. She knew what those questions
would be. In spite of his curiosity and his role her in life, she
knew she would never be able to proffer plausible and acceptable
answers.

He stood beside her, his hand poised over her shoulder, reaching
out to comfort her, knowing his touch was never quite enough.
"Mr. Skinner is at the door, Dana. He's waiting for you."

She turned to him then, a tight, forced smile on her face as she
drew away from his overture of solace.  "I have to leave, Peter.
I don't expect you to understand, but . . ."

"You have to go. I know." He pulled his comfort back with his hand,
and smiled hesitantly.  She walked past him, through the living room,
to the foyer and out of their home. He sighed heavily as he
looked from his picture perfect life through his picture window. 
He watched her shrug on her coat as the tall man held the car
door open for her. A she dropped into the car he silently
beseeched her not to drive out of their life.

Peter Luke was a quiet man, hopelessly in love and helpless in that
love. He had lived his entire life on the West Coast of Canada,
in Vancouver, British Columbia, greeted each morning by the
macabre cries of seagulls as he walked through the West End to
his office by the sea. The cool ocean breeze had often swept
away the cloying humidity.  He had loved
the respite of rain, and the delicious gloominess of the constantly
overcast skies.

As a child he had enjoyed sun soaked summers spent at Stanley
Park, an oasis nestled in an ancient and verdant grove of trees,
adjacent to the Pacific Ocean, where Anderson's Little Mermaid
seduced sailors from far-flung ports. He had tasted the salt of
the sea in the pool at Second Beach, and reveled in the English
taste for vinegar soaked crisps and battered cod.

In the autumn, as his boots had crunched through auburn swirls
of maple leaves strewn on the sidewalks of his neighborhood, he
had often dreamed of snow banks and sleighs, wishing for the
sweet confection of intricately designed snowflakes. As winter
had approached each year of his youth, he had been tantalized
with fleeting moments of tatted lace, that had all too soon
become a sodden woolen blanket. He longed for winters replete
with toboggans, crisp cold mornings and hot cocoa, not the rain
soaked months of January and February littered with brief
moments of snow.

Years later, when he had followed his wife to her hometown in
Alberta, he had lived out his dream of building a snowman and
sliding down a hillside, knocking the wind out his decades long
dream with the reality of the harsh cold of an unrelenting and
unforgiving prairie winter.

As an adult, he had carved out a comfortable niche in a
respectable life in a resplendent city, complete with a creative,
delightful wife, and a demanding career. No longer in want of
children's games in the snow, he had found comfort and a sense
of belonging in his beloved Vancouver.

Lawyers were a dime a dozen in the Lower Mainland, but Peter
had found a place in the transportation of the oil and gas found
in the fossil-rich valleys of the Alberta Badlands. There were
few competitors in the province who practiced his trade. 
Therefore, he often traveled to the parched land of God's
country, stampeding over the Rocky Mountains to Calgary,
Alberta for endless meetings on subjects one rarely found
interesting outside the sphere of pipelines, gas producers and
processing plants.

He had met his wife at a conference in Calgary, as she had stood
in line in front of him at a company-sponsored pancake
breakfast. Calgary, home of the annual Exhibition and
Stampede, was steeped in its old West roots. The Stampede was
a 10-day event begun with an annual parade that shut down the
city for an entire morning. The yearly return-to-the-western-
frontier was punctuated throughout with midway rides and
chuck wagon races.  Conservative oil and gas employees were
decked out in their finest Western wear, square dancing in the
square, beer swilling and loud exclamations of "yahoo",
culminating with a contest for the largest purse on the
rodeo circuit.

No one in Calgary scheduled a conference during the annual
event, except fancy city dwellers from Lotus Land.  Peter had
represented the prestigious law firm with which he had articled,
for whom he had slaved as an associate, and in which he was
now in line for full partnership. He had recently celebrated
his 34th birthday, his career was on the right track and he had
felt he could finally stop, take a deep breath and steer his
personal life onto the same carefully maintained track.

"Cowboys usually wear cowboy boots with their Wranglers, not
loafers with tassels." Her blue-green eyes had twinkled in
delight at his hastily put together attire. She was a petite woman,
short in stature, bestowed with a peaches and cream
complexion, and a Roman nose lightly dusted with freckles. As
she had scrutinized his sense of style, the relentless sunshine of
the prairie had set her auburn hair afire. And as she had stepped
back toward the prize of executive flipped pancakes she had
smiled a smile that would clear away the mist of a foggy
Vancouver morning.  He had become enchanted.

"It's the new look in rodeo golf attire," he had quickly retorted,
watching as a sly smile had replaced the previous assault of 
sunshine and brilliance, and she had turned her full attention to
him.

"Rodeo golf? Is that a new sport out in Lotus Land?" Her reply
had only impressed upon him how he knew this would be a
complicated relationship, one combined with witty banter and
shameless flirting. He had sensed their mutual attraction almost
as quickly as he had sensed he had fallen in love with her while
standing in a serpentine line awaiting a hackneyed breakfast of
undercooked hot cakes and rubbery bacon. He had found his
soul mate in the midst of a longstanding tradition in Southern
Alberta, complete with ropers and buckaroos, and he had known
he would never be the same.

He hadn't noticed the line had moved ahead, leaving the delicate
woman standing before him, a large gap in the line behind her, 
with accountants and lawyers in too tall Stetsons whistling and
cajoling him out of his lovesick stupor. She had turned back in
line then and had moved toward the outdoor griddles, stepping
back as the bacon had popped and wheezed, sending grease and
cowgirls flying.

He had obediently followed his heart's desire, gripping his paper
plate and plastic cutlery as if it were the only lifeline to the
world he had desired. He had been deathly afraid that if he let go
of a quaint custom of outdoor meals meant to be eaten at a
properly set table, he would lose the only chance he felt he had
at lifelong happiness.

