CHIAROSCURO - The Collector's Edition by Blueswirl What follows is a series of vignettes that I began over a year ago, and never completed. Many thanks to everyone who wrote asking for more -- your notes inspired me more than you could ever know. A lot has happened on the show since then, but I have kept true to the universe that I originally created in order to tell the story I wanted to tell. For this reason, the timeline here begins sometime before "Leonard Betts" and everything that followed. This series -- which began with what I thought would be a single, stand-alone vignette -- became a bit of an experiment. I wanted to see if I could tell a story in sequential fragments that were almost snapshots, in that each section only captures a small part of the whole, and each is told from a different point of view. As with any experiment you never know if you're concocting something interesting or are on the verge of blowing up the lab -- I hope that here I succeeded in the former and not the latter. :) Each segment of this series is a single vignette; though they need to be read in sequence for the story to make sense, I prefer to think of each as its own individual piece. For this reason they have all been given their own subtitle, are labeled in single parts, and are individually rated. If you're counting, there are 21 parts altogether, and I'm sending them out in groups of 7 at a time. Note: Because each vignette tells only a piece of the story, there are sections that jump forward in time. I've tried to indicate the passage of time where appropriate, but it is still something to be aware of as you read. Title: CHIAROSCURO (1/1) Classification: V,A, MSR Rating: PG Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 4th Season, Pre-"Leonard Betts" Summary: The past cannot help but have an irrevocable effect on the present. Distribution: Please distribute to the EMXC, XF Fanfic List, ATXC and Gossamer. Feel free to post this story on any other archive or web page as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods., Fox Inc. and most importantly to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: I love it more than you could ever know. Please drop me a line -- good, bad, whatever! -- at Blueswirl@aol.com. CHIAROSCURO (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) With quiet, furtive motions Dana Scully pulled the rocking chair over to the blank spot in front of the window. It was dark in the living room, the only illumination a combination of streetlight and moonlight that filtered in through the shuttered glass. Once the chair was in place, she moved to the window and released the catch, allowing two of the shuttered panels to fall back and reveal the night that surrounded the house. Those simple tasks completed, she made her way back to the rocking chair and curled up against the pillows that cushioned its wood, tucking her bare feet beneath her in an attempt to keep them warm. Her actions were those of habit, the ingrained steps of a practiced ritual. She leaned back in the chair, pressing her shoulders against its firmness, the slight motion enough to begin the rocking. Back and forth the chair moved and she with it; an endless cycle soothing in its repetition. Tonight there was at least a small variation in the pattern. The night before seemed an eternity ago, far enough in the past to have already become a dim memory. Tonight, it was raining. The drops fell against the windowpane in a rhythmic pattern, ceaseless in their intensity. Last night was behind her. Tonight, it rained. That was enough to mark the evening as significant. It took so little, these days, to mark anything as significant. The legs of the chair moved against the wood, a barely audible squeak emerging each time she rocked forward and back. The sound was comforting in its constancy. Dana drew in a deep breath, the exhale escaping her lips like a prayer. Seconds became minutes that threatened to tip over into an hour and still she sat, absorbed by nothing more than the first rain of the season. Winter had come early this year. After a time, her motions unhurried, she reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out the piece of paper, unfolding it gently and smoothing it with her hand. An ordinary piece of bond letterhead that she cradled in her palm as though it were trimmed with gold. There was no need to read the words printed there. They were already etched inside her eyelids, a permanent reminder of their existence. Yet she traced them idly with a finger, another gesture born of ritual and habit. *Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged* Six simple words, strung together in a simple sentence. A simple sentence that haunted her every waking moment. Suddenly the paper felt hot enough to burn. With quick, precise movements she folded it back up, tucking it safely out of sight. The rain slowed, the drops hitting the glass with less regularity, and it was then that Dana heard him approach. His steps were quiet on the wood floor but she heard him nonetheless. Briefly she closed her eyes, vaguely hoping that if she appeared to be sleeping he would go back to bed. Would leave her alone and grant her this moment of privacy. As quickly as the thought entered her head, it vanished. She knew he wouldn't leave, and she didn't really want him to. He was the only one who could comfort her. She needed him, and he needed her. They had no one else to depend on. They were in this together. Together, they would be strong. Together, they would survive. Without turning her head, she remarked, "It's late." "I couldn't sleep," he answered, his voice hushed. "Me neither." Another sigh escaped with the words, and it gave her the energy to turn and face him. The room was full of shadows and he was cloaked beneath them. The old t-shirt he was wearing looked black in the darkness though she knew it was green. His hair was rumpled from sleep and he ran a hand through it self-consciously as he met her gaze. It was too dark to see his eyes, but she could read the worry in his face, his endless abiding concern for her. The darkness permeated the room, threatened to swallow them up and consume them entirely. It hadn't always been there, this aching bleakness like a wound between them. There used to be laughter and teasing, shared secrets and dreams. Yet there was still faith. There would always be faith. Dimmed now, perhaps, but not yet gone. She realized how lost she would be without him. "It's cold." He ventured forth the cautious observation, awaiting her response. Dana nodded. "It's the rain," she replied, a needless explanation. He walked up so that he was standing just behind her. She couldn't see him then, and turned back to the window. She knew without asking that he too had become captivated by the motion of the water against the glass, by the blurred glimpse of the garden beyond. He put a hand on the arm of the chair, causing it to rock again, gently. They both fell silent then, as though the rain required they acknowledge its existence with a mute homage. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable, accustomed as they were to communicating without words. The rain had picked up and filled the space between them before he spoke again. "Want me to go away?" "No," she answered. "Why don't you sit with me awhile?" He came around from behind the chair and stretched both arms out to her, allowing her to boost him up into her lap. She groaned a little with the effort and something about that made her smile. Just a little, but it was enough. "You're getting big," she told him. He nodded, his forehead wrinkling a bit with concentration. "I am big," he replied. "I'll be five soon." "That's true," she agreed, settling him into a more comfortable position, cradling his shoulders with her arm. "How soon?" Dana paused as though she were giving the matter serious thought. As though the answer wasn't at the forefront of her consciousness. "Well," she said, "today's the second of October. And your birthday is the ninth. How many more days do you have to wait?" He looked up at her, blue eyes a shade darker than her own, and she could almost see his mind working behind them. Such a serious, beautiful boy. "Seven," he finally announced. "Seven days." "You're exactly right," she confirmed, smoothing her fingers over the stubborn cowlick in his brown hair. It was only in the bright sun that you could see the reddish undertones, and for that Dana was glad. In her humble opinion, red hair was a curse that she was glad her son had been spared. "Seven days is a long time," he declared. "Daddy should be home by then." She didn't offer a response to that and he didn't demand one. Instead, she cuddled him closer as she coaxed the chair to rock again, unwilling to admit the truth. Unwilling to admit that seven days had passed seven times already, and there was still no word. It was the feel of his small hand on her cheek that caused her to realize she was crying. Silent tears that he wordlessly brushed away with his chubby fingers. She took his palm in her hand and kissed it, then drew it close to her heart and rested it there. After a while, the rain stopped completely. The rising sun bathed the rocking chair with light, flooding the sleeping figures with the dawn of a new day. "It isn't so much that hard times are coming; the change observed is mostly soft times going." - Unknown Note: The funky punctuation (and lack thereof) in this section is intentional, and is =not= due to a problem with posting or your computer download. CHIAROSCURO 2: INTERLUDE by Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) * THIS IS YOUR DAY OF RECKONING * Enough, I've had enough.... please, stop.... * THIS IS THE DAY THAT YOU WILL PAY * This day, that day, they're all the same, aren't they? How many goddamn days? How many has it been? All the same in the tunnel of your mind... How many will it take until you're satisfied? How many? Just end it, if you're going to end it, just end it. Please, please... if you do nothing else.... * LISTEN TO ME * No more, no more, no more.... -- Okay, that's enough, it's time for bed now -- -- Oh, please, Daddy, just a little bit more story, please please -- Those eyes, those big blue eyes. How could anyone resist blue eyes like those? Not me, never me... but it's late. Too late... * HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY TO YOU, SINNER * -- Go to sleep, we'll read more tomorrow -- -- Can I ask you a question, Daddy? -- -- One question, then time for bed -- -- It's not fair that Charlie can only bring one person to the chocolate factory with his golden ticket, he found the money and bought the chocolate, he waited and waited and now he can only bring one person with him, that's not fair. How come he can only bring one? -- -- Those are the rules of the game, you can't change the rules -- -- Why not? -- * DO YOU NOT THINK YOU SHOULD PAY FOR YOUR SINS? * So simple, to be a child. Everything so clear and simple. Life is never clear. Never simple. -- Because, that's how it works -- -- Why? Why does it work that way -- * DO YOU THINK THAT YOU ALONE ARE ALLOWED TO JUDGE? * How do you explain choice, sacrifice, regret? How can I make him understand? -- Sometimes, you just have to choose. That's the way it works. -- * YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR PRIDE AND YOUR VANITY * -- How did Charlie choose? -- -- He chose his Grandpa Joe because he loved him so much -- -- Like you and Mommy love me? -- -- Exactly like that. Now, it's time for bed -- Kiss him goodnight. His hug is so strong, so warm, his embrace so genuine. How did I ever get to be so lucky? * YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR ARROGANCE * -- Daddy? -- -- What? -- -- Did you and Mommy choose me? -- Oh, if only he knew the choices we made. If only he knew. The choices we made. *YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR SINS * -- Yes, we chose you. Out of all the little boys, we chose you because you were the very best. Now go to sleep -- -- Goodnight, Daddy -- -- Goodnight, sweet dreams -- There is nothing more fragile than the life of a child. Nothing, nothing. How did I ever get to be so lucky? -- Daddy -- -- It's time for bed -- -- How did you choose Mommy? Because she was the very best of all the Mommys? -- * JUDGE NOT LEST YE BE JUDGED * She chose me. For reasons that I can't explain, even now. Despite her better judgment, she chose me. Despite my better judgment, I let her. Dana, my beautiful Dana. My beloved... -- Yes, because she was the very best Mommy. And because I loved her, just as much as I love you. Now go to sleep, or no story tomorrow -- -- Night, Daddy -- -- Goodnight -- -- Daddy -- -- I'm closing the door -- -- Did Mommy choose you too? -- -- Yes, Mommy did -- * YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO ACT AS JUDGE AND JURY * -- Do you, Dana Katherine Scully, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband? -- -- I do -- She said the words, she means them, I know she does. She means them as much as I do. For always, for ever. -- For richer and for poorer, for better and for worse -- That's the joke, that's the kicker, the fact that worse always follows better. Just when you think that everything is fine, that everything for once is never better, the worse arrives. No more, please... no more... * YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER * -- I now pronounce you man and wife -- * ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? LISTEN TO ME, SINNER! * -- You may kiss the bride -- So beautiful, my God she's so beautiful. Hair like blazing fire, eyes blue like the sky, lips so soft and warm dear God I could drown in her kiss dear God she's mine all mine forever... How did I ever get to be so lucky? Nothing ever lasts. Nothing. Everything dies... * THIS IS THE HOUR OF YOUR RECKONING * Dana, oh God I love you, I love you so much and I'm sorry, so sorry, please God if you can hear me forgive me, I love you... Please, help me... end this.... "Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves." - Henry David Thoreau CHIAROSCURO 3: COVENANT (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner unlocked his car on the passenger side, fumbling awkwardly to keep the door open as he gently laid the box down on the seat. He shut the door and moved around to the other side, carefully easing his tall frame behind the steering wheel. Pulling out of the carport, he was assaulted by the sunlight. Its cold harshness filled the automobile, frighteningly vivid after the darkness of the garage. Glare reflected off of his glasses and he threw down the visor in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the brilliance. It was an ineffectual effort, and Skinner found himself squinting as he maneuvered the car down the street. The words danced across his consciousness. Nowhere to hide. He rolled down the window, allowing a brisk rush of air to enter the car, and then tuned the radio to the jazz station that he favored. The sweet blare of a saxophone caressed his ears and he punched the volume button several times until the bass line threatened to devour him. With the window down, Skinner could hear the sound of the tires rubbing against the asphalt, a rhythmic counterpoint to the mournful jazz. Bright sun, cool breeze. Surrounded by sound, he was alone. Focused on the rise and fall of melody, on the breaths between the notes. Absolved of any responsibility beyond keeping the car between the dashed white lines. Freedom in solitude, rare precious moments without obligation. Without duty. No one is ever truly free, he mused as he drove. Everyone is anchored by something, tethered to someone. The simplest agreement, the most casual bond can blossom into a whole much greater than the sum of its parts. Leaving you forever accountable. The thought pulsed endlessly behind his eyes. Nowhere to hide. Skinner didn't have far to go, but he was late, so he applied himself diligently to the business of driving. He'd given his word, and it was the only thing that kept him from turning the car around and heading back the way he'd come. He knew the route by heart, having traveled this particular stretch of highway many, many times. It was especially beautiful today. The trees that lined the road were a panoply of brilliant colors, reds and yellows and oranges mixing in a wild profusion. All too soon, he spotted the exit. Away from the steady thrum of freeway traffic, he could actually hear the leaves as they swirled against his car. The streets were wide, well manicured lawns edged by sidewalks with proper curbs. Freshly painted houses with contrasting trim, columns of brick and stone mixed with weatherbeaten wood. A Norman Rockwell version of suburbia, stunning in its simple perfection. Against this tableau of normalcy, Walter Skinner felt a little out of place. Towards the end of the third block he slowed, looking for a spot to leave the car. He found one fairly close by and parked, walking back towards a small colonial-style house, the box wedged firmly beneath one arm. A gaily printed sign taped to the front door informed him that his destination was through the side gate, around back, and he duly followed instructions. The relatively small house came attached to a fairly big backyard, complete with a tall, treehouse-friendly oak in the center of the yard. At the moment, the tree seemed to be the focal point of a frantic game; a dozen small children dressed for the weather in bright sweaters and jackets were shouting gleefully as they ran and chased one another round the yard. Two long picnic tables were covered with paper tablecloths that trumpeted 'Happy Birthday' in festive colors, matching the balloons and streamers which adorned the side of the house. Another smaller table boasted an impressive array of presents resplendent with curly ribbon. Two women stood nearby, similar in stature and wearing nearly identical smiles that widened as he approached. Despite the differences in their