Later, as she had poured Aunt Jemima over his stack of
pancakes and cremated bacon, she had introduced herself as Jill
Mansfield and had done what any self-respecting cowgirl would
have done. She had thrown her lasso of feminine charm down
on his renegade life, had quietly roped and tied his heart,
standing triumphant in the square in the center of Cow
Town, victorious and beautiful.

Peter had never been to a farm, having been born and raised in
the big city. He had rarely ventured outside the watershed that
framed his picturesque hometown by the sea. As a child he had
thought ground round had come from the local supermarket, and
had been devastated when he had learned that the beloved Bossy
the Cow on a childhood television show had been his dinner on
many evenings. He had become a vegetarian at the age of 10,
refusing to eat meat of any kind, rounding out the image of
the peace and granola bar lovers that populated the trendier
areas of Vancouver.

Jill had shown him the barn and the sheep that resided there, and
he had thought of Wilbur the Pig and Templeton the Rat, as
Charlotte the Spider wove her silken webs of dreams and
desires. And he had placed himself in that whimsical world of
animated animals and proposed to her on the spot. The barn cats
had mocked his sincere devotion and had screeched and
meowed as Jill had explained the layout of the farm and its
history.

Ted Mansfield had married Yvonne Emery, who had emigrated
from Wisbech, England as a young girl to Strathmore, Alberta,
east of Calgary. Yvonne had captured Ted's heart and his
practical side. The farm had thrived since the turn of the century
and Ted had promised his beloved grandfather the family farm
would always belong to the Mansfields. His marriage to a petite
English rose, with her fiery red hair and visible Irish heritage
intermingling with her proper British background, had
produced a comfortable home, a well-run farm, two lively boys,
and a talented and beautiful daughter.

"You're not a farm boy. You're a city boy." Her reply had been
contemplative and he had realized she had thought of this
moment long before he had asked her to be a part of it.

"The farm is charming but . . ." he had attempted to say.

" . . . but you won't leave the city." She had said it for the both
of them. He loved her, he wanted her, he expected she felt the
same way, and it had never occurred to him she wouldn't follow
him to the ocean.

She had turned from him then, and had lazily climbed the ladder
that led to the loft.  He had answered her tacit request and
followed her. As he had stood behind her and looked down upon
the barn floor, he had silently reveled in the precious and quiet
moments away from the busy hum of his city life.

She had reached for a large rope that had been secured to one of
the joists.  She had lightly pulled on it, tossing its weight
between her two hands. He knew she would respond, but he had
also known that as she had carefully weighed the roughly
braided hemp, she had also carefully weighed out her response
to his request.

"When I was a little girl, about five or six years old, my eldest
brother Mark dared me to swing from this rope into that pile of
hay." She hadn't turned to him, but had pointed toward the barn
floor and had continued to swing the rope in her memories.

He hadn't wanted to interrupt, but hadn't want to lose her either.
"That's an awfully long way down for such a little girl."

Jill had chuckled in mild disgust and continued with her tale.
"That's what Mark said. I was too small. That I was a girl and
because I was a girl, I couldn't swing from the rope and land in
the hay." She had paused then, and looked back toward Peter,
her thoughts teased into the past, by a bullying brother and a
lifetime of the battle of the sexes. "What he really meant was
that I was a girl, and because of that I could never run the farm."

Peter had gingerly approached her then, to reach out to touch her
freckles, to see if they were real, to see if she was real. "I think
you can do anything you want."

"I've never seen the ocean." Her thoughts had returned from that
challenging day of her childhood, to the barn and his wants and 
desires.

"It's beautiful and majestic and vast and overwhelming and I
miss the smell of the sea whenever I'm away from it." It had
been his turn then to leave the barn and travel hundreds of miles
away.

Silence had filled the barn to the top of its lofty cathedral ceiling
then, with only the occasional scurrying of a mouse, on the lam
from a carnivorous feline, scratching at the quiet solitude. Jill
had continued to toss the rope between her hands, occasionally
pushing it out toward the center of the barn, grasping its rough-
hewn handle as it had swung back into her waiting arms. Peter
had felt like that swinging rope, a pendulum bereft of her touch
as he swung out to the center of nothing, only to feel her warmth
and love as he swung back into her arms.

She had hung onto the rope then, seemingly tired of the
childhood game she hadn't played in eons. "As I got older, I
would practice swinging from this rope and dropping down into
the hay. I became so good at it that I once overheard Mark
telling the older boys at school that I was the bravest girl he
knew. I knew then that I could do anything I put my mind to."

"Is that why Mark runs his own farm and only helps your father
out with his land?" He had reached for the rope then, pulling her
heart into his.

"I had wanted to study agriculture, to be able to cultivate this
land. To keep it in the family. But then I realized that I really
wanted to paint this land, to show the world the beauty that I see
each and every day of my life." She had whispered her secret
desire that had been buried in the ocean of her heart. And as that
trove had floated to the surface, Peter had ached to dive in and
open its lid for all to see.

"This land will always be yours, Jill." He had whispered back,
carefully keeping her treasure afloat, not allowing it to sink to
the bottom of his beloved ocean.

"How?" She had been perplexed.

He had gestured toward her heart then, taking her hand and
placing both their hands over it. "It will always be safe in your
heart. No one can ever take that away from you."

"I had only wanted to run this land; to keep it in the family. It's
hard to explain how this land makes me feel. But I think you
understand. You and your ocean." Her voice had been soft and
wistful and he had longed to forget the pull of the tides and the
splash of the waves. He had longed to erase the memories of air
bubbles forced to the surface by quick burrowing clams. He had
longed to eradicate the smell of sea salt, shipwrecked kelp and
rain-soaked pavement, but he could no sooner forget the
touchstones of his life than he could forget the enchantress who
stood just out of his heart's reach.

"I would make sure we came out here as much as possible. You
could always come with me when I have a meeting. We could
buy a house in town, or a piece of land. I just know, I just know, 
Jill . . ." He had begun to plead then, his voice betraying his
earlier resolve not to push her into this union.

She had pulled her hand away from his then, and had stood
back, fiercely securing the rope between her hands and her
knees and she had swung out to the center of the barn, swung
out of his reach.

She had swung back toward him, back and forth as if she had been
swinging on a star, her head thrown back, her hair swaying in
the air as she had flung herself from the loft. "This is how you
make me feel, Peter," she had shouted into the breeze of her
love. "When I'm with you, Peter, I feel like I'm floating on air.
It's exhilarating and scary and I can't get enough." And she had
giggled then and had let go of the rope, effortlessly dropping
onto the pillow of hay on the floor below, her laughter a
symphony of delight.

He had caught the rope as it had swung back toward him and
without a thought or hesitation had anchored himself to its
roughness and had swung himself out into the midst of
uncertainty. And as the heady expanse of floating on air had
encompassed his thoughts, he had known what he wanted and
he knew what he would get.

She had kissed him then, unabashed kisses full of delicate
pronouncements of love, as he had rolled in the hay, after he had
landed in her heart. He had known then she would follow her
heart's desire, yet later, he would realize he had failed to discern
what her true desire had been.  That she would follow that desire
no matter what.

"I will follow you to your Vancouver, Peter. I will live by your
ocean. And I will be your wife. But I will always belong to this
farm and this land. Don't ever think you can take that away from
me, Peter." She had sighed as he had swept the hay from her
hair along with her protests of never loving what he loved so
dearly.

It wasn't until he had read her letter, a few years later, that he
had realized she had followed her heart's desire. Back to the
land, back to the prairie, back to her beloved farm, back to her
own touchstone.

He had seen all his accomplishments in his life as his right, that
they were things to be bestowed upon him, just because he
breathed the air of life. He had the right to an upper-middle class
upbringing. He had the right to an expensive education. He had
the right to a challenging and lucrative career. He had the right
to a proper marriage and he had the right to dictate the way his
life turned out.

He had been wrong.

She had loved his ocean and his salt air and his crafty clams for
only a few minutes, but he hadn't paid attention. It was his right
to live in his city.

She had painted only a few renderings of the landscapes of his
coastline, returning to the wheatfields and vast expanse of her prairie, 
time and time again.  He still hadn't paid attention. It was his
right to be married and for his wife to live where he wanted to live.

She had decorated their penthouse apartment the way he had
wanted, but then had quietly placed the decorations of her
windswept prairie throughout the carefully manicured view of
his ocean, and he still hadn't paid attention. It was his right to
awake to the taunts of the gulls and the crashing of the waves. It
wasn't his wife's right to wake to the pastoral sounds of calving
and the chaotic sounds of calving and branding as spring brought
forth life to the prairie.

Her father had died suddenly of a heart attack, leaving a farm to
run, and not enough hands with which to run it. There had been
talk of having her brother Mark take over, but his father-in-law
had passed away the summer before, leaving Mark and his wife
with more land than they could handle.

Jill's younger brother David had long since left the farm,
enduring a childhood full of chores and animals for only as long
as he had been legally required to. Once he had finished school,
he had ridden the first coach out of that one horse town, to the
big city, never looking back. Jill hadn't even been sure where to
reach him to tell him about their father.

Peter had left her at the farm after the funeral, confident it was
his right to have his wife by his side. He had returned to his
home by the sea confident she would reside with him forever;
because it was his right.

"Dear Peter, " the letter had begun. He had been tidying up his 
desk, ready to drive to the airport, to regain his right to that
better life, when her letter had arrived.

He had begun to realize that his name should have been John
when he read the rest.

"I told you once that I would always belong to my family's farm
and to the land. I warned you that you could never take that
away from me, Peter."

He had realized then that he had tried to take her away. To 
assimilate her love for the foothills of the prairie and the
stunning vista of the Rockies into his love for the craggy shores
of the West Coast. He had viewed her as a right, and not for
what she truly was. A privilege. And now the wheat fields of
Alberta had been privileged with her love and her beauty and he
was left to his sea and his right to live there.

When his firm had offered him a transfer to Washington, D.C.,
he had leaped at the chance. His divorce from Jill had been final
only a few months before.  She had quickly and quietly married
the boy from the next farm over. It had been that boy's privilege
to have Jill swing into his heart, and not Peter's. The boy next
door had been given the privilege of dropping into the sweet hay
of Jill's hayloft.

Summer had never been as intense or as hot in Vancouver as it
had been in Washington that July in the new millennium. He
had rarely traveled outside his sphere of the provinces he had
lived and worked in.  The United States' capital had been an
awe-inspiring eye opener.

When he hadn't been preparing documents to counteract the
arguments of the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, he
had been explaining FERC's argumentative stance to Canada's
National Energy Board. It had been grueling work as he had
immersed himself in the mire of the federal requirements of his
own country and the one he was residing in as a necessary
foreigner.

As the vibrant city had churned around him with political
insiders and powerful politicians, Peter had attempted to forget
his beloved Pacific Ocean and his beloved Jill. It hadn't mattered
she was no longer his wife, he had still loved her, had still
wanted to be with her.

He had found solace in the delicate works of the
post-Impressionist painters at the Smithsonian, lulled into a long
ago world of pastoral landscapes. He had paid his respects at the
various monuments to the machinations of man left to rule
himself, and he had surprised himself by silently crying at the
wreaths left for those whose names would never be inscribed in
the wall.

As the rain had sprinkled around him, he had sought shelter at
the Jefferson Memorial, winding his way through the gallery
and gift shop, drinking in the knowledge of a Renaissance man
of long ago. The sun had begun to filter through the glass doors,
and he had found himself climbing the grand stairs, only to
be confronted with one of the most magnificent statues he had
ever laid his eyes upon.

And there she had stood, as the sun had shone through the
columns, he knew he would recognize her anywhere. She had
left the boy next door and followed her heart's desire, and he
would always remember that she would always be a privilege,
never a right. That it was her right to be happy, and not his to
keep her from that happiness.