coloring and their ages, Dana and Margaret Scully had the same classic features, and Skinner knew their shared qualities transcended the merely physical. Dana was one of the most confident and independent women he had ever known, and when he had first met her mother, years ago, he had immediately realized from whom Dana had inherited her poise and strength. Moving gracefully across the leaf-strewn lawn, Dana met him halfway, taking the gift from his arms and giving him a sweet hug. "Glad you could make it, sir," she greeted him, her actions belying the formality of her words. He was no longer her supervisor -- she'd been at Quantico for nearly six years now -- yet she continued to address him as formally as she always had. Not that Mulder was any different; if anything, he'd been more respectful in recent years, back in the Violent Crimes Division, than he'd ever been as his subordinate. Skinner could still remember the serious look on Mulder's face when he'd come to his office and asked for a private word with him. "I have a request to make of you, sir," Mulder had said, his earnest expression underlining the intensity of his words. "Dana and I would like you to be the godfather to our baby." Skinner had been stunned by the statement, surprised that his former charges would consider him for such a portentous responsibility. It wasn't as though they were family, after all. "It's important to us," Mulder had continued, emphasizing each syllable. "We trust you to look after our child... if need be." The words had been crystal clear, their meaning obvious. The X-Files had been closed, for all intents and purposes. Mulder and Scully had voluntarily accepted new assignments. Yet there remained a lingering fear that there were those who still bore them malice. That there were those who might discover the existence of the child and attempt to use the baby against them. Skinner had understood that fear, and in understanding it had vowed to do all that he could to stop it from becoming a reality. And he'd kept up his end of the bargain, done his duty by his godson. It was his own secret pledge to protect the parents that he'd failed to keep. These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant as he returned the small woman's gentle embrace. "I wouldn't have missed this," he assured her. "I don't know about that," she teased him, her coppery ponytail swaying to the side as she cocked her head to glance at him. "Somehow I think you've got other things on your agenda." "Nothing this important," he told her, surprised that it was true. Glancing out at the shouting children, Skinner's eyes found his godson, churning across the lawn with startling speed. "He's getting so big," he remarked. "I know," she answered, her voice full of maternal pride. "It happens so fast." They reached the table where Margaret was waiting and he embraced her briefly as Dana put down the gift he'd brought. "It's good to see you, Walter," she told him, and though he saw a hint of sorrow in her eyes he believed she meant it. To Dana, she said, "I think it's about time we serve some cake." "I'll help you, Mom," Dana responded quickly, but her mother brushed her off with a wave of her hand. "You keep an eye on the kids," Margaret instructed as she headed towards the house. "I've got it under control." A pause, then, "Can I bring you anything to drink, Walter?" Skinner shook his head. He didn't think he could even manage water right now. Margaret vanished inside, leaving them alone, and Skinner felt the heavy silence descend. He waited as long as he was able, choosing instead to study the woman who stood beside him. She was wearing an oversized flannel shirt, its muted brown plaid a harmonious compliment to her shiny auburn hair. She looked like a college co-ed in her jeans and tennis shoes, but the shadows in her wide blue eyes told him differently. Reminded him of everything she'd seen, everything she'd endured. She'd been regarding him as well, and it was she who looked away first. Somehow that simple break in eye contact helped him find his voice. "It's been two months," he said quietly, turning his own gaze away. "I know," she answered, her eyes fixed on the tumble of children playing in the yard. "We've gone over the area where the other two agents were found with a fine tooth comb, and come up empty handed." His shoulders twitched, a helpless semblance of a shrug. "Every lead has been a dead end. We've got nothing." "Nothing," she echoed, her voice hollow. "I don't have a choice about this," Skinner continued, wishing the opposite were true. "Bureau regulations dictate that without the discovery of new evidence, the amount of manpower devoted to the investigation must be scaled back." "I understand," she told him, the words heavy. "We're not giving up." For some reason, it was important for him to say the words aloud. "I'm not giving up." It was then that she regarded him once more, her eyes a cold, unflinching ice blue that made him think of steel, of steamer ships built to weather the most fearsome ocean terrors. "I'll *never* give up." Four simple words. Words that spoke of her brilliant defiance of rules and regulations. Words that signalled her magnificent scorn of the myriad obstacles that blocked her path. She was beholden to nothing but her own faith. Bound by nothing but her love for the man whom she'd chosen to share her life. At that moment, Skinner envied her almost as much as he admired her. The spell was broken by Margaret's return from the kitchen, bearing a three-layer cake covered in frosting, five sparkling candles gracing the top. "Anyone for some birthday cake?" she called, raising her voice above the din of the shouting children. It didn't take more than that to bring squeals of delight and thundering feet from the excited party guests, who raced like a benevolent tornado towards the tables. Dana's face lost its ruthless expression as her son scampered towards them, a broad grin on his face. "Hey, Uncle Walter!" he shouted, throwing them a wave. "Mommy, you have to come watch!" "I'm coming," Dana answered, and Skinner followed as she walked over to join the crowd gathered around the frothy cake. Skinner stood beside Margaret and watched as Dana scooped her son up by the waist, holding him suspended above the cake, the better to do his job as the birthday boy. "Now don't forget to make a wish," she reminded him, and he nodded enthusiastically, scrunching his eyes shut for a long moment before exhaling a long breath that extinguished all the candles. He couldn't be sure from the angle at which he stood, but Skinner thought he saw Dana's eyes flutter shut for a moment as well, as though she had made a wish of her own. "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus CHIAROSCURO 4: INVERSION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Everything is going just as he had hoped that it would. Perhaps that is a bit of a simplification -- he hasn't quite expected things to take as long as they have, but he believes in the old adage that the best things come to those who wait. And wait he has. He has waited, and suffered. He has been penitent, and restitution is now his due. The best things come to those who wait. He looks in the mirror as he swirls the shaving cream across his features. Not a young man, any longer, but by no means can he be considered old. His skin bears few wrinkles, and his hair is still full and thick, the blond strands carrying not a trace of gray. If pressed, he would describe the line of his jaw as noble, but the topic has never come up. His face now covered in foamy lather, he removes the straight razor from its case and dangles it by its edge into the water-filled basin. He is tall, not as tall as some, but by no means could he be considered short. The lines of his body have been hardened and toned with repetitive exercise. Punishment of the body, he believes, is good for the soul. It clears the mind and hones the psyche and makes him ready. Ready to reclaim the life that has been stolen from him. With a steady hand, he guides the razor against his skin with smooth, firm strokes. His name is Virgil. Not that anyone has much occasion to call him by his name. He has led a solitary life for quite some time, long enough to have actually become accustomed to the silence. Silence is golden, at least that is what he has always been told. There is beauty in that statement, he thinks. He considers himself quite an expert on all things beautiful. Like the woman. She is beautiful by any standards, but particularly by his own. He is an aficionado of the unique. For him, ordinary will not do. He has suffered greatly, and knows that his reward will be just. He dips the razor back into the water, careful not to splash any of the liquid on his body. Rinsing it clear of the shaving cream, he admires its pristine steel surface before applying it again to his face. His mind is occupied with a vision of the sky at sunset, colored by a dazzling array of flaming reds and oranges. The fervent image of passion, scorching him deep within. Nature's dreams made carnal, images etched in flesh. It has been a long, long time. He is nearly finished when the sharp edge of the razor cuts his jaw, a clean even slice that brings droplets of blood to the surface of his skin. Red, blood red. An endless sea of red. The pain stings him with surprise, like stumbling across a scorpion's bite while crossing desert sand, disturbing his peaceful reverie. The pain blinks across his consciousness, reminding him of the man. The man who waxes and wanes yet will not perish. The persistence of life, he muses, is indeed an amazing thing. Was he himself not living proof of that? The best things come to those who wait.... He is happy now that Fate has changed his original plan. Pleased that his course has altered. There is more than one way to skin a cat, he thinks. And this way he will be rewarded with the most perfect of treasures. He reaches out to his image in the mirror with one pointed finger, touching the blood there first before bringing his hand to his face. The droplets have already begun to coagulate, yet they split apart like an atom at his touch. Warm, smooth and warm. Tender, like the caress of a lover. He brings a crimson bead to his lips and tastes his life, savoring its bitter tang against his tongue. Sweet, tempting and sweet. Rich, like the taste of a lover. He closes his eyes and thinks of her, thinks of her smooth warm rich tender tempting sweetness. Thinks of scattered dead leaves and the laughter of children and bright burning candles. Thinks of his love. His life. Begun anew. Lazarus, allowed to walk again amongst the living. A phoenix, freed from the ashes of his past. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon.... Finished now, he brings a towel to his face, inhaling its clean fresh smell. He rubs the scratchy cotton against his skin, abrading its tender surface. He looks at himself in the mirror. And he smiles. "Very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking." - Marcus Aurelius Note: There's some more funky punctuation in this one -- it is intentional, and is =not= due to a problem with posting or your computer download. CHIAROSCURO 5: COURAGE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Dana Scully walked through the house on automatic pilot, checking to make sure that all of the doors and windows were locked, that the burners were off on the stove, that the refrigerator door was firmly shut. The regular nighttime routine, nothing forgotten, nothing left to chance. She was bone-tired, her physical and emotional reserves near empty, despite the fact that it was barely past nine o'clock. The birthday party had sapped all of her energy. She hadn't realized how difficult it would be to go through it without him. She could feel the tears begin behind her eyes, an angry burning tingle that threatened to become a deluge, and she fought the temptation to succumb to her grief. Not now, she told herself. Not now... When she had thought that Mulder had been killed in that boxcar in New Mexico, so long ago, she had believed that she would never again know such pain. That she would never again feel as though her heart had been torn loose from its moorings, to dangle helplessly untethered in the cavern of her body. Now she knew that what she had felt then was but a fraction of true despair. That had merely been a glimpse of real loss. Then, Mulder had merely been her partner and her friend. Now he was so much more. Her lover, her husband, her soulmate. The father of her child. The center of her world. Without him, she didn't know how her world could ever be the same. Walking through the house, she marveled as she often did that she owned it, that she had become a grown-up in ways she had never thought she would. Marrying Mulder had been odd and unexpected in its own way; she had never quite imagined she would be a wife, and certainly never his. If anyone had told her when she'd first met him that they were destined to be married, she would have laughed at the absurdity of the idea. Now, she couldn't imagine living without him. Dana could still remember the day, nearly a year after their wedding, that she had come home to the brownstone apartment they were sharing in Georgetown. It was January, snowing hard, and she had been late. Mulder had been waiting for her, and she could still picture the relief on his face when she'd rushed in the door. -- Dana, where have you been? I was worried about you, I called your office -- She had been so excited she hadn't even stopped to take off her coat. -- Mulder, Mulder we're going to have a baby, we're having a baby, I'm pregnant -- She could still see the way that his face had lit up, a burst of bright sunshine dancing in his eyes. He had grabbed her and picked her up and spun her around, snow and ice flying off of her coat and scarf to leave wet spots on the rug. He had held her close and kissed her and for those brief moments they had just been another happy newlywed couple, thinking about nothing else but the promise of life and love. It wasn't until later that the doubts and fears had surfaced. Shaking her head to clear the dark memories away, Dana wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door, reaching aimlessly for the bottle of white wine tucked away on a side shelf. The bottle was cold in her hand and the sensation too closely mirrored the coldness in her heart, so she put it back. She vaguely remembered a bottle of Macallan lurking in one of the cupboards and made finding it her mission. The third cupboard was the charm and there was still a good bit of scotch left inside. She took down one of the highball glasses that had been part of a wedding gift and filled it halfway, topping it off with a couple cubes of ice. She took a long swallow, savoring the burn the liquid left down the back of her throat. Dana rarely drank, but there were times that she welcomed the numbness that alcohol provided. With the glass in her hand, she made her way up the stairs and down the hall. The door to her son's room was open, light streaming into the hallway like a beacon, beckoning her forward. She paused just inside the door, looking at the piles of books and games and toys strewn over the carpet. He had his father's sensibilities when it came to keeping things tidy. The owner of this jumbled mess was hanging off the edge of his bed, dressed in the tee shirt and sweat pants he used as pajamas. In his right hand he held a large plastic helicopter, the rotors of which he turned with his left as he piloted it through imaginary maneuvers, its journey fueled by the buzzing motor sound that he made with his mouth. Dana watched him silently, enchanted by the way that his imagination worked. He was like his father in that way, too. The two of them could spend hours on the floor of this bedroom, making up stories and games and acting them out together. When they were playing, it was sometimes hard to tell where the father ended and the son began. Finally, with reluctance born of her desire to stand and watch him all night long, she interrupted his game. "Ryan," she told him, "it's way past your bedtime." He looked up then, the copter noise sputtering to a stop as he grinned at her mischievously. "I can't go to bed," he explained. "I'm a pilot on a secret mission." "Well, that I understand." She nodded, acknowledging the seriousness of his task as she stepped into the room and crouched down beside him, putting the glass on the floor by the bed. "But you know what happens if a pilot gets too tired?" "No, what?" "He can't fly the helicopter straight, and then he might crash, and that would be the end of the secret mission." He bit his bottom lip as he considered her words, a habit that Mulder always said he'd inherited from her. "Does that mean that pilots have a bedtime too?" "Of course," she replied. "Everyone has a bedtime. Some bedtimes are just later than others. But everybody needs sleep." "Okay." Satisfied with her explanation, he handed her the toy copter and scrambled up to the head of his bed, scooting down beneath the flannel sheets. They were emblazoned with a variety of old-style railroad cars, model trains being one of his 'very favorite' things. "Uncle Walter gives the best presents," he announced. "He does," Dana agreed, spinning the rotor on top of the copter before putting it down on the nightstand by the bed. "Now you get some sleep." She leaned in and gave him a kiss, and Ryan scrunched up his face. "You taste funny, Mommy," he told her. "Like medicine." Dana laughed. "I guess I do," she admitted, picking up the glass of scotch and holding it in her hand. "A little medicine for grown ups." "Are you sick, Mommy?" She shook her head. "No, not really." "Then you shouldn't be having any medicine," he declared, pulling his stuffed bunny close to him for emphasis. "I guess you're right," Dana conceded. "You're pretty smart, you know that?" "I know," he yawned. "Love you, Mommy." "I love