As he had approached her, the sun had illuminated her auburn
hair, setting it ablaze with the glorious hues of his beloved West
coast autumn leaves.  He knew he would never take her love for
granted ever again.


January 2002

"Scully, I mean Da . . ." the gruff voice hesitated.

She turned and looked at the man she hadn't laid eyes upon in
several years, and smiled slightly. "Scully is fine, sir."

"It's been a long time, Scully. Maybe you should call me 'Walter'."
He kept his eyes on the road, his mind on the woman in the
passenger seat.

She chuckled, a slight derisive laugh lacking in any humor. "Maybe
it's time you told me the truth, *Walter*."

Walter Skinner cringed at her laugh, appalled at his lack of
preparedness for this woman's wrath. Her derision, her mistrust
and her anger were his doing.  His plot to deceive, inveigle and
obfuscate were of his own making.

"Or will he tell me the truth? His grand and illustrious truth?" Her
bitterness stung the air, infused it with the poison of her fury.

Skinner continued to keep his eyes on the road, his heart in his
stomach, and his mind on the past. He had stared at his telephone,
willing it to disappear, willing it to telephone her, willing it to
tell her his side of the story. Her husband had answered the phone, his
accent familiar, yet foreign, his name for her familiar,
yet foreign.

She had answered his call with a breezy hello, until he had
spoken, and then he had heard the rhythmic slap of the spatula
as the mortar had been spread in place for the bricks for her
walls. She had barely spoken, replying only as needed, only
as required.

"Is it another body for me to identify?"

He turned to her then, realizing she had readily climbed into his car
with the force of only one sentence.

"It's Mulder, Scully, he's returned."

She crossed her arms and looked out the passenger window.
The sun had begun to set, the golden red orb hanging on the
horizon, caught between the night and the day. Just as she was,
caught between a chaotic world she had once adored and
loathed, and a simpler world that had brought peace.

"You had me identify his body. You let me think he was dead.
You lied to me!" She turned to him and glared, her stare as icy
and as cold as the air outside the car was. Just as he was sure she
would bore through his body with her accusations of deceit, she
turned back to the passenger window and whispered quietly,
"He lied to me."

Skinner had turned his attention back to the road, his heart
frozen over with the guilt he had carried. The sin of lying by
omission, the guilt of lying to a colleague, the sentence of never
being trusted by a friend.

"I'm your friend, Scully, not a monster." He uttered his words
carefully hopeful she would remember what they had once
meant to each other.

Scully continued to look out the window, watching the world outside
slide by, as her world crumbled around her. She thought of the
trust she had placed in this man, she thought of her deep feelings
of friendship, and then she thought of the stabbing pain of his
betrayal. "No, you're not . . ."

Skinner smiled, relieved to know he wasn't as evil as she
thought he was. But then he grimaced as he felt the force of her
fury as she very carefully replied, " . . . a friend, that is."

*********************

Spring 2000

She had lain in her bed, their bed, the morning of the beginning
of the lies, and she had suspected. She'd had no reason to
believe what she thought, but the evidence had been before her.

He had rolled over then, his arm lazily flung over her hip,
his breath hot and humid on her neck. She had smiled, and had
lazily stretched, pulling his hand to her stomach, rubbing her
fingers over his. She had liked lying in bed with him, the weight
of his love stretched under the covers, his soft snores lulling her
to the safety of his heart.

"I thought I was the one who had trouble sleeping?" His voice
had been languid, the sharp edges of their hard life softened by
their real life.

She had pulled him closer, reveling in the feel of his skin against
hers, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the spring
night, pursuing the soft secrets of her body. She had ached to tell
him then, of her suspicions, of the betrayal of her body. Or
perhaps her body had never betrayed her. Perhaps she had
betrayed only herself.

"Shhh. It's early. Go back to sleep." Her whispers had been soft, as
soft as his fingers had been as they had caressed her hand, reaching
below their surface to trace the soft down of her belly.

"Stay." He had sounded more alert, and she had feared he would
awake fully, and she had wanted to leave him while dreamed.

She had turned to him then, rolling into his embrace, tangling
her legs with his, sprinkling light kisses over the bridge of his
nose. As her lips found his, she sighed and pulled gently away
from him and replied, "I'll stay, Mulder, but will you?"

He had woken then, his eyes wide open, his body stiff and
unresponsive. He had stroked the hair off her face and smiled
weakly. She had smiled back, understanding his response,
sympathetic to his ideals, sensitive to his search for the truth.

He had seen her comprehension in the depth of her eyes, and he had
understood as well then. He had kissed her then, strong and
passionate, stating all that he wanted for her, and for them, in a
display of physical affection.

"I'll stay as long as you'll have me, Scully."

********************

May 2001

He was a tall man, taller than Mulder, with similar coloring, and
a similar smile.  Or perhaps she had imagined those familiar, yet
unfamiliar traits.  He had droned on and on just as Mulder had
once done.  Endless sentences filled with endless facts regarding
endless pipelines that snaked their way endlessly through North
America.

As the price of oil had barreled toward the $45.00 mark, the oil
rich barons in the Saudia cartel had stalled at yet another
meeting with the world leaders aimed at upping production. 
These wealthy men had led a winter of ease as the political
landscape had changed in North America.  With new parties in
both countries and a mild winter at their backs, both leaders
hadn't been that eager to see the price of oil settle back to a
more reasonable price.

But as Great Britain felt the backlash from its decision not to
lower the gas tax the previous summer, its government was
swept out of power, protests threatened to once again erupt
throughout Europe, and the Euro dove to depressing levels.

As Japan had started to recover from its devastating recession,
the U.S. economy, for the first time in years, started to record
inflation, and although Canada's economy continued to grow in
leaps and bounds, its government knew it too would soon feel
the effects of a slowing U.S. economy.

Then, the explosions on the pipelines started.  For years,
terrorists had blown up pipelines in South America in an effort
to steal the valuable oil from the wealthy companies that
transported it through the poor towns and villages.  But this had
occurred only in those poverty-stricken nations and never in the
wealthy industrialized countries of North America.  Then on a
warm, spring night in Ontario, the night air erupted with the
clash of exploding confusion and was lit with the fiery-red intensity
of terrorism and greed.

She had been teaching at Quantico since her final departure
from the X-files December of the previous year, since her
departure from her previous life.  She had requested and
received her transfer without once speaking to or seeing her
former supervisor Walter Skinner.  He had signed the forms and
never once requested to see her.  Unlike the sadistic night in
October when he had gently held her hand as she stood in the
morgue and identified her life away.

She had lied for and about him, proffering testimony of dead
men and deceptive DNA.  After the macabre and surrealistic
identification of his remains, she had decided from then on she
would lie for and about herself, weaving a web of deceit that
would entangle those who sought to entangle her.  She would lie
to Skinner, who had lied to her.  She would lie to the Lone
Gunmen, who would uncover her lies.  She would lie to her
mother, who would condemn her lies.  And she would lie to
Mulder to whom she could never lie to.

She would later realize that she had lied to the man who had
droned on and on about pipelines, not because she had to, but
only because she had known how to.

"Agent Scully, I'd like to you to meet Peter Luke.  He's with
TransAlberta Pipelines."  A.D. Kersch had caught her attention
as she had tried to quietly leave the conference room, and he had
pressed a sharp edged business card into her reluctant hand.

Scully had taken the extended hand, firmly shook it and replied,
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Luke.  I enjoyed your presentation."

He had smiled just like Mulder then, toothy and goofy, radiant
and fixed on her, and she had smiled back, reluctantly. 
"Assistant Director Kersch has indicated you have quite a bit of
experience with domestic terrorism."

She had realized she still held his hand and had abruptly let it
go, slightly blushing,  wishing the man before her would
disappear. "No, uh, no, not really.  More with alien terrorism
rather than domestic."

Peter had looked confused then, his toothy and goofy grin
disappearing.  Her fervent wish had been that along with his
smile, he would disappear.  But then he smiled again, and
replied, "Alien terrorism?  Don't you mean foreign
terrorism?"

She knew he had been teasing.  She knew he had been
charming.  She knew he had been trying to tease her.  She knew
he had been trying to charm her.  "  Excuse me,  Mr. Luke. It
was very nice to meet you, but I'm late for another meeting."

***********

January 2002

"You called me Dana then, as well."  They had been silent until
she had spoken again, the venom of her words permeating the
air, soaking into their skins, drenching their souls.

"I never, . . . *we* never wanted to hurt you, Scully."  Skinner
continued to keep his eyes on the road ahead, cautious in his
remarks, wary of receiving another chilling blow to his shaky
overtures of friendship and trust.

She snorted in disbelief, and continued to stare out the
passenger window, continued to eschew Skinner's pleas for
reconciliation, to listen to his version of Mulder's beloved truth.

"Then why did you have me identify Mulder's body?  Why did
you lie to me?"  She closed her eyes, trapping unshed tears,
ensnaring the hurt and anger that had entangled itself in her life
for too long.

He slowed the car as he eased into a steep turn, turning slightly
toward her and whispered, "Then why did you tell me your son
had died, Scully?  Why did you lie to me?  Why don't you tell
me where he is?"

As she turned swiftly toward him, her eyes were like daggers,
bejewelled and razor-sharp, honed on a myriad of tragedies and
a plethora of lies.  She pierced his thin veneer of superiority and
benevolence with her jagged stare, but he held his ground,
relinquishing her gaze only to follow the white lines on the road
ahead.

"But I did tell you where he was, *sir*."  She crossed her arms
and turned her thoughts back toward the passenger window,
only to see the anger of her former employer reflected back to
her.  She strained to see beyond the hurt and desperation of a
man she had once feared, obeyed, trusted and ultimately
betrayed and disobeyed.  As the streets of Washington rolled by
in a maddening blur of architectural grace, her thoughts could
only focus on the road of deceit she had turned her life on to.

***************

October 2000

That summer had been languid and luxurious, intense heat kept
at bay by a frigid cold front last felt during Grant's presidency. 
As she had widened her search for her missing partner, her life
had expanded along with her desperate inquiries into his secret
whereabouts.

Walter Skinner's testimony regarding bright lights and flying
saucers had garnered him threatened censorship and a sullied
reputation.  Fox Mulder's mysterious disappearance had only
revived the Attorney General's desire to suppress the X-Files,
and Dana Scully had fallen victim to that revival.

As the summer had digressed into a brilliant autumn
embroidered with rust, red and orange, the search had
intensified, the trail understandably crooked and deceptive. 
Scully had begun to relinquish her command of those who were
intent on locating Mulder.  Although she no longer conducted
investigations in the field, she taught the science of pathology
during the day, searching for Mulder by night.

The pain had been swift and unexpected, arriving weeks before
she had anticipated its arrival.  Her mother had met her at
George Washington University Hospital and had held her hand
as her contractions and anxiety had increased.

The night had stretched into eternity as her labor had stalled and
she realized he would never return.  He would never search for
the elusive truth again, and she would never debunk another pie
in the sky theory.

She had dreamed of mutants and myths, Mulder's voice
interspersed with her haunting nightmares.  She had heard a
baby's cry, as muffled voices had hushed her queries and
hurried about her room.  She had drifted in and out of a
confused sleep, aware of his presence one minute, aware only of
her constant companion despair the next moment.

"Scully.  Are you awake, Scully?"  Skinner had inquired quietly,
as she had clawed toward consciousness.

"Hmm?"  She had mumbled.  Weary and drained, a wall of
despair slamming into her heart as she had recognized her
surroundings.  

"I'm sorry, Scully.  I'm so sorry."  Her stoic superior had
succumbed to tears of grief right before her eyes then, failing in
his attempt to comfort her.