you too, sweetheart." She ran a hand through his hair and put another kiss on his forehead. He closed his eyes and curled up on his side as she tucked the covers up around him and his nighttime companion. "Sleep well." She smiled as she walked to the door and turned out the light. His voice stopped her as she moved to shut the door. "Mommy, can we save a piece of birthday cake for Daddy?" She couldn't answer, her tongue locked by a sudden painful lump in her throat. "I think he would want it -- he likes chocolate as much as me." His words brought a bittersweet grin to her face. "That he does." She paused, then said, "I'll put some in the freezer." "Thanks, Mommy." His words a faint murmur on his way to sleep. She went back down to the kitchen and cut a large slice of cake, sealing it carefully in plastic before placing it inside the freezer, helplessly aware of the futility of the gesture. Then she dumped the rest of the scotch down the sink, watching the amber liquid spiral down the drain. Afterwards, up in her own room, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. The lines and shadows around her eyes made her look haggard and old and a weary sigh escaped her lips. "Everybody needs sleep," she muttered, knowing the words were true but unsure how to make it happen. It didn't take her long to get ready for bed and she crawled in beneath the covers on the right-hand side, the side that had the clock on the nightstand. Her side. The bed felt large and empty as it always did without him in it, a vast expanse of wasted space. Spurred on by her loneliness, a late-night conversation filtered through her memory. -- Mulder, are you sure that this is what you want? -- -- Believe me, Dana, I want this baby, I do -- -- But what if... -- -- Whatever happens, we'll handle it. We'll take every precaution, take every test, and if -- -- What if something goes wrong? What if They did something to me? -- -- Then we'll deal with it. Dana, you mean more to me than anything. I won't lose you, I can't lose you, even if it means we never have any children of our own -- -- I know... but I want this baby, Mulder. I want our baby.... -- -- I do too... I do -- They had been right to worry. Regardless of whether They had done something to cause it or not, hers was never an easy pregnancy and it only got worse. She had spent the last two months of it confined to bed, the first six weeks at home and the last two in the hospital. A faint smile crept over Dana's face at the memory of Mulder, doing his best to wait on her hand and foot. Cooking up an endless variety of bad meals in the kitchen until her mother arrived to take over that chore. Bringing her books and magazines and then reading them to her when she was in too much pain to focus on the words. Holding her hand and stroking her hair and talking her to sleep night after night. With the contractions had come the bleeding and for Dana, a blessed loss of consciousness. She didn't remember anything about the surgery that had resulted in her son's birth. She had been unaware of the agony that Mulder and her mother and the rest of their family had shared, waiting for the doctors to emerge from behind the doors of the operating room with news. It was only later that she learned of the question that Mulder had been asked, of the decision that he had made. They had asked him, if it came to a point of choosing between the life of the mother or the child, whom they should try to save. Her mother told her later that he hadn't hesitated for an instant. "My wife," he had said. "You have to save my wife." But they'd been lucky, hadn't they? Her recovery had been slow, but she eventually came back to herself. And they had brought a beautiful baby boy home from the hospital, nearly nine pounds when he came into the world with a shock of thick brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. Ryan William Mulder. The middle name had been a given; it honored both of his grandfathers as well as his father, but they'd wanted him to have a first name all his own. Ryan was a good, solid Irish name; it meant "little king", which seemed appropriate for their only child. For they both knew, after all that had happened, there would be no more. But that didn't matter, for they were a happy family of three, and as each day passed as blessedly serene as the previous one, their fears began to slip away. Though they still discussed them, from time to time. -- Do you think They know about him? -- -- I'm sure They do, Dana. But we're not a threat to Them anymore. We've made sure of that -- -- Sometimes I still worry. I worry that he might be in danger, someday -- -- Don't worry. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, or to our son -- But what about you, Mulder? What about you?? I need you, Mulder. I need you to be safe. Tossing restlessly under the covers, thinking these thoughts, Dana was surprised by the ring of the telephone. A yawn escaped her as she turned on her side, reaching blindly for the receiver. She found it and brought it to her ear and mumbled, "Hello?" There was silence on the line, but it wasn't absolute. Faint breathing told her that the caller was there, present but mute. "Hello?" she repeated, leaning up on her elbow and turning on the bedside light. The numbers on the digital clock read 11:21. "Is someone there?" The silence continued, frightening her in its completeness. "Who is this?" she demanded, wondering if she should hang up the phone. "It's not too late." The words rasped across the line like harsh sandpaper. Panic filled her, twisted up in tiny threads of hope. "What's not too late? Who is this?" "It's not too late to save him. There is a chance. But time is running out." Dana sat bolt upright, tossing the sheets aside. "Who *is* this?" There was no response. Pushing her hair out of her face with an anxious hand, she pleaded with the unknown caller. "Tell me. Please. I'll do anything...." "You may have to." "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" - Vincent Van Gogh CHIAROSCURO 6: DEVOTION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Margaret Scully glanced up at the television as she flipped the page of the book she was reading. The weatherman was predicting that another storm was due to hit before the weekend, and Margaret made a mental note to get more wood for the fireplace. There was nothing she liked more than a roaring fire when it rained. Turning her attention back to the book, she skimmed another couple pages, but found it difficult to completely immerse herself in the world of the story. It was a political thriller, complex in its characters and situations, and though ordinarily it was the kind of novel that she would devour, tonight the reading felt more like effort than pleasure. Putting the book aside for a moment, Margaret listened as the sports reporter described the hits and misses of the day, but her mind was elsewhere, thinking of her youngest daughter. Ryan's birthday party had been a success, but Margaret was acutely aware of how difficult it had been for Dana. Even as a child, Dana had never been one to share her pain, masking hurt and disappointment with a skill that had belied her years. It was no different now, but looking at her daughter through a mother's eyes, Margaret knew the truth. Though Dana had said little while they cleaned up the post-party debris, Margaret suspected that Skinner had arrived with more than just a present for the birthday boy. He had brought some news about Fox, she guessed, and the news had not been good. Not that she had anything specific on which to base her conjecture. Nothing beyond the slump of her daughter's shoulders and the veiled pain in her eyes. How, thought Margaret, had it ended up like this? A vaguely remembered phrase filtered through her mind... it is always darkest before the dawn. True, too true, she reflected. But once the dawn comes, doesn't it banish the darkness forever? There had been darkness, much darkness, and the memory of it made Margaret shudder, pulling the bedcovers up over her chest. She had lost her beloved Ahab, and then Dana had been taken away. By a miracle, she had been returned, and managed to awaken from the coma that held her in its grasp despite the fact that the doctors had given no hope. But not long thereafter Melissa had been killed, in a tragic twist of fate that still had Margaret reeling, after all this time. And then Dana had vanished again. That, Margaret reflected, had really been her undoing. Both hers, and Fox's. Once again they had found themselves partners in a silent vigil, mute victims flooded by a bleak despair. She knew, however, that this second abduction had been much harder on Fox than it had been on her, if that were possible. She had watched it happen -- had seen him wither to a shell of his former self, until all that remained were his hazel eyes, bright and edgy with exhausted determination. As he had done the first time, Fox had left no stone unturned, searching for her daughter with a desperate vengeance that stunned her and left her reeling in the wake of his persistence. And as had been the case the first time, his fervent belief that Dana would be returned to them safely had given her comfort and strength. Fortunately, this second time, they had not had as long to wait. Instead of three months, Dana was missing for just five weeks, though Margaret knew that every second of that time had stolen a minute from the end of her own life. Instead of materializing out of thin air in an intensive care unit of a hospital, Dana had been found wandering half-conscious by the side of a highway in another state. As before, she had remembered little or nothing of what had happened to her, but it hadn't mattered at all to Margaret -- the fact that she was still alive was enough of a gift. And it was apparent that Fox felt the same way. From the moment Dana was checked into a local hospital for care and observation, he never left her side, and Margaret had known before she heard the words spoken aloud that he had recognized a very important truth as a result of this second abduction. It hadn't come as any surprise to Margaret when, after Dana was recovered and out of the hospital, her daughter told her that Fox had asked her to marry him, and that she had accepted. It is always darkest before the dawn... Perhaps it was the fact that things had fallen into place so smoothly after that, Margaret mused, that she had never considered the possibility that anything else could go wrong. The wedding had been beautiful, a brilliant sunny April day that was only marred by the fact that Ahab wasn't present to walk his youngest daughter down the aisle. After they returned from their honeymoon, both Fox and Dana had left their jobs, for reasons that Margaret to this day didn't quite understand. Fox had returned to Violent Crimes, and Dana had become a teacher at Quantico. And a year and a half later, Ryan had been born... The sound of the doorbell startled Margaret out of her reverie. Glancing at the clock by her bed, she confirmed that it was well past eleven, far too late for anyone to be calling. The bell chimed again, more insistently this time, and Margaret slipped out of bed, pulling on her robe as she headed down the stairs. She had just reached the bottom when the bell rang once more. Margaret pressed her eye to the peephole in the door, glancing outside instinctively. The sight that greeted her made her breath catch in her chest and she fumbled with the lock, yanking the door open. "Dana? What are you doing here so late?" Her daughter was standing there, dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans and her buffalo plaid coat. With one arm, she held Ryan cradled against her waist, his eyes closed and his head nestled on her shoulder, his tattered plush bunny gripped in one tiny fist. In her other hand, Dana carried a small duffel bag embroidered with his name. "Hi, Mom," Dana said in greeting. "I need you to take care of Ryan for a little while." "Of course," Margaret responded automatically, pulling the door open further to allow them entrance. "What's --" "Let me put him to bed," Dana answered, cutting her off. "He's pretty much asleep already." As though to contradict her statement, Ryan raised his head and blinked his eyes at her sleepily. "Hi, Grandma." "Hello, precious," Margaret responded, giving him what she hoped was a cheerful smile. To Dana, she said, "We'll put him down in your old room." Dana nodded, and headed up the stairs, handing over the duffel bag in answer to Margaret's silent request. Upstairs, Margaret put the duffel bag down against the wall, watching as her daughter tucked her grandson into the single bed, kissing him tenderly on the forehead and ruffling his hair before closing the door and following her mother back into the hall. "What's going on, Dana?" Margaret asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. A strange expression flitted across her daughter's face at the question, an odd mixture best described as anticipation colored by fear. "I've got to go away for a little while, Mom. Hopefully it won't be for more than a day or so, but --" "Does this have something to do with Fox?" The words tumbled out of her mouth before Margaret had a chance to examine them fully. "Yes," Dana answered, slowly, as though she wasn't entirely certain of her answer. "At least, I think so." "I don't understand, Dana, what do you mean --" "I don't know, Mom," her daughter answered. "I wish -- I wish that I did. But you have to understand -- I don't have a choice about this." She paused, then added, "I don't." Margaret drew in a deep breath as she studied her daughter, taking in the determined set of her jaw, the fire in her wide set blue eyes. Instinctively, she knew that there was nothing she could do or say that would cause Dana to stray from the course that she had set for herself. But as much as she wanted to blindly accept her daughter's request, her maternal instincts were too strong. "I don't like this, Dana. Don't you think you should talk to someone -- to Walter? - - someone, before you just go off and...." "Mom, please." Dana gazed at her with the intense stare of the desperate. "I don't have the time for this -- I don't have the luxury of discussing it. Not with you, not with Skinner. You have to trust me on this. And you have to look after Ryan for me while I'm gone." Margaret felt herself weakening, the intensity of her daughter's conviction melting her own resolve. "Alright, Dana. I won't press you to tell me more -- I won't fight that battle with you now." Pursing her lips in a stern line, she continued, "But I won't stand to be kept in the dark on this for long. You have to call me -- you have to let me know what's happening, where you are. You have to promise me that." For a long moment, the two women remained still, mere feet apart in the small upstairs hallway, their eyes locked in an intense battle of wills. Dana was the first to surrender, dropping her eyes and then inclining her head in the merest of nods. "I promise, Mom. I'll call you -- I'll let you know what's going on." Knowing that she had already won an extremely substantial victory, Margaret conceded. "Good," she replied. "Don't you worry about Ryan. He'll be fine here with his grandma." "I know," Dana replied, and when she raised her head once more Margaret was stunned to see tears glistening in her daughter's blue eyes. An overwhelming rush of emotions swept over her then and without hesitation Margaret Scully pulled her daughter into her arms. They held each other for a brief, powerful moment and then Dana pulled back. "I'll call you, Mom, I promise." Without another word, or even a backwards glance, Dana headed for the stairs. Margaret remained where she was, waiting until she heard the sound of the front door close with a thud that marked the dropping of a seemingly impenetrable barrier between them. "Be safe, darling," Margaret murmured. Closing her eyes, she offered up another, silent prayer. There was nothing more she could do. "And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything you risk even more." - Erica Jong CHIAROSCURO 7: SIMPLICITY (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) It was now or never. There was really no other way of looking at it. And look at it he had, from every side. It was all too clear. There was never going to be a better time or place, and regardless of the danger, he had no choice but to take the chance. He waited for the right moment to come, hoping that something would change to make it easier. But though he waited with the patience of a saint, nothing changed. Absolutely nothing. Finally, his courage in place, he decided to make a move. He knew he was being watched -- and watched carefully, at that -- but there was nothing he could do about that now. If they wanted to stop him, they would. And he would have to deal with the results. He knew he could make it down the stairs without being seen. The hard part would be next. Cautiously he made his way, step by quiet step. He was careful not to make any noise, any sound that would give him away. He couldn't afford a mistake, not now. His heart was pounding in his chest, so loudly that he was certain that they could hear it. Yet he made it to the bottom safely, and allowed himself a deep relieved breath of air when he finished. It's now or never, he reminded himself. Now, or never. Cautiously, he glanced around. A man stood off to his right, far away but still too close for his liking. And there were others, at least two that he could see. Any of them could put an end to his plan. Somehow he managed to move past them, step by cautious step. He kept his goal firmly in sight, praying that he would somehow succeed. He was nearly there when he heard a voice that made him stop in his tracks, frozen with fear. He had thought he had more time, but he had been wrong. Really wrong. But now he had no choice. He couldn't go back. It was go forward, or give up, and he would