"I'm fine, sir.  I'm fine."  She had whispered, squeezing his
hand, squeezing tears of relief and sorrow from her closed eyes.

**************
Spring 2000

"I broke my wrist once."  He had announced one day, while she
had gently stroked his arm, her fingers pirouetting atop his wrist.

"While jumping onto a moving train?"  She had sarcastically
replied.

"Ha, ha, Scully.  Aren't we the comedienne today?"  He had
stopped her twirling fingers and drawn them close to his mouth,
applauding their performance with kisses of adulation.

"I've filled out one too many requisition forms for a
replacement cell phone, Mulder.  I didn't think it was all that
funny at the time."  She had pulled her hand away, preferring to
dance an encore on his other arm.

"It was the summer before she disappeared."  He had closed his
eyes, just as he had often done when he talked of his sister.  She
thought he imagined himself as the awkward boy he once must
have been, burdened with an inquisitive and demanding younger
sister.  On the verge of adolescence, tempted by the sights and
sounds of adulthood, yearning to remain in the comforts of
childhood.

"Samantha was always climbing trees.  She loved to climb
trees."  He had opened his eyes and smiled then.  A sweet smile,
full of summers laden with all day pick-up games and bologna
sandwiches.  "The only problem was, she could never climb
down from trees."

Scully had laughed then, halting her dance along Mulder's arm,
and he had pulled her close, showing her his own choreography
as his fingers had lightly tap-danced along her side.

"I know.  It drove me crazy.  I was forever rescuing her."  He
had that same sweet smile again.  She knew he was no longer in
her apartment.  No longer in her home.  He was back in a time
before his world had twirled out of control, losing sight of its
focal point and crashing head long into an unforgiving future.

He had sighed and continued, "We'd been walking home after
swimming all afternoon and she had decided to climb the
neighbor's tree.  They had one of the tallest trees in the
neighborhood.  I told her I wouldn't wait, but she insisted on
climbing it anyway."  His fingers had climbed up her arm and
traipsed along her shoulder, delicately standing en pointe at her
neck.

She had reveled in his touch, wrapping her arms around
his torso.  "What happened then, Mulder?  Did you just leave
her there?"

"I had intended to.  I thought it was time she learned how to
climb down.  But Mom heard her yelling at me, so she told me
to go and get her down."

"None too enthusiastically, I suppose?"

He had chuckled, his laugh deep as had it rumbled in his chest,
soothing her as her head had lain on his heart.  "No, I don't
remember moving too quickly.  But eventually, I got there, and
she was near the top of the tree.  I realized she wasn't going to
be able to come down by herself.  So, I climbed up there to get
her."

"Then what happened?"  They had both been reticent about
revealing the past to each other.  Initially out of professionalism,
and then eventually because they didn't know if they knew how. 
It was understandable now that they had sated their
hunger for each other, that she wanted to quench her thirst for
knowledge of his past.

"One thing I've always admired about you, Scully is that you're
an excellent interrogator."  He had smiled again, the laughter
lapping at his eyes, waves of hilarity spilling over into her heart.

"Do I have to read you your rights before I get to hear the end of
this story, Mulder?"  She had laughed with him, feeling the
gentle spray of his mirth.

"When I had finally reached the top, I realized how scared she
was.  I didn't have the heart to get mad at her, so I helped her
down."

"But how did you break your wrist?  Did she drop your cell
phone and you went after it?"  She had tried to keep a straight
face, but she had failed, hiding her face in his chest as she had
chortled with laughter.

"You're too funny, Miss Scully.  And we won't even mention it
was 1972."  He had laughed along with her, as the sun had
streaked across the livingroom, shining on their hearts and onto
their lives.

"Then what happened, Mulder?  How'd you break your
wrist?"

"While I waited at the foot of the tree, Samantha jumped into
my arms, and we both to fall to the ground.  When she
finally got off me, I realized my wrist had been broken."  He had
looked at her with his usual look of nonchalance, revealing none
of his emotions.  No one but Mulder would have known if he
was elated or if one of his fish had died earlier that day.

She hadn't been able to help herself.  She had valiantly tried not
to show any emotion.  But she had failed miserably and had
given into laughter which he had eventually joined in.

His earlier impromptu tap dance had begun again along her
neck, eventually slowing to a languid waltz, as their laughter
ebbed and settled into a deep pool of contentment.  As his
fingers had strolled toward her cheek, she had turned her face
toward his and gently kissed his jaw.  His fingers had grown
more insistent, and had sped up the dance.  They had then
twirled through her hair, had drawn her face toward his, and he
had kissed her.

As the sun had lazily changed partners with the furniture in her
livingroom, Mulder had lazily danced his way into Scully's
heart with his enchanting recollections.  As she had risen from
the couch and tugged at his sleeve, he had looked up at her with
his old soul eyes and whispered, "I found her in a grove of trees,
Scully."

She had looked down at the man she loved and the little boy
who had loved his sister, and she whispered back, "I know, Mulder.  You
told me about that."

And he had softly replied, "I wonder if she learned how to climb
down from trees?"

**************
July 2001

"How long have you been in D.C.?" She had asked him, her
smile bright and expansive as the sun had been. She had been
just as sweet and refreshing as the rain that had fallen earlier.

He had stirred his coffee, watching the clouds of cream
submerge into the dark and foreboding caffeine. "About four
months now. But this is one of the first weekends I've been able
to see the sights."

"I've never been to Vancouver."  She had ordered tea, winding
the string of the bag tightly around her teaspoon. Around and
around the string had been strung, tightening its grip on the tea
bag, tightening its grip on his heart.

"It's like Seattle, and then it's not like Seattle. It's like saying
Toronto is like New York." 

"I've never really been to Seattle, just the airport."  She had
replied.

He had laughed, spilling coffee onto his lap, staining his slacks,
discoloring his view of the very lovely woman who sat across
the table from him.  He had attempted to rub the stain out,
attempted to rub away her reticence.

"I think you're just supposed to pat it dry."  She had offered her
suggestion without hesitation, but her heart would be proffered
with much more forethought.