never give up. Of that much, he was certain. A few more steps. Around the corner, and through the doorway. Across the tile and then hope flooded him, a fledgling spark that threatened to blossom into full blown triumph. He was almost there. Victory was within his grasp. Rising to his full height he balanced on the balls of his feet, leaning forward, both hands outstretched. The tips of his fingers brushed against the object of his desire and he pulled it towards him, slowly, as silently as he could. And then he was there, he knew it, there was nothing that could stop him now. He pulled off the lid and reached inside, a smile blooming on his face now that he had finally, finally, achieved his heart's desire. "Ryan William Mulder! Get your hands out of that cookie jar!" Caught. He was caught in the act. Ryan dipped his head guiltily, one hand still dangling within the confines of the large silver tin. He had no other choice. He had to do it. Turning the corners of his mouth down in his very best pout, Ryan brought out his deepest, saddest, neediest voice. "Gr-and-ma," he whined, drawing the word out as long as he possibly could, "I'm hungry." "If you're hungry, Ryan, I'll make you a sandwich." He knew that tone. That was Grandma's no-nonsense tone. The game was up. But Ryan wasn't the sort to give up without a fight. "Just *one*, Grandma? Please?" A sigh. A sigh! That was a very good sign. "P-l-e-a-s-e?" Another sigh. "Just *one*, then, Ryan. Just *ONE*." So he hadn't lost, after all. A huge smile crossed his face as Ryan resumed his forage into his grandmother's silver cookie tin. He grabbed the biggest, fattest chocolate chip cookie that he could find, and then slammed the lid back down, satisfied. He took a huge bite of the cookie, savoring its gooey softness, and it wasn't until he'd swallowed that he remembered his manners. "Thanks, Grandma." "You're welcome," she replied, but there was something about the way that she said it that made him realize that she wasn't paying attention to him anymore. For a fleeting moment, Ryan considered sneaking another cookie, but decided that the odds were against him. Instead, clutching his hard-won prize, he made his way across the kitchen and under the archway that led to the dining room. His grandmother was standing by the table, next to Uncle Walter and two of the strange men who had come into the house with him earlier, carrying boxes of equipment. That equipment was now all over the dining room table, which Ryan found quite surprising. Grandma always yelled at him when *he* put things on the dining room table without asking first. Curious, Ryan edged his way closer to them, anxious to see what they were doing. One of the men sat down in a chair, and put on a pair of headphones that Ryan thought were very cool. They were much bigger than the headphones on his bright yellow Walkman, and Ryan found himself wondering if the music that they played would be louder. The machine that they were attached to didn't look much like his Walkman, however, and Ryan decided that if the sound was louder, it would be because of that bulky machine, and not the cool headphones. "Don't worry," Uncle Walter said as he approached. "It doesn't take long for a trace. We just need you to keep her on the phone as long as you can. But we'll be getting it from the beginning -- we won't miss a thing." Ryan looked up at his grandmother and saw her nod. "Okay," she replied, nodding her head. "I'll do my best." "I know you will," Uncle Walter answered, with a funny little smile that didn't quite show his teeth. No one was paying any attention to him, but Ryan didn't really care. It seemed like something exciting was about to happen, so he climbed up into the chair at the opposite end of the table, hoping that he would get a good view. But for awhile after that, nothing really did happen. The other two men paced around the living room, back and forth, and the man with the funny big headphones fiddled with his cool machine. His grandmother brought out some iced tea and Uncle Walter took some, although none of the other men did. And a little while later, she brought out a baloney and cheese sandwich cut into triangles, with the crusts off the sides of the bread, and gave it to him with a glass of cranberry juice. Ryan examined it carefully and it looked okay, so he ate it, one triangle at a time, and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. They had all been waiting around forever in a very uncomfortable quiet when the phone rang. It sounded really loud, but Ryan figured that it was maybe just because the guy with the headphones still hadn't turned up the music. When the phone rang, his grandmother jumped, and Uncle Walter put his hand on her shoulder. "Just answer it," he told her, and his grandmother nodded and grabbed the phone off of the counter. "Hello?" She asked the question and then waved her hand vigorously at the man with the headphones, but the man didn't even look up. Ryan was watching him closely and it was clear that the man wasn't going to look up because he was too busy watching the spools on the machine turn around and around. The spools and that little green window at the center of the machine. Numbers were flashing in the window and Ryan stared at them, fascinated. "Dana, honey? Where are you?" his grandma asked, and Ryan grinned at the sound of his mother's name. "Is that Mommy? I want to talk to her!" Much to his surprise, his grandmother turned her back on him, concentrating instead on whatever was coming through the phone. There wasn't anything that Ryan hated more than being ignored, so he raised his voice to a shout, despite the fact that his grandmother was saying something into the receiver. "Is that Mommy? Let me talk to her!" His grandmother's only response was to lean forward, clutching the phone even closer to her ear, blocking him out. That was more than enough, and Ryan leapt out of his chair, knocking over the remainder of his juice as he did so. He was halfway to his grandma when Uncle Walter grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him back. "Hang on a minute, Ry," Uncle Walter told him, keeping him firmly in his grasp. "Let your grandma finish, first." Although he didn't want to, Ryan stayed where he was, leaning against his uncle and waiting for his chance at the phone. He loved talking on the phone, especially to his mother. But his grandma wouldn't stop talking, and she didn't turn around. He couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but at one point he heard her say his name, and he couldn't resist shouting, "Hi, Mommy!", which caused Uncle Walter to squeeze his shoulders again. After he had waited forever, he finally heard his grandmother say, "Okay dear, I'll talk to you later." "My turn! My turn!" Ryan shouted, but then his face fell as he saw his grandmother press the off button on the portable phone and put it back down on the counter. "Hey!" He raised his voice, indignant. "I didn't get to talk to Mommy!" Now his grandma was paying attention to him, now that it was too late and she had hung up the phone. "I know, sweetie, but she's going to call back and she's going to talk just to you." She leaned down and gave him a hug but when she pulled away, her eyes were looking up, at Uncle Walter, not at him. "Did you -- did you get it?" his grandma asked, and her words were strangely soft. Ryan glanced over his shoulder and saw that his uncle was looking at the man with the headphones. The headphone man nodded and gave a little smile. "We got it," Uncle Walter announced, and Ryan saw his grandmother sigh a big huge sigh, a sigh so big that he wondered if she had lost all of her air. "Thank God," his grandma said, and the happy look on her face made Ryan feel lucky. "Grandma," he asked, taking his chances, "do you think I could have another cookie?" "It is not how much we have, but how much we enjoy, that makes happiness." - Charles H. Spurgeon CHIAROSCURO 8: SUPPLICATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Dana Scully gently replaced the phone in its cradle, her motions slow and deliberate. She had kept her promise. Of that, at least, she could be proud. She didn't have the energy to justify the rest of it. What rational explanation could there be for her behavior? What logical reason was there for her to leave town in the middle of the night, abandoning her son to her mother's care? What possible argument could make sense of the fact that she had decided to place all of her faith in an anonymous phone call? Some questions, she decided, weren't meant to be answered. Love.... Dana sighed and rose from her perch on the edge of the bed. Her feet led her of their own volition across the worn carpet of the motel room, from the bed to the dresser and back again. Past the closet to the window. Towards the bathroom at the far end and the doorway on the opposite side. Back and forth. Back, and forth. Love, she thought. Love is the answer. Love gives us the courage to attempt the impossible. Are those who attempt the impossible dreamers, or fools? At this moment, she felt like a little bit of both. It was fifteen hours since the phone call that had shattered the stillness of her empty bedroom. Eight weeks since her life had been shattered by Mulder's disappearance. How could she not respond? How could she not take this chance? How could she not grasp at even the most fragile thread of hope? Come south, the mysterious voice had told her. Take a plane, bound for Mobile. Buy the ticket in cash, directly at the gate. She had obeyed, without questions. Take a bus, south to the water of the Gulf Shores. Rent a room, at the last hotel on Route 59. Use your professional name, not your married one. Cover her tracks, yet leave a clue. It made little sense, but she had followed orders. Tell no one of your destination. No one. The voice had been insistent, but she had bent the rules. Not so much, but enough. It was her duty, she reasoned. She owed her mother that much, at least. She had left her in charge of a little piece of her soul. The instructions ended there, and there Dana Scully was stalled. Unable to make a move, because she had no idea as to what her next move should be. Unable to do anything else, she paced, and waited. And thought about him. Love gives us the courage to attempt the impossible. Mulder..... She thought about his height, and how it forced her to tilt her head in a vain attempt to meet him eye to eye. Thought about his strength, and how his arms felt when they encircled her back and held her close. Thought about his kiss, and how his lips touched hers in the sweetest of ways. She thought about the first day that she had met him, how she had walked into that basement office to meet his appraising stare. Wanting more than anything to be worthy of that appraisal, to surpass his expectations as he had so immediately surpassed hers. She paced, silently, remembering their life together, every minute of the last ten years. She paced, knowing she should try to sleep, even if it was only for a little while. Knowing she should conserve her strength, to be ready for whatever lay ahead. But she had thrown practical concerns out the window with the last of her sanity and sleep at this point seemed incredibly far out of reach. Dana was nearing the end of her patience when the phone on the nightstand began to ring. One ring, and then another, and then her hand was on the phone. "Hello?" "You arrived safely." "Yes." "Good." "What now?" Her entire body was poised and ready to spring into action. "What now?" "What is it that you want me to do?" "Nothing." "Nothing?" The circular dialogue was driving her crazy. Nothing was all that she had been doing for the past eight weeks. She was completely unable to do nothing. "I don't understand." "You will." Dana pulled a hand absently through her hair, trying to maintain her composure. He's telling you something, she reminded herself. The clues are there, you just have to know where to look. The clues are there? No, that's not it, no -- -- The evidence is there, you just have to know where to look. -- The absolute insanity of it was confusing her, making her dizzy. She sank back down onto the bed, yanking the phone with her. "What do you want me to do? You must want something, you dragged me all the way out here --" -- It'll be a nice trip to the forest. -- "Just relax." "I don't want to relax, I want some answers, I deserve some answers -- " -- I've heard the truth, Mulder. What I want now are the answers. -- "Don't fight me on this." "I'm not... fighting... you," she tried to explain, but the words sounded fuzzy and distant. Sleep, she thought vaguely. I should have gotten some sleep. The hideous green patterned bedspread didn't look quite so hideous as she laid down on it, still clutching the phone to her cheek. In fact, the pattern was nice, even pretty when you looked at it this close, yes, prettyprettypretty..... "That's it. Just relax." In the dim part of her consciousness that still remained alert Dana realized that there was something else at work, something beyond the soothing sound of the voice on the phone, but it was hard, sohardsohardsohard to figure out what and maybe it was just better to relax, relaxrelaxrelax and sleep for just a little while, it couldn't matter if she slept for a little while, just a little bit of sleep sleep sleepsleepsleep..... "Just relax," said the voice. "Don't worry, I'll take care of everything." "I learn by going where I have to go." - Theodore Roethke CHIAROSCURO 9: COMMENCEMENT (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Virgil keeps his eyes on the road, doing his best to avoid temptation. Now is a time for concentration; there will be time later for everything else. There are few cars on this stretch of highway, and that pleases him, though he knows he has taken every precaution. Still, he knows that he can never be too careful. Then he hears it, the slightest change in the cadence of her breathing, and knows that she has begun to awaken. He cannot resist, and turns his head just enough to watch. She stirs, her head lolling against the window glass, a few copper strands of hair falling across her smooth, pale cheek. Her eyes flutter open slowly, heavily. As consciousness floods her body she moans, just a little, and Virgil clenches the steering wheel tightly with both hands. Her shoulders shift, and then her hands, beneath the blanket. Her inability to move them freely brings her the rest of the way out, and she blinks several times in rapid succession and then draws in a quick, startled breath. Turning her head, she sees him watching her, meets his gaze with her own for an endless instant. Then she looks away, at the blanket that covers her from the chest down. To an outside observer it would appear as though she were merely seated with a blanket draped to keep her warm; he has planned it well. Though it isn't clearly visible, the seatbelt that crosses over her shoulder has been used to pinion her arms to her body. Her hands are cuffed, held firmly in her lap thanks to a chain wound around the middle of the cuffs and anchored to the metal mechanism beneath the seat. He has taken no chances. It takes her a moment to realize what he has done, and then she closes her eyes again. Deliberately. Firmly. But only for a second. Then she fixes him with a stare that makes him glad that he bound her so securely. In her blue eyes Virgil sees only darkness, the midnight darkness of her soul. It scares him, makes him wonder if perhaps he's too late, after all. "Where are you taking me?" The words catch him by surprise with their direct boldness, though he never expected her to remain silent. He hesitates before he answers. "I am giving you what you want." She brands him with her gaze. "How do you know what I want?" "I know what you need," Virgil replies. It feels right, he thinks, to say it out loud. To let her know that he has everything under control. He sees the turnoff and twists the wheel easily to the right, easing the car off of the highway and onto the service road. "Who are you?" He pauses again, weighing her request. It cannot matter now, he decides. The wheels are in motion. There is no turning back. "Virgil," he says. "Virgil." She repeats his name as though it were a magic talisman. Her voice is sweet, and deep. It drips over him like honey. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her moisten her lips with her tongue. An involuntary reaction, of course; the drug must have certainly left her mouth dry, her body craving water. His heart skips a beat nonetheless. "Virgil, why are you doing this?" He guides the car through yet another turn and then glances at her. She looks so young, so vulnerable, so hurt. He can detect no obvious malice in her expression, but he knows that it is there. He can see it in her eyes. He realizes then that she is trying to trick him, to trap him. He can't allow that to happen. "Shut up," he tells her, lacing his words with venom. "Shut up and let me drive." As though to prove his point he stamps down on the accelerator, pushing the car faster than he should on the narrow, twisted road. She is quiet after that, ominously, dangerously quiet. Virgil can see her body shift and knows that she is testing her bonds, but he is not afraid. He knows they are secure, though he considers the chain and cuffs to be clumsy and awkward. He has always found drugs to be much more effective as a method of control. For this reason, he looks forward to the end of this phase of the plan. They drive in silence. It is warm in the car, uncomfortably warm, and Virgil checks the dashboard twice to see whether he has accidentally turned on the heat. He is glad when they reach the clearing that marks the boundary of the abandoned property. There are boards on the windows of the house, which gives it a desolate appearance, but he drives past it without really looking. He pulls the car up just outside the barn and puts it in park, taking the keys from the ignition. "We're here," he says, and the minute the words escape his mouth he feels foolish. She says nothing, her expression defiantly blank. After a moment, Virgil gets out of the car, tucking the keys into the front pocket of his pants. He slams the door shut behind him and then walks over to the passenger side door. It is unlocked, and he swings it open effortlessly. He stands there a moment, looking down at her. She has turned her head to meet his stare but still says nothing, and of that he is glad. He thinks everything over one more time, to make sure that he hasn't forgotten anything. To make sure that he hasn't made any mistakes. Satisfied, he takes the gun from the pocket of his jacket and clicks off the safety. "No games," he tells her firmly. "I won't tolerate that. Do you understand me?" She nods, but he knows better than to trust her. Not yet, at least. Kneeling down beside the car, he pulls down the blanket and tosses it in the back seat. He holds shifts the gun to his left hand and then takes out the key to the chain that links her cuffs to the seat. He leans in towards her, pressing the gun against her thigh as a warning as he reaches down between her legs. It feels dangerously illicit and another flush washes over his body as he gropes for the padlock. Finding it, he inserts the key and gives it a quick hard twist and is rewarded with a loud click as the lock comes open. He pulls the chain all the way through, breaking the circle that it had made and freeing her hands. Finished, he tosses the chain and lock on the floor at her feet. She doesn't move, doesn't flinch as he leans across her body and unlatches the seatbelt. Then he stands tall once more and switches the gun back to his good hand. "Get out of the car," he demands, taking a step or two away for good measure. She swings her feet out of the car and awkwardly slides out to stand beside him. Virgil nods, pleased, and slams the door shut. "Come on," he says, prodding her arm with the pistol. She glances around at the woods that surround them as though trying to memorize the very landscape, but doesn't move. He feels his temper begin to flare. "Don't test me," he tells her, and this time she does as she's been told, walking in front of him towards the barn. When they reach the double doors he makes her stop and wait while he spins the combination lock that holds them shut, keeping one eye on her all the while. He yanks open the door on the right and ushers her inside. It's dark inside the barn, tiny slivers of yellow daylight seeping through the walls the only illumination. He finds the switch and turns on the light and hears the whistle of her indrawn breath. The man is lying on the floor, curled on his side in a loosely fetal position. It doesn't look to Virgil as though the man has moved at all, though he's been lying there for hours. A chain around his ankle binds him to the floor; other than the man, and the chain, the barn is completely empty. Virgil glances around anyway, just to be sure. In the seconds that it has taken him to survey the barn the woman has left his side and dropped to her knees beside the man. "Mulder!" she exclaims in a low, panicked voice, running her cuffed hands over his face and shoulders. Her fingers stop at his neck and Virgil knows she is checking for a pulse. She will find it, he knows, though it is surely slower than she might have expected. The drug he has been given is extremely potent, and for that reason it is one of his very favorites. He watches her as she runs her hands over every inch of the man, over the blackened bruises and the cuts scabbed with dried blood. She murmurs his name as though that alone would be enough to coax him back to wakefulness. He allows her this moment, this time. It is, he thinks, only fair. Soon enough, she turns her attention back to him, and Virgil is surprised to see the wetness in her bright blue eyes. "What have you done to him?" she asks, her voice heavy with tears. "What have you *done* to him, you bastard?" Virgil is glad at this moment that he took the time to clean up the man, to wash him and dress him and restore a semblance of his normal appearance. If you only knew, he thinks. If you only knew. Aloud, he offers bland words of reassurance. "He'll probably recover," he tells her. "Though it's more than he deserves." She rises to her feet then, a titian-haired blur of fury, and he thrusts the gun out between them to stop her advance. She is so close to him that the barrel of the pistol touches her chest, her face pinched white with anger, her cuffed hands clenched into fists. "You'll pay for this," she spits, the words filled with venom. Virgil has no time for threats. He ignores her outrage and reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out the cell phone. With his left hand he turns on the power and hits three digits. "He doesn't have much time. Play games with me now and you'll cost him what's left of his life." The words have their desired effect and he can see some of her rage slip away. "This is your chance to save him. If you try anything funny I'll end it for both of you, right here and now. Understand me?" She glances over her shoulder at the man lying prone on the floor before she responds, as though she is weighing her options. When she turns back to face him, the fierce resolve is in her expression once more. "I understand." Her voice is barely audible. Satisfied, Virgil presses the 'send' key and then moves to stand behind her. With his left hand he holds the phone to her head; with his right, he presses the gun into her back. Whispering into her ear, he guides her through the call, enjoying the unexpected intimacy of their close proximity. All too soon the call is finished and he flips the phone shut and tucks it away once more. Free of his grasp, she has moved once more to kneel beside the man. For some reason this annoys Virgil; this part of it is finished, he thinks, and it's time she realizes it. "Let's go," he tells her, but she doesn't move. Doesn't even deign to turn her head in his direction, so focused is she on the unconscious man. Virgil cannot bring himself to think of the man as her husband. In fact, when he thinks of the man at all, he thinks of him merely as evil. And there is no place in the world, he knows, for evil. "Let's go!" Angry now, Virgil crosses to her and yanks on her arm with his free hand, pulling her upwards. She resists him, still crouching above the man, her hands twisting in their cuffs. At first he thinks that she is trying futilely to free herself, but then he realizes that she is up to something entirely different. She has managed to pull off the plain gold band she wears on her ring finger. Virgil watches as she takes the tiny piece of metal and slides it onto the little finger of the man's left hand. It doesn't go down all the way, sticking as it reaches the final knuckle, but it seems to be enough for her. The simple gesture angers Virgil all the more and he hauls the woman to her feet with a final vicious yank. She is crying again, harder now, but he ignores it. "Let's GO!" In the end, he has to carry her from the barn. It doesn't bother him too much, though. From here on, nothing has the power to bother him any more. "For every problem there is one solution which is simple, neat, and wrong." - H.L. Mencken CHIAROSCURO 10: TERROR (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Consciousness came slowly. Her eyelids felt unbelievably heavy, and try as she might she couldn't coax them to open. She was untethered, disengaged, floating without an anchor. Trapped in a space with no beginning and no end. Surreal, endless, smooth as silk and equally impenetrable. Forever and ever, amen. When her eyes finally opened, it was of their own accord. Images danced in her vision and it took awhile for them to settle into patterns. A ceiling. White, and plain. Illuminated by soft light. Shadows in the corners, made from a lamp, not an overhead bulb. The edge of something dark, off to the side. A door, the frame of a door. Shadows cast by a fan, twirling somewhere off to the side, fluttering around in an easy, lazy rhythm. She could hear it whirring, but couldn't see the spinning blades from where she lay. For a time, that was it. The light of the lamp, the noise of the fan. And nothing else. Until she heard the sound of the door. It was the lock that she heard first, the distinct sound of the bolt sliding back. And then the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. It was the footsteps that caused the first twinge of panic to surge through her body, urging her to prepare for fight or flight. Someone was coming. It was time to get ready. Dana Scully was horrified to discover that she was completely unable to do so. She was totally unable to move. Now the panic cascaded over her in earnest as she tried to force her body to respond to her mind's commands. She could feel, could feel everything. The weight of the clothes on her body. The softness of the blankets that covered the bed on which she lay. The nerves and muscles in her arms and legs, in her fingers and toes. And yet she could not move. Not an inch. The footsteps grew louder as the figure approached, casting a tall, ominous shadow on the ceiling above her head. Dana could feel her heart beat faster as she lay, helpless, waiting. And then he was there. Looking down at her. The big blond man, from the car. The man who had taken her inside the abandoned barn. She searched for his name frantically and finally found it. Virgil. Dana tried to say his name but moving her lips was next to impossible. She could do nothing but lay there and watch as he loomed over her, his flat gray eyes raking over every inch of her body. Finally, he spoke. "You're awake." She tried to nod, but the simple gesture was beyond her ability. Virgil leaned forward and slipped his arms beneath her back, guiding her gently up to a sitting position. If she could have, Dana would have pulled away from his grasp, but she was unable to do anything but wait as he propped her up against the pillows. At least now she could see more of the room in which she was being kept. It was small, four white walls enclosing a sparsely furnished space. There was a chair against one wall, and a table. A dresser that had seen better days. A shelf adorned with a few dog-eared books. Out of the corner of her eye Dana thought she spied a closet, but the angle was wrong and she couldn't be sure. A single door, on the far side. No windows, at least as far as she could see. Nothing else. Nothing else but Virgil, who sat down on the edge of the bed, still regarding her intently. "Don't be scared," he told her, but it was far too late for that. She was beyond terrified. Reaching down, Virgil grasped both of her hands, now free of the handcuffs, and brought them up to rest in her lap. Dana realized with some horror that although she could feel his touch, the sensation was curiously distant, as though it was something she remembered from a dream. "Better, isn't it?" he asked, rubbing his thumbs gently across the faint red marks on her wrists. "We won't be needing those cuffs any more." What is happening to me? Her mind screamed the words her mouth was powerless to form. What have you done? As though he could hear her silent plea, Virgil answered her. "It's a special drug," he explained. "A combination of a nerve gas and a muscle relaxant." He paused a moment, then added proudly, "I designed it myself. Just for you." With one hand, he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Don't touch me, don't touch me, she yelled in her mind, but if he heard her this time he gave no sign of it. "You have to understand how serious I am." He fixed her with an intent stare. "I can give you more whenever I like. As much as I please. Too much of it, and there will be permanent damage. But I'm hoping you won't need it for too long. That is up to you." Helpless, Dana could do nothing but listen, which seemed to be exactly what he wanted. "You need to know that I can help you, Dana," Virgil continued. The sound of her name on his lips made her stomach churn. "It's not too late for you," he explained. "It took me a long time to realize that. But you can still be saved." Saved? She wondered. Saved from what? I want to be saved. Saved from you. Virgil rose from the bed and crossed over to the table. Dana couldn't quite see what he was doing, but he returned quickly enough. In one hand he carried a shiny metal box, roughly the size and shape of a briefcase. He laid it down next to her and sat down beside it, reaching inside to remove a long hypodermic. Raising it to the level of her eyes he explained, "This contains more than enough of the drug to keep you docile for a good long time. It's your choice, you know, how much I have to use." As though he knew what she was thinking, he carefully replaced the hypodermic, then removed a small glass vial from its place in the box. "This," he explained, "is something entirely different. It's a drug for the mind, not the body. I used it on *him*." Dana knew instantly to whom he referred. "It should have erased everything," Virgil continued, a slightly confused expression on his face. "It should have freed him and made him clean. I designed it so carefully." Oh, please..... Dana silently pleaded. Please say you didn't hurt him too badly. Please say you didn't destroy him. "It didn't work." Virgil shrugged. "That's what helped me realize the truth." He leaned in towards her, close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin. "That's what proved to me he was Evil. Evil can *never* truly be destroyed by Good. Evil is too powerful. Jesus died for our sins and yet it wasn't enough to destroy Evil. If Jesus failed, how might I succeed?" He pulled away from her then, and Dana felt relief course through her body, but only for a moment. From somewhere near the side of the bed Virgil produced a glass of water. "Here," he said, holding the glass to her lips. With his other hand, he tilted her head back slightly, allowing the water to spill into her mouth. For a brief instant Dana feared she might choke, might drown on the simple liquid, but the muscles in her throat responded involuntarily, allowing the water to slip down inside. It was cool and fresh and restored a little bit of her clarity, if not her voice. "Good," Virgil crooned as he pulled the glass away. "I'm sure that feels good." He put down the glass and then leaned in towards her again. "I know this isn't much," he said apologetically. "But it's only temporary, until we get to our place. And it's not so bad here -- I've tried to fix it up, make it comfortable." Using both hands Virgil shifted her body slightly, turning her so that she could see the one wall of the room that had previously been out of her view. What she saw there caused her breath to catch in her chest as her mind screamed in horror. The wall was covered in pictures. Pictures of her. Pictures of her at home, at work. In the yard, in the car. In the kitchen, and the bedroom, and the bath. In all of them, she was alone, though it was obvious in some that parts had been altered to make it so. It was the most devastating invasion of privacy Dana could imagine, to have someone so intimately photograph the details of her life and then arrange the pictures in such a macabre display. "Do you see?" Virgil asked, rising from the bed to indicate the pattern of the collage with one long, powerful arm. "Do you see what I see? Do you see the need? The pain?" Dana only stared, equally furious and horrified. "Let me explain," he said, taking another photograph from the pocket of his shirt and holding it out. He moved back towards her, the photo in his hand. It was blurry through her eyes until he once again reached her side, and then she could see it clearly. All too clearly. It was a picture of her, and Mulder, and Ryan. Dana remembered the day as though it were yesterday; the three of them on their way home from the park. Ryan was between them, his arms raised and extended to reach the hands of his parents on either side. At the instant the photo was taken he was airborne, his sneaker-clad feet not touching the ground, held aloft by his parents as he leapt forward. His face was flushed with childish pride, as though somehow he had learned the secret of human flight. Their faces were turned towards his, looking down and smiling. A gust of wind had caught Mulder's hair, blowing strands of it across his forehead as he grinned down at the beautiful boy who totally shared his likeness. Dana felt a lump grow in her throat as she gazed at the photo that so clearly pictured the two men that made up the whole of her world. Don't cry, she told herself angrily, as she fought to be strong. She could handle this. She could handle anything. And she would pay any price to ensure their safety. Her reverie was disrupted by Virgil's monotonous drone. "You can see it here," he told her, indicating Mulder with a disdainful tap of his finger. "You can see the evil. Even here it is clear." Dana raised her eyes to his, wishing she could raise her head as well, wishing she could use her own words to counteract the hideousness of his. "I thought," Virgil continued, "that I could destroy it. But I was weak, and He was strong." Stronger than you, Dana thought. "Then I realized that it wasn't about destroying the evil. It was about saving what could still be saved. Purifying what deep inside had managed to remain pure. Good works bring about redemption. For you, and for me." Virgil produced a cigarette lighter from somewhere inside his clothing and flicked it with his free hand, creating a large, brilliant flame. He brought the edge of the photograph towards the flame, slowly, until the edge of the picture began to curl. "It was too late for him," he said, indicating Mulder with a nod of his head as the flame licked over his likeness. "And the spawn of Satan is still Satan. There is nothing to be done." The fire continued across the edge of the