"Are you Emily Post?" He had smiled, realizing he had smiled
more in the last half hour than he had smiled in over a year.

"Heloise, actually" she had tentatively smiled as he had patted
at the stain in time with the racing of his stolen heart.

"Heloise? Is that your first name, Agent Scully?" He had asked
teasingly, aching to touch her hands, willing his hands to keep
from touching hers. The urge to connect physically to this
woman had been unbearable, torturous and delicious.

"It was nice meeting you again, Mr. Luke.  Thank you for the
tea, but I really must be going."  She had stood to leave then,
clouds swiftly blocking the sun, quickly blocking the brightness
of her earlier smile.

"I'm sorry, Agent Scully.  I didn't mean any offense.  I just
haven't had the chance to meet that many people since I moved
to D.C., and well, maybe . . ." he had struggled to keep the
disappointment from his voice and for the first time in his life,
he had been disappointed by the sight of clouds.

"Sometimes it's Dana. Sometimes it's, well, sometimes it's not
Dana."  She had sat back down, slightly smiling.  She had
squinted as the sun had swung to her side of the table and had
donned sunglasses then, depriving him of the sea blue of her
gaze, shutting him away from the reminder of his wife's eyes.

"Well, Dana, how long have you been working in Domestic
Terrorism?" He'd had only one thought then. He knew that he
wanted to know this woman, he knew he had wanted to see the
color of her eyes even when she wore sunglasses. 

"I don't." Her smiled had faded then, just as the clouds had
obscured the rays of sunshine overhead.

"I'm sorry, I just assumed you did.  Assistant Director Kirsch
indicated you had some expertise in that area." He had offered
his apology with a smile, hopeful she would smile again,
breaking through the clouds of her melancholy.

"I briefly worked in Domestic Terrorism for several months a
few years ago."  Storm clouds had begun to gather again,
threatening to douse them with the rain of discouragement and
regret.

He had sensed an imminent downpour of a hasty retreat
threatening to drench his first day free of despair and longing.
His heart had thudded in his throat, as his brain had sent
scrambled signals to his legs to run for cover from the sheet
lightening of the lost moment.  "What area do you work in
now?"

She had begun to gather her things again, quickly finishing her
tea, looking over her sunglasses, looking past him, not at him. "I
really have to go now, Mr. Luke.  Thank you again for the tea."

"It's Peter, and you don't have to thank me."  He had replied as
he had stood, the sun darting in and out from the numerous
clouds that had gathered over his oasis once again.

"Mr. Luke.  Peter.  Thank you."  She had offered her hand and
he had silently taken it.

"Dana?  Agent Scully?"

"Yes?"

"May I call you?"

The clouds had dispersed, the scent of rain had wafted toward
the Potomac, and the sun had shone in her smile once again, as
she replied, "I have your card, Peter.  I'll call you."

**************
September 2000

"Agent Scully," he had grinned as she entered her apartment,
"you really must get a better security system."

She had sighed and glared at him viciously, reaching for her
gun, aiming it at his brain, as he had no heart.  "No, I think that
everyone needs to hand in their copies of my keys to me.  Don't
you think so?"

He had chuckled, keeping his eye on her hands, his hand on his
gun, his gun on her heart.  "You look rather expectant, Agent
Scully.  I wonder if Mulder is in need of a good humidor?"

"I don't know where he is, Krycek.  Maybe you could tell me? 
Hmm?"  She had replied, carefully cocking the hammer of her
gun.

"They'll come for the baby once it's born.  They might even
come for it before."

She had stepped toward him then, placing the safety on the gun,
and lowering it to her side.  "What do you mean they might take
my child before it's born?  What do you mean, Alex?  Tell
me?!"  She had demanded, her breathing labored, her senses taut
and alert.

He had looked at her contemplatively.  His eyes soft, yet his jaw
was set, ready to pronounce judgment.  "I once told Agent Mulder to
pull his head out of the sand.  That if he didn't, he and the rest
of this Godforsaken world would go the way of the dinosaur." 
He had stood then, leaned toward her, and whispered, "Get your
head out of the sand, Agent Scully.  Save your child.  Save
yourself.  Agent Mulder won't.  Agent Mulder can't."

He had walked out of her apartment then, leaving her with a
myriad of questions.  Question upon question that she had been
cataloguing and categorizing for more than eight years, in an
effort to ask the right questions of the right people in order to
get the right answer.  But all she had been able to amass over the
years were riddles wrapped within enigmas.  She felt trapped
within an English maze, dazed, confused, and unable to find her
out.

**********************
October 2000

"Dana, it's Walter Skinner.  We've found him, Dana.  Call me
as soon as you get this message."  His voice had been hesitant. 
His tone had been pleading.  She had waited to return his call.



August 2001

As the days stretched endlessly into the quiet evenings, the heat
slowly dissipated in his apartment, as his loneliness funneled
through his thoughts.  He missed the smell of the ocean with its
canny clams and its cooling breeze.  Home was a long way away,
but near in his thoughts and huddled close in his heart.  The rain
that had fallen intermittently throughout the D.C. area the first two
weeks of August had kept him anchored to his resolve to make a
new life.  The rain had washed away some of his loneliness, leaving
puddles haphazardly strewn about the pavement and his heart.  He
would walk through the downtown area in the mornings, dodging
the small lakes, silently quelling the childish urge to slosh right
through the middle of one of the gigantic puddles.  That small
reminder of whimsy and his childhood helped him slosh right
through his days and into his nights.

He would circumvent those puddles just as he would circumvent
thoughts of his life in Vancouver, just as he would circumvent
thoughts about his former wife.  Jill had sent him a letter shortly
after he had met Dana Scully for tea in July.  A short letter with
news about the farm and the birth of her nephew.

He had read the note over and over again, desperately trying to read
between the lines.  Desperately trying to replace her carefree words
with ones that begged him to return, that her marriage had failed,
that it was his world she wanted to live in.