picture, swallowing up Ryan's countenance in it's wake. When the photo was nearly destroyed, Virgil switched off the lighter. All that remained was the fragment of the picture that contained her image. "You, however, still have a chance," he informed her. "And it's my job to see that you get it." The tears were in her eyes now, blurring her vision, blocking him out, but it wasn't enough. Summoning all of her strength, all of her courage, Dana fought to speak. "Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnn......" It wasn't the protest she intended, but her weak, inarticulate moan did produce results. "Oh," Virgil said, "it's worse than I thought. You simply aren't ready, are you?" Before Dana had time to react, he dropped the photo and took her by the shoulders. Leaning her forward, he brushed aside her hair to expose the back of her neck. Helpless like a rag doll in his arms, Dana could only wait for the inevitable. She felt the hypodermic needle pierce her skin and then once again all was black. "When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." - Ralph Waldo Emerson CHIAROSCURO 11: RESURRECTION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) "911, please state the nature of your emergency --" "I need an ambulance, right away, please, please --" Short simple words, thinly veiled hysterics. "Are you injured?" "No, not me, it's my husband --" "What is the type of injury?" "I don't know, I don't --" A quick, tearful breath, clearly audible. The next words crisper, sharper, more direct. "I think it may be a drug overdose; his breathing is shallow and irregular, and his pulse is thready --" "What is your location?" A pause, filled with the faint crackle of a cellular line. A barely discernible murmuring, dark and deep. "Three miles from the main highway.... off the Fulton exit. 314 Blackburn Road....it's a house, with a barn, he's in the barn... ." The tap of fingers on a keyboard. "An ambulance is on its way." A beat, then, "How long has he been in this condition?" "I don't know, I --" "Caller, may I have your name?" Silence, broken only by a soft rustling noise. "Caller, may I have your name?" "Please, please hurry --" A click followed by the jarringly loud buzz of a dial tone. His face a blank expressionless mask, Fox Mulder slammed down the rewind button on the tape recorder, not bothering with the formality of hitting the stop key first. A whirring noise emerged from the recorder as it spooled the tape back to the beginning; without missing a beat, he hit the play key once more. "911, please state the nature of your emergency --" "I need an ambulance, right away, please, please --" The sound of the door opening interrupted his reverie and Mulder instinctively stopped the recorder, glancing up as his son stepped into the room. "Daddy!" Ryan's face lit up with a smile. "Grandma says we get to take you home now, can we play trains when we get back?" He was across the room in seconds, throwing his arms around his father's legs in a fierce embrace. "And you can have birthday cake for dinner if you want, we saved you some, it's chocolate!" Mulder looked down at his son's sparkling blue eyes and forced a smile onto his own countenance. "Sounds good, Ry, sounds good," he said, pleased that his words were smooth and even. "I just need to get the rest of my stuff together." "I want to play, Daddy," Ryan said, his smile growing even wider. "No one plays as good as you." "No," Mulder countered. "No one plays as good as you, big guy." He slipped his hands beneath his son's arms and pulled him up into a strong, solid hug. It felt so good to hold him, so real. So right. "Daddy!" Ryan erupted in a fit of frantic giggling. "You're tickling! You're tickling me!" "Oh, this is only the beginning," Mulder teased, pulling his son even closer, holding him tight with one arm as his other hand sought the tender muscles of his stomach. "Only the beginning." "Ryan, come wait outside with Grandma." Mulder raised his eyes to see Margaret Scully now standing in the doorway, Walter Skinner just beside her. "Your dad and Uncle Walter need to talk for a minute." Reluctantly, Mulder lowered the boy to the ground. Ryan's forehead creased for a fraction of a second as he glanced from his father to his grandmother and back again. After a world weary sigh that expressed inordinate impatience with the mysterious ways of grownups, complete with a dramatic roll of his shoulders, Ryan loosened his grasp of his father's arms and headed for the door. He was almost there before he stopped and turned back. "Can I have cake for dinner too, Daddy?" "Sure you can," Mulder answered, the words absently rolling off his tongue. Seemingly satisfied, Ryan grinned. "Hi, Uncle Walter," he said as he passed. Skinner acknowledged the greeting with a small smile and then shut the door. "How are you feeling?" Skinner asked as he approached. "You've barely been conscious for twenty-four hours. I can't believe they're releasing you so soon." "I'm fine," Mulder replied. It was true, surprisingly enough. Physically he felt fine, much better than he had three days earlier when he had briefly awakened to find himself in a hospital bed. Then, he had felt dizzy, and weak, and curiously faint. The IVs and later solid food had relieved most of those symptoms, and sleep had taken care of the rest. He was still covered with cuts and bruises, but they were starting to fade; even the abrasions on his back had begun to heal. Now he felt almost back to normal, though the bagginess of his clothes was silent testament to the weight he had lost. Everything was fine. Everything except the hole in his heart that threatened to swallow him entirely. Three days since he had been back. Four days since she had been gone. Mulder realized that Skinner was staring at him curiously and he forced his attention back to his former boss. "Is there any news?" "Nothing concrete." Skinner shook his head. "The lab finally got the results back on the traces of the drug found in her motel room. Allstredine. It's a powerful anesthetic, a rare compound that's illegal in this country. That's what made it so difficult to trace." Mulder nodded, slowly, unsurprised by the news. "And?" Skinner shrugged. "Still no trace of the man who rented the adjoining room. He paid in cash, as I said; went unrecognized by the clerks. Nothing left in Dana's car to give us any clue as to where they went. We've had a team of agents combing the area around the hotel as well as the area surrounding the barn where you were found, but we've come up empty. That property's been abandoned for months. He definitely wasn't keeping you there; it was just a convenient place to send the ambulance. Whoever he is, he planned all of this extremely well." "God....." Mulder heaved a frustrated sigh. At least now he felt a little less guilty about being back in D.C. When he had first regained consciousness he had wanted to go straight back to the Gulf Shores, where she had last been seen. But at least here he had the full resources of the Bureau at his command. Here he could be near his son. A little piece of her. How could you do this, he thought. How could you do this to me? He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out the small gold band that had been found on the pinky finger of his left hand. Unconsciously, he began to twist it between two tense fingers. Around and around he shifted it, as though its mere rotation was enough to bring her back. How could you do this to us? The answer was as simple as his wife was complex, as clear as the blue of her eyes and the porcelain of her skin. Dana Katherine Scully had never been one to shirk from danger. She was unbelievably courageous, incredibly fearless. Mulder knew that he had fallen in love with her bravery as much as her beauty. But just this once, he wished that she had taken the coward's way out. Just this once, he wished that she had turned the other cheek and walked away. Just this once, he wished that she had abandoned him to the fate that he had brought upon himself. Just this once, he wished that she had kept herself out of harm's way. For this time, he had no idea how to save her. "The drugs are the key," Mulder muttered, almost to himself. "This guy must have some medical training, some specific pharmaceutical knowledge. We need to do a search." "Already on it," Skinner reported. "We've started with the traces we found in her room and what we found in the tests they ran on you. But it's going to take some time to narrow it down." He paused, then asked, "What about you? Have you remembered anything else?" "Nothing," Mulder admitted, a feeling of powerlessness sweeping over him. "Nothing new." Nothing except the endless, unbelievable pain. Nothing except the horrifying, smothering darkness and the occasional blinding light. A jumble of vague, half-remembered words danced on the edges of his memory but try as he might he could make no sense of them. None of it had made any sense, not from the very beginning. The assignment that had taken Mulder out into the field two months ago had seemed like nothing if not routine; the two agents with whom he had been working were at the top of their field. And yet now those two men were dead, their families left in mourning with only unanswered questions to keep them company. And he had been taken away, taken away to suffer. But in the name of what? "I'm seeing Dr. Werber tomorrow," Mulder continued. "Maybe that will give us some answers." "Are you sure you're up to that?" Skinner wondered. "Hypnotic regression -- after all of the drugs they found in your system?" "The answers are in here," replied Mulder, tapping an angry finger against his forehead. "I don't have a choice about it, whatever it takes." After a moment, Skinner nodded, and the slight motion urged Mulder's fear up another notch. Skinner's silent response told him all he needed to know. Time is running out. Oh, Dana. How could you do this? Why would you do this? Ryan needs you. I need you. Safe, and alive. Mulder reached for the overnight bag by the side of the bed and tucked the cassette recorder inside it, yanking the zipper shut. At least now he was free of the confines of the hospital. Free to do anything and everything in order to get her back. To bring her home, safe and sound. "Come on," he said to Skinner, tossing the strap of the bag over his shoulder. "Let's get out of here." "If fate throws a knife at you, there are two ways of catching it -- by the blade and by the handle." - Oriental Proverb CHIAROSCURO 12: EXPLORATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) There wasn't anything comfortable about the chair in which he sat. It was almost as though the chair was specifically designed to keep him on edge. Then again, he figured, most people who found themselves seated in this office probably felt more than a little uncomfortable. The hard-backed chair was just a symptom of a larger problem. Walter Skinner shifted restlessly, first crossing one leg over the other and then allowing both feet to rest firmly on the floor. His former subordinate, Fox Mulder, reclined on a chaise on the opposite side of the room. If looks were any indication, Mulder was even more uncomfortable than he was, despite the plush leather of the lounge. "Are you ready?" Dr. Heitz Werber directed the question at Mulder, his countenance the epitome of serenity. "Are you comfortable?" "I'm fine," Mulder replied. "Let's just get started." "Very well." Werber nodded and began the procedure. Skinner watched with curiosity as Mulder was put under Werber's spell, the hypnotic regression taking quick effect. Though he himself put little stock in this kind of information gathering, Mulder seemed to believe in it absolutely, and for the moment that was enough for him. At this point, they were out of leads. This might be their only chance to find Dana Scully alive. In what seemed like record time, Mulder was completely hypnotized. "Now," said Werber, "I need you to tell me where you are." "I'm -- I'm in a room," Mulder murmured, his voice surprisingly low. "Where is this room?" "I don't... know," Mulder slowly responded. "It's dark -- it's always dark." "Can you move?" "No....there's a chain. Chains... I'm chained to the wall." "OK," Werber replied. "Are you alone?" "I am, right now," Mulder told him. "But it... it hurts." "What hurts?" "I hurt.... all over. I want -- I want to go home." "Can you hear anything? Any sounds?" "No...no....it's quiet now. But I can't --" A moan escaped his lips. "I can't sleep... no escape. It hurts so much.... please...." Werber was silent, though he made a notation on his pad. When he finished writing he asked, "What happens when you are not alone?" Mulder flinched, as though he had been touched, or hit. A groan escaped his lips. "Turn it off... turn it off." "Turn what off?" "The light.... it hurts my eyes." "What light?" "Please! Turn it off!" "I can't turn it off. Tell me what's happening." Mulder moaned, a sound that was filled with pain. "I don't know.... I don't know what you mean. You.... you're not making sense.... I don't understand..." Skinner tore his eyes away from the tableau before him long enough to glance at the tape recorder on the table. It appeared to be in perfect working order, the wheels spinning around and around in an endless loop. The technician monitoring the machine gave Skinner a nod, as though to reassure him, but it did little to reduce the anxiety he was feeling just listening to the session. "What don't you understand? What am I saying?" Werber asked. "Something... about justice.... about.... about me taking justice.... into my own hands. I.... I haven't done anything." "You haven't?" "NO!" Mulder yelled. "Leave me alone, dammit! Let me go!" Werber shook his head, as though his patient was capable of seeing the motion. "I can't. Not until you tell me." "Tell you -- I can't tell you....I don't....I don't even know who you are." Mulder drew in a deep agonized breath. "Please...I'm sorry. I'm sorry... I'm sorry...." "Sorry for what?" "It hurts..." Mulder groaned, and just listening to him Skinner felt a chill race up his spine. "It hurts.... it hurts so goddamn bad.... please..." "Tell me." "I CAN'T!" A yell that faded into an agonized wail. "Please....stop....please..." If Werber was affected by Mulder's pleas, he gave no sign of it. "Sorry for what?" he repeated. "For hurting you.... for.... for destroying you.... for destroying what you loved." Mulder's body jerked, violently, as though responding to a blow. "What did you destroy?" Werber's pen was poised over his pad, and Skinner leaned forward in anticipation. "I.... I don't know. You won't tell me -- why won't you tell me?" Mulder's head twisted back and forth in agony. "Tell me.... tell me what you want. I'll give you anything, anything.... I want....to pay for my sins. I...I want to make it right." "Make what right?" "What I did....I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorry...." "What did you do?" Werber demanded. "Tell me." "I don't know, I don't..... I don't...." "Tell me. Tell me what you did." Mulder's hands clenched involuntarily into fists. "I can't....I can't... " Sweat was running down his face in rivulets, his eyes squeezed shut as his head twisted fitfully from side to side. "Help me....please.....make it stop...." "Okay." Werber's voice was quieter now, soothing, reassuring. "I'm going to help you now. It's time to come back. Time to wake up. I want you to open your eyes, and come on back." Skinner drew in a deep breath and held it as Werber slowly brought Mulder out of the hypnotic trance. Relief coursed through his body when Mulder finally opened his eyes and ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Silence reigned in the room until Mulder finally spoke. "Did we get anything?" Skinner tore his gaze away from Mulder's anxious face to fix his eyes on Werber. The doctor glanced down at his notes, then offered a shrug. "Tell me," Mulder demanded. "I don't know," Skinner finally responded. "Nothing definite. More questions than answers." As though unsatisfied with the vague reply, Mulder leaned forward and hit the stop button on the tape. It rewound fairly quickly and then the room was filled with the echo of the session that had just finished. They sat quietly while the tape played, listening carefully to every word, every nuance, hoping for a clue. Skinner didn't find this second hearing any more enlightening than the first. Judging from the expression on his face as he listened, the dialogue was equally confusing to Mulder. Yet his eyes lost none of their fiery determination. If anything, they blazed even brighter, so fierce was his concentration. "Well," said Mulder when it ended, "that's something, isn't it?" He reached over and ejected the tape, balancing the tiny rectangular piece of plastic on his palm for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket. "It's more than we had an hour ago." Rising to his feet, Mulder thanked Dr. Werber and then headed for the door. Skinner quickly followed suit, joining him in the hallway. "What now?" Skinner asked. Mulder shrugged, leaning against the wall, his gaze distant, as though he were seeing more than the empty corridor that stretched before them. "Now, we start again. There's got to be a reason, hidden somewhere. Whoever's behind this has some kind of agenda. I'm a part of it, and so is Dana." He drew in a deep breath. "I've just got to figure out what it is." With that, he turned on his heel and continued down the corridor. Walter Skinner could do nothing but follow. "Experience is not what happens to you; it is what you do with what happens to you." - Aldous Huxley CHIAROSCURO 13: CONTEMPLATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) The dining room table was covered in paperwork. Manila file folders were spilled across every inch of its surface, the papers they once contained now strewn over the polished wood in haphazard piles. The answer was in there, somewhere, of that Mulder was sure. The question was where. Over the last five weeks he had gone over every file, reading each section carefully, searching for a clue. He had reviewed all of the cases he had handled as a part of the Violent Crimes Division, those that were recent as well as those from long ago. He had scoured all of the X-Files that they investigated while assigned to that department. He had even studied the cases on which Dana had worked before she was asked to be his partner. He had plowed through hundreds of files, yet found no answers, though he searched with frantic intensity. Five weeks.... From where he sat, alternately scribbling on a legal pad and searching the data on his laptop computer, Mulder could hear his son clearly. Ryan was ensconced on the couch in the living room, watching one of his Disney videos, the sound raised to an almost uncomfortable level. He sang along with the tape, his childish voice loud in the silence of the house, unembarrassed by his lack of proper pitch. The raucous noise made it hard to concentrate, but Mulder didn't mind, comforted by the fact that at least his son was safe at home. The drugs... time and time again, Mulder's thoughts turned to the drugs, all too aware that somehow they held the answers. The tests done by the FBI lab on the evidence recovered from his blood tests had revealed that he had been given a compound that had not previously been known to exist. That information, combined with the traces of Allstredine found in Dana's motel room, made it clear that whoever they were dealing with had more than a layman's knowledge of science. And yet it wasn't enough, not enough to provide a solid lead to track him down. Mulder stretched out a hand to retrieve a small folded piece of paper from one corner of the table. He had discovered it upon his return, tucked in the drawer of the bedside nightstand. According to Skinner, it was the only hard piece of evidence retrieved from the site of his disappearance. *Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged* Try as he might, he couldn't make sense of the six words. Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged. They seemed vaguely familiar, but he wasn't sure why. Perhaps, he thought, it was something from his session with Dr. Werber that made them feel familiar. He had mentioned judgment then, hadn't he? Mulder rewound the cassette tape again, playing it back at a low volume, leaning in closely to catch the words. Justice. That's what he had said during the hypnotic regression. He had apologized, for taking justice into his own hands. What did that mean? What did any of it mean? And what could it possibly have to do with Dana? It was at that moment that Mulder became aware of the silence. Of the fact that he could no longer hear his son's tuneless wails emanating from the next room. "Ryan? Ryan!" Anxiety crushed him, left him unable to breathe. In the space of a second Mulder was out of his chair, feet pumping madly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. No, he thought. Not Ryan. Not our child. "Ryan!" He was in the living room in seconds, one hand sliding to his waist in search of a gun that wasn't there. He had no need of it, however. His son was still lying on the couch, his head propped up by one small arm. The video was still playing, a section of the movie composed of dialogue rather than music. "Daddy, be quiet," he complained without turning his head. "You're yelling all through the good part." It was only with the greatest effort that Mulder forced down his panic and rage. You overreacted, he reminded himself. He's fine. Everything's fine. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he walked over to the television console and put the movie on pause. Mulder turned to regard his son, who gazed back at him with an irritated expression. "And now you stopped it! Daddy, you're not being fair." "No, Ryan," Mulder countered. "*You're* not being fair. You know that you're supposed to answer me when I call for you." "Not during the good part." "I don't care whether it's the good part or the bad part or any part," Mulder replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "If I call you, you answer me, do you hear me?" Ryan's face lost some of its irritation, the corners of his mouth turning down in a pout. "You're mean, Daddy. Mommy always lets me watch the good parts." Just the mention of Dana was enough to cut through his anger. Mulder scooted over to the couch, the video still flashing a frozen frame behind him. "I know, big guy. I know she does." He sank down on the couch and took his son gently in his arms. "And I want to let you watch them too. But I need you to answer me when I call for you, okay?" "Okay," Ryan answered reluctantly, still wearing a frown. "Do you want me to rewind the movie?" Mulder asked. "Put it back to where it was?" Ryan considered the offer for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to watch cartoons." With that declaration, he slid off the couch to sit on the floor in front of the model trains that were gathered there. "Then cartoons it is," Mulder replied, giving his son another quick squeeze before walking back over to the television. With one hand he turned off the VCR, using the remote to change the television station with the other. He found the cartoon cable channel quickly and lowered the volume a bit, hoping to slip the maneuver past the watchful eyes of his son. "But only for a half hour. Then it's bedtime for you." Ryan glanced at him, his hands on a toy locomotive, his head cocked to the side. "Okay," he finally relented, as though accepting a deal. "But you have to read to me first." "Well, of course," Mulder told him, and headed back to the dining room. He sank back down into the wooden chair with an audible sigh of relief, or perhaps frustration. He couldn't be sure. He pulled Dana's wedding ring from his pocket and clenched it in his palm, holding it tightly for a long moment as though it would somehow give him some of her strength. Then he slipped it back into its hiding place, knowing that he could never let Ryan see that he had it. Engrossed once again in his work, Mulder paid little attention to the clock, though he closely monitored the noise Ryan made as he ran his trains around their track. Listened to the purr of the electric motors, mixed with boisterous sound effects created by his son and the random chatter of mindless cartoons. The word justice whirled through his brain, but to little effect. The sound of Ryan's footsteps caused him to look up to see his son standing in the doorway. "Daddy," he asked, "do you know how to make sugar cookies? With sprinkles?" Mulder hesitated for a moment, fingers poised over the computer keyboard. "I've never made any," he confessed. "But if you want to, we can make some tomorrow. I'm sure we can figure it out." "Okay," Ryan answered, heading towards the living room. "But we don't have to make them tomorrow." He stopped just short of the hall and turned back. "Do you think Mommy will be back from her trip soon?" Mulder felt his heart constrict at his son's innocent question. It had seemed like the best thing to do, to say that Dana was merely away on business. According to Margaret Scully, it had been the excuse that Dana had given Ryan for his father's absence; it made sense, Mulder had decided, to say the same thing. A trip, by definition, had a beginning and an end. It was a better explanation for a five-year-old than the truth. Better than telling him that she might never come back. "I think so," Mulder finally responded, pushing the words past a sudden lump in his throat. "I think she will." "Good," Ryan declared. "Because Mommy knows how to make the cookies the way that Santa likes them. And the man on the TV said that Christmas is coming soon, so we have to have cookies by then." Something deep inside Mulder cracked at the words. Even though he knew it was wrong, he couldn't bear to deprive his son of hope. After all, it was the same hope that he himself clung to, day after endless day. And Christmas was still a month away. "Don't worry about that, Ryan," he said, forcing a smile. "Mommy will be back by then, and we'll have plenty of cookies for Santa." Ryan rested his small hands on his hips as he considered his father's promise. The simple statement seemed to satisfy him and he grinned. "Okay. Can we read now?" "We can," Mulder replied. "Turn off the television and put on your p.j.'s. I'll be up in just a second." Instead of doing as he was told, Ryan walked over to the table, leaning over his father's arm to peer at the computer screen. "I want to read *now*," he grumbled. Curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "What are you doing?" Mulder glanced absently at the laptop, which displayed the results of the 'find' search command he had just executed, looking for any references to the word justice. The white balloon on the monitor clearly proclaimed that there were no matches to be found. "Just looking up stuff," he answered. Ryan crossed his arms on the table and rested his head against them. "Can I watch?" Even though a quick glance at the clock assured him that it was well past his son's bedtime, Mulder acquiesced. "Just for a minute." With Ryan standing vigilant at his side, Mulder cleared the screen and then logged onto the internet, quickly accessing the FBI mainframe. He typed in a series of commands, executing yet another search, using the same keyword. The computer hummed as its modem registered and transmitted the data. Moments later, the results were on the screen. 472 matches, the information bubble announced. Using the mouse pad Mulder quickly scanned down the accompanying list, searching for anything that might be significant. It was more than halfway down the page before anything caught his eye. He positioned the cursor above the entry marked 'Conway' and double-clicked the bar at the base of the computer. "Cool," Ryan declared, as the picture on the screen shifted and dissolved into the lines of text comprising the case file. Mulder read through it quickly, suddenly infused with new energy. At the bottom of the computerized file there were six words typed in a bright blue that contrasted with the black letters above. 'Click here for related audio-visual', read the boldly printed words, underlined for emphasis. Mulder did as instructed, pressing twice on the highlighted area, a tremor racing unbidden up his spine as he waited. The screen changed yet again, the printed words fading into the background to be replaced by a rectangular box that denoted the computer's movie player program. Images surfaced, gradually resolving to form the face of a much younger, more innocent Fox Mulder, standing alongside a few colleagues before a group of gathered reporters. "*Way* cool!" Ryan exclaimed, but Mulder barely heard him. Another stroke of the keys brought the picture to life, tinny sound emanating from the computer as the recorded image began to play. "This is a terrible tragedy," said one of the men on the screen, a man that Mulder recognized as his former superior, from his first stint in the Violent Crimes division. "One that we wish could have been averted. However, the unequivocal truth of the matter is that we had no choice but to act as we did. The results were unavoidable." At first the voices of the reporters were nothing more than a cacophony of faint jumbled words, barely comprehensible through the computer speakers. One voice, however, finally rang out loud and clear. "Seven innocent people are dead," a reporter declared. "How can you defend that?" The senior agent said nothing, merely tilted his head down as though ashamed. It was the younger, more innocent Fox Mulder who stepped forward to answer the question. "We're not here to defend anything," he stated firmly. "We are here to see that justice is served. And in this case, it has been. Despite the regrettable losses we incurred." He paused a moment, then added, "Justice has been served." "Daddy! That's you," Ryan crowed, pride in his voice. "That's you!" "It was," Mulder replied, his mind spinning. "A long time ago." With one hand he reached for the cordless phone, snatching it up to quickly punch in a series of numbers. Trying to contain the exultation he suddenly felt, he tousled his son's hair with his free hand. "It's time for you to get ready for bed," he said, fighting to keep from smiling in relief. At last, he'd gotten what he'd prayed for so desperately. It was a lead, no matter how slim. "When I get off the phone, you'd better be ready to be tucked in." "All-right," Ryan moaned, slipping out of his father's embrace to head for the stairs. "But I still get a story." "I promise," said Mulder, listening to the phone ring, hoping that Skinner would be home to answer. Hoping that at last they had gotten the break they needed. "A thought may touch the edge of our life with light." - John Trowbridge CHIAROSCURO 14: PATIENCE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) For the first time since all this began, Virgil is becoming confused. His carefully orchestrated plans are not bearing fruit as quickly as he had fervently hoped they would. What had once seemed so clear has become murky and distorted and that frustrates him. If she will only listen, he thinks. He has so much he can teach her, if she will only listen. Virgil climbs the stairs to the upper story of the house. It is a beautiful house, made even more beautiful by its absolute isolation. It didn't take him long to find it; he had a very specific idea about what he wanted, and that clarity made it easy. Purchasing it actually turned out to be quite simple. He managed to handle a majority of the transaction via his computer and phone, which pleased him immensely because it kept things private. The house has been lovingly decorated. Virgil spent money freely, needing the work to be done quickly. The house is the home of his dreams. Of their dreams. And yet she has never once complimented him on his efforts. Sometimes he thinks that she preferred his old place, where they spent the first two days together until it was safe to travel. He liked it too; it was where he lived while putting his dreams into action. But the house is so much better. She has never once thanked him for all of the special construction work he had done on her behalf. She has never thanked him for saving her life. She has never thanked him for delivering her from evil. She has so much to learn, he thinks, reminding himself to be patient. Patience, he knows, is a valuable trait. The top floor of the house is tiny, just two rooms and a connecting bath. Everything else is downstairs, all of it carefully renovated to his specifications. The bedroom is her sole domain; for now, Virgil sleeps in the other room, which doubles as his laboratory. He is giving her time to adjust. He is very considerate that way. He knocks twice on the door to her room before he unlocks it. The lock is more than a formality; though there is little chance that she can escape, he knows better than to trust her. She is clever, and resourceful, and in the five weeks they have been together, she has tried to outsmart him more than once. Virgil opens the door and steps inside. The morning sun streams through the window, between the security bars that he installed just in case. The walls are painted a bright cheerful blue and there are roses on the dresser and the bedside table. He is careful to change them as soon as they start to wilt. "Good morning," he says, approaching the bed. She lies still beneath the flowered comforter, her head turned towards the wall. Away from him. She says nothing, but he has expected as much. She is always cranky in the morning. He pulls back the comforter and sheets to reveal her small, perfect body, clad in a white cotton nightgown that he special ordered from a catalogue. She turns her head then, copper hair spilling across the down pillow, and fixes him with the angry stare to which he has become accustomed. Virgil returns her stare with a brilliant smile as he pulls the hypodermic from the pocket of his shirt. "Let's get this over with," he tells her. "On your side." She clenches her hands into loose fists, but makes no other motion, though he knows she is perfectly capable of it. He sighs, resigned, and with one hand lifts her body, rolling her so that she lies on her side, her back now facing him. At least she has stopped fighting, he thinks as he lifts her nightgown, exposing the base of her spine. When they first reached the house, every shot was a fierce battle, making him reconsider his decision to restore some of her mobility. It only takes him a minute to administer the drug. Finished, he settles her flat on the bed once again before he asks, "Are you hungry?" She doesn't answer, until he reminds her that if she doesn't tell him herself, she won't be getting anything to eat. Finally, he is rewarded with a faint, "Yes." "Good," he replies. "Then let's get you ready for breakfast." Later, after he has bathed her and dressed her and carried her downstairs, Virgil prepares food for the two of them. Poached eggs -- his favorite -- and bacon and toast. A pot of coffee, and some fresh grapefruit juice. Once everything is perfectly arranged on the dining table, he goes looking for her. He finds her seated in her chair in front of the sliding glass doors that lead to the deck. The view from the house is incredible, and he understands why she loves it. The house is set alone near the top of the mountain, and the deck overlooks a vast expanse of forest, stretching for miles as far as the eye can see. There are no neighbors, no other houses to block the view. From this angle, the road down to the main highway isn't even visible; even if it were, there would be no traffic to see. It is miles from where they are to the main highway, and there is no reason for anyone else to travel the service road. There is nothing Virgil likes more than his privacy. "Come on," he tells her. "Breakfast is ready." She doesn't