Those words had failed to appear, no matter how hard he had tried
to change the characters of the words she had carelessly strewn
about the page.  They still read the same.  "I'm doing well, Peter.  I
hope you are.  Regards, Jill."

Not that long ago she had lavished her notes and emails and cards
with love and kisses, marked in small x's and o's.  He had taken
those characters for granted, and now he only received an
occasional four or five line note carefully written with businesslike
regard.  The letters he wrote to his clients at the law firm were
written with more affection than the notes Peter received from Jill.

His clients paid him handsomely for those letters, just as Peter paid
for his letters from Jill.  He had paid with his heart and his life, and
she had taken her business elsewhere.

He never called her, and he never wrote to her, but he cherished the
notes she sent him.  And he knew he would never call her and he
would never write to her, and he only hoped that she would cherish
those nonexistent calls and letters.

July had burned into August, and except for the brief respite of rain,
the humidity clung to his life and smothered his resolve.  As he had
wrestled with the telephone one evening, dialing the first few digits
of her number, she called, breathless and businesslike.

He remembered how she had looked that day by the memorial.  He
remembered how his heart had been stuck in his throat.  She had
looked like Jill then, but she had sounded like Dana Scully when
she called.

"Mr. Luke?  Peter?"  She had hesitated.  He head heard her intake
of breath, but he had waited.

"It's Dana Scully.  I don't know if you remember me, but we met
last month.  We had tea on the Mall."

"Dr. Scully.  Dana.  Of course I remember you.  I'm so glad you
called."  Was he as breathless?  Had his voice cracked, sending the
end of his sentence careening up an octave, only to have it hurtle
back down somewhere around his feet.

She had laughed then.  Throaty and colorful and warm and
impressive.  And he had wanted to wrap her warmth around
himself, even as the temperature outside soared to the mid 90's.

There had been silence.  Deathly cold silence that had threatened the
silky warmth of her laugh, and he had sputtered, "I didn't think
you'd call.  I mean, I wasn't too sure if I'd see you again."

The ice has melted as she had laughed again.  "I'll be honest.  I
didn't think I'd call."

"But you have."  He had smiled and imagined that she had smiled as
well.  He had wanted to hear her smile.  He had wanted to see her
smile.

"Peter."

"Yes?"

"I'm attending a conference in Baltimore, and there's a dinner
afterward.  And I know it's a long drive, but . . . well . . ."

"It's not that far to drive.  When is it?"

"Friday.  Cocktails are at 5:00.  Dinner is at 6:00.  Black tie.  I'll be
the one in the blue dress."

He had hear her smile, and he had hoped she had heard his and he
chuckled and replied, "I'll be the one in black tie."

October 2000

The hallway that led to the morgue had been brightly lit, belying its
underground address.  She had been there before, more than a few
times, checking out possible leads in his dictatorial quest for the
right answers.  He would meet her there sometimes, spitting out the
seeds he had obsessively chewed on, spitting out his questions,
sucking in her answers.  She had attempted to season her answers
with the salt of wisdom gleaned from years of knowledge. 
Knowledge given to her in school.  Knowledge unearthed and laid
bare before her by his incessant need to dig deeply into matters that
shouldn't have ever concerned her.

She had taken her time driving to the morgue.  She had nothing but
time now.  Endless hours and minutes that ticked by and melted into
endless days of autopsies performed for the green Bureau recruits as
they poked and prodded at her knowledge.  She had no longer
seasoned her answers with salt.  Rather, she had told the truth, laid
it open on the autopsy table, as bare and stripped to the bones as one
of the cadavers that lay before them.

Walter Skinner had led her toward the room with the drawn blinds,
his hand firmly clasping her elbow, steering her toward the window,
steering her toward her fate.  He had whispered in her ear, words of
comfort, words of grace, words of remorse, words of regret.  She
had denied them all.

Later, after she had read the coroner's report, after she had craned
her neck as she had pored over the x-rays, after she had reread the
toxicological reports, she had finally closed her eyes and accepted
the ever elusive truth.

November 2000

"They'll follow you."  She had furtively looked around the hospital
room and continued.  "They'll know it's you and they'll find him,
and . . ."  She had stopped then fear and sweat intermingling on her
furrowed brow.

"They'll never know, Dana.  I won't let them.  I'll do as I'm told,
and we'll be safe.  He'll be safe."

She had clasped her hands then, anxiety laced throughout her
thoughts, intermingled with her plans.  "Mom, you can't do this.  It
has to be someone else.  They'll find you.  They found Mulder. 
They'll find his son."

Maggie Scully had lowered her voice then and replied, "They found
Mulder.  And yes, they'll find me.  But they'll never find your son. 
Never."

"Mom, you don't know these people.  Mulder thought he could
outwit them.  Mulder thought he could figure them out and find out
their answers.  But those answers aren't attainable, not from these
people.  And they want the answers Mulder found squirreled away
in their secret hiding places.  And they'll stop at nothing to get them
back.  Nothing!"

The silence had hung in the air between the two of them, mother
and daughter, mothers in arms.  Just as Mrs. Scully had been
prepared to do anything to protect her child, Scully had been
prepared to sell Mulder down the river for her own child.

"I can't let you do this, Mom.  I can't let you jeopardize your life
here.  I won't let you do this."  She had pleaded then, grasping her
mothers arms, trying to squeeze reason into an unreasonable
situation.

Her mother had glared at her then, grasping her elbows with the
same strength as she had been clasping her mother's arms.  Then
she had quietly replied, "I will do this, Dana.  I am doing this.  You
can stop me, but you won't.  I won't let anything happen to him,
Dana."

She had cried then, tears spilling down her face.  Tears of frustration
flooding with tears of desperation, drowning her best intentions,
sinking her hopes.  "I know you won't let anything happen to my
son, Mom.  But who's going to watch out for you?"

Maggie had sighed and smiled and hugged her daughter, crushing
her, crushing her objections.