respond at first, but he waits, familiar with the routine. Just when his nerves are beginning to fray, she moves, her hands sliding from her lap to grasp the wheels on the sides of her chair. The chair has no motor -- Virgil finds the sound irritating -- but the fact that it is manual doesn't deter her in the slightest. She backs up smoothly, effortlessly, spinning the chair in a graceful half-circle that it took her very little time to master. She guides the chair forward then, towards the dining table, coming to rest in front of the plate that he has set out for her. They eat in silence. Virgil prefers the silence to the screams and rants and pleas that echoed through the house, those first days after she regained the power of speech. And to the lies she told him later, when she pretended and told him what she thought he wanted to hear in an effort to trick him. But sometimes he misses the sound of her voice. She talks very little now, addressing him only when it is absolutely necessary, and then only in the coldest of tones. He wonders how much longer he will have to wait until she speaks to him freely, with those sweet honeyed words he remembers so well. The words that she used so generously with *him*. She finishes almost everything that is on her plate, and that is enough to make him happy, at least for the moment. The fact that she is eating again is a good sign; for a time, he had suspected that he would have to resort to feeding her intravenously. But her appetite has returned, and Virgil knows that this means that she has begun to accept things. Has begun to accept him. It is a very good sign. As soon as she is done eating she rolls away from the table without giving him the slightest of glances. He lets her leave, well aware of the fact that she can't go far without him. There are no ramps attached to the front or side doors; each boasts five wooden steps to the ground outside which effectively prevent her from leaving the house without his help. Virgil has planned for everything. Nothing has been left to chance. He decides to reward her for eating by opening the sliding doors to the deck. As he clears away the breakfast dishes, checking carefully to be sure that she hasn't stolen any of the cutlery, he listens as she moves through the rooms on the ground floor. He is pleased once more by his own generosity in having the house renovated to accommodate her chair. He gives her this freedom, to roam as she pleases. He isn't worried. He knows where to look for her, when he is ready. Sure enough, when he is finished he finds her outside, on the deck. A tiny figure, delicate and fragile within the metal frame of the wheelchair. The mid-November frost has blanketed the leaves on the trees, but she doesn't seem to mind. He has dressed her warmly, in a heavy wool sweater and corduroy pants, and feels confident that she will not catch a cold. He won't let her stay outside long enough to take that risk. "Beautiful, isn't it," Virgil remarks, as casually as he is able. She makes no response, refusing to turn her head in his direction. Her gaze remains firmly focused on the trees. The wind blows strands of hair across her face, but she doesn't even raise a hand to smooth them back. "Maybe we should get two trees for Christmas," he offers. "We could put one of them out here on the deck." It is like speaking to a statue. Sometimes it makes him crazy, but not today. Today, he is filled with patience, and so he tries again. "We're so lucky, to have this wonderful house." She surprises him then, spinning her chair to face him directly, tilting her head up to lock her eyes with his. "*We* don't have anything. *You* have this house, and you have me. But keeping me here against my will doesn't mean that *we* have anything, except in your sick mind." Virgil is shocked by the harshness of her words, but he doesn't let her see that she has wounded him. Apparently, he thinks, she has not learned as much as he hoped. "This is *our* house," he explains patiently, as though to a child. "I bought this house for you. For us." "Well, you and this house can go to hell, for all I care." Such brash, impertinent words! He is tempted to slap her, to teach her a lesson, but he forces himself to refrain. Instead, he tries a different tact. "Dana," he begins, "you're not being reasonable." "Fuck reasonable!" Her face is flushed now with anger and fury, her hands tightly clenching the wheels of her chair. "I don't know what you hoped to accomplish with this insanity, but it's not going to work." "Dana...." He loves the sound of her name. He could say it over and over and over, if only she would allow it. "Dana, listen to me -- I can help you, if you'll let me." "Help me." She spits the words out as though they are distasteful. "You've done everything *except* help me. You've destroyed my family. You've destroyed *me*." She slams a fist against the side of her chair as her eyes slide away from him for a moment to regard the landscape below. When she raises her eyes to his again, they are full of unshed tears. "You've taken everything from me. *Everything*. And I will never feel anything for you except hate. I *despise* you," she hisses. With a quick deft motion of her hands, she spins the chair away from him and rolls across the deck, through the open sliding doors and back inside the house. Virgil stays where he is. There is no need to follow; she isn't going far. He will give her time to come back to her senses. And then they can begin again. "All things are possible until they are proved impossible -- and even the impossible may only be so, as of now." - Pearl S. Buck CHIAROSCURO 15: FORTITUDE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) It was the nights that were the hardest. During the days, her mind was occupied with so many other things. Just trying to get around, to manipulate that damn chair, took plenty of concentration. Keeping out of his way took a lot of effort. When she couldn't totally avoid him, she focused all of her energy on blocking out his flat monotonous drone, on ignoring the clammy feel of his hands on her body as he tended to her needs. She was always vigilant where he was concerned, looking for any loopholes, any loose ends that might help her escape. But he made no mistakes. During the days, he watched her like a hawk. At night, however, she was alone. Left to lie helpless in the queen sized bed behind the locked door, with nothing but her thoughts for company. Her thoughts, and her memories. When it became too painful to think, too agonizing to remember, Dana Scully resorted to exercise. She would awkwardly twist her body until she lay face down against the sheets and then she would do sets of push-ups, again and again. It was hard going, the mattress not being the most solid of surfaces, and after just a few repetitions her arms would begin to shake with the effort. But she kept it up, over and over, ignoring the tremors, pushing past the pain. Knowing how important it was to preserve what little strength she had left. ....ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Each time she reached one hundred she would stop, and rest, and think. Going over her limited options until her breathing slowed and she was ready to begin again. One, two, three.... When she simply couldn't take it any more, she gave up, rolling over to lie flat on her back once more. She could feel the tingle of post-exercise adrenaline course through her body, as strong in her legs as in her arms. Yet though she never gave up trying she couldn't get her legs to move, couldn't get her knees to bend. Thanks to the daily shot Virgil administered, her lower body remained paralyzed, from her waist to her toes. Some nights Dana was consumed by bleak despair, by the fear that she had suffered irreparable damage at his hand. By the fear that she would never get home again, would never again hold her child, or be held by the man she loved. Other nights it was rage that filled her, a rage so deep it turned her heart black as pitch. Those were the nights that she dreamed of revenge, of finding a way to pay Virgil back for all of the suffering he had caused her family to endure. Tonight was different. Tonight she had a goal on which to focus. Escape. It was finally within her grasp, that much she knew. But she would only have one opportunity. If she failed, there was a better than average chance that Virgil would decide to use the drugs to totally immobilize her again. Or he might simply decide to kill her and end it all. Dana was not afraid to try. She had nothing left to lose. Over the long, long weeks, a pattern had emerged. Once a week -- always on Friday -- Virgil would drive down into town and load up his sports utility vehicle with food and supplies. The trip usually took him about three hours, during which he left her in her bed, the door securely locked. This Friday was only two days away. With any luck, this time he would return to find her gone, and the police there to greet him. Dana had made and rejected many other plans before this one. There were no neighbors; no one came in response to her screams and cries during the first endless days of her captivity, and she had since abandoned hope that anyone would. Despite the relative mobility her wheelchair allowed her, there wasn't any way for her to escape the house. Even if she somehow managed to negotiate the outer stairs and reach the car, managed to somehow start the engine, she couldn't possibly drive, having no means to work the pedals. And the woods themselves were too treacherous for her to maneuver in her chair. He would catch her in an instant if she even made an attempt. Reasoning with Virgil had proved equally fruitless. She had tried to get inside his head, to figure out what he wanted to hear and then say the words. She had tried to negotiate with him, had tried to bargain though she had little to offer. Though it had sickened her to do it, she had even tried to seduce him, had flirted with him in the hopes that he would stop giving her the drug and restore the use of her legs. Everything failed. Though Virgil stubbornly refused to be specific, Dana knew that he blamed Mulder for whatever had gone wrong in his life. And that rage against Mulder had somehow been transferred to her. She had only a vague understanding of the events that had set all of this in motion, but it was enough to assure her that Virgil was singleminded in his intentions. He wanted to save her, to save her from the evil that Mulder represented. What she feared most was that he would keep her here forever in order to do so. Her one and only hope lay behind the locked door of the other bedroom, the room Virgil used as a lab. It was there that he kept the only phone. It was on his bedside table. Dana had seen it once by chance, when he accidently left the door ajar; she had caught a glimpse of it as he carried her downstairs. There was a computer in there too, maybe even one with a modem. But a phone was all she really needed. Discovering the existence of the phone was just the first half of the battle. Getting in there to use it remained an insurmountable obstacle. Even though he left her alone on his weekly errand run, Virgil kept all of the doors securely locked. Though her bedroom and his were connected by the bath, there were no handles or knobs on the door of the bath that led to his room, so that avenue was out. Which left her only one option: unlock her bedroom door, and then unlock the door to his room that was on the hall. The big question then became how to handle the locks. There was nothing in her room for her to use, and Virgil saw to it that nothing that could conceivably be used as a tool or a weapon ever came into her possession. Sometimes Dana suspected that he had eyes in the back of his head, so closely did he watch her. But now her prayers had been answered, as though by a miracle. This afternoon, Virgil had put a kettle of water on to boil before going upstairs. It was the whistling sound of the kettle that brought him rushing back to the kitchen; in his haste, he had carelessly tossed a pile of paperwork he had brought down with him onto the table in the hall. A sudden hunch had caused her to roll over to the table, and it had paid off big time. It wasn't the papers that caught her eye, but the fat paper clips that held them together. While he was busy in the kitchen, she had snatched one of the clips, sliding the papers that it had held underneath one of the others. She had tucked the clip into the pocket of her jeans and scooted back across the room before he returned, seemingly unaware of the rearranged paperwork or the ferocious pounding of her heart. Now the pilfered paper clip was safely tucked along the inside edge of the window sill above her bed. Picking a lock with a bent paper clip wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but she had managed it before, and she would manage it again. Dana knew the hardest part would be getting herself out of bed and down the hall to his room. Virgil never brought the wheelchair upstairs; there wasn't any room for it, so there was no sense in trying to persuade him to do so. Which left crawling as her only viable choice. Night after night she had fought to build up the strength in her arms; she now felt confident in her ability to get herself out of the bed and across the room. She could slide the chair by the side wall over to the door and use it to hoist herself up to reach the lock. Once out of the room she would drag the chair with her down the hall to repeat the procedure outside the door to his room. And then she would be in, and on the phone, and help would be on the way. Not so hard, she silently reassured herself. Not when there is so much at stake. Failure was not an option. Dana knew that she was already at the brink of losing her sanity. She could no longer handle Virgil's endless ranting, his delusional babble mixed with quoted scriptures. He went on and on about how much he had to teach her, how much she had to learn, how he would deliver her from evil and save her soul. As far as she could tell, he had only succeeded in delivering her to a waking nightmare from which there was no release. Though Virgil professed that he was her savior, Dana knew better. He was nothing save the agent of her destruction. And to get away from him, she was willing to try just about anything. "If I shoot at the sun, I may hit a star." - P.T. Barnum CHIAROSCURO 16: VERACITY (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) The charter jet wasn't as plush as those frequented by movie stars and rock musicians, but it more than served its purpose. Six federal agents fit quite comfortably within the interior of the plane, the six most senior members of the task force assigned to track down Dana Scully. True to form, Fox Mulder hadn't taken the time to become acquainted with any of them. He knew their faces and their names; his eidetic memory had seen to that. He didn't want to know any more. Knowing more would be superfluous, a distraction that he couldn't afford. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the papers that lay in front of him. Thinking not of the people who surrounded him on board the plane, but of the man who had become his quarry. Virgil Raymond Milhouse. "About ten more minutes," Skinner announced, from somewhere over his shoulder. Mulder glanced at his watch and nodded. "Have they seen anything?" A local team of agents had been dispatched to the house that was listed as belonging to the brother of one V.R. Milhouse, in a small suburb outside of Roanoke, Virginia. "We've got the area staked out," Skinner replied. "The house is pretty isolated, and they say it looks vacant -- no one has been in or out in the last two hours." "Doesn't mean anything," Mulder responded quickly, hoping that he was right. "He could just be laying low." In his heart of hearts, however, he doubted his own words. It had all been too easy, and easy did not seem like the m.o. of the man he sought. It was the Conway case that had led them this far. Mulder remembered the investigation as though it had happened yesterday, though more than a decade had passed since the incident. Along with several other agents from Violent Crimes he had pursued a vicious killer, Roger Conway, across four southern states. After an arduous chase, they had finally managed to trap him inside a convenience store. A standoff ensued, during which a panicked Conway took out seven innocent customers with an automatic rifle before he was subdued. The seven victims were unfortunate casualties in a battle to bring down a man who had already taken thirty-one other lives, but the media hadn't quite seen it that way, resulting in a series of public hearings indicting the behavior of the Bureau. After he stumbled across the footage from the final day of the hearings, everything clicked into place for Mulder. He remembered how the word justice had been tossed around recklessly then, the friends and families of the shooting victims having had much to say about the loss of their loved ones. It was there that Mulder began to search, running background checks on all seven of the deceased, looking for anything that seemed unusual or suspicious. Nothing was found amongst the closest friends and relatives, so the search was widened to encompass colleagues, neighbors -- anyone that had known the victims, regardless of how close the context. It was then that they found Virgil Milhouse. According to the information uncovered by the Bureau, Virgil worked for the same company as the only female victim, Annie Delanoy. A company that specialized in industrial pharmaceuticals, based in Knoxville, Tennessee. Further investigation revealed that at one time Virgil had pursued a romantic relationship with Annie. Though the relationship never blossomed into anything beyond casual friendship, Virgil had been unduly affected by her death, suffering a nervous breakdown which led to his being institutionalized. Thirteen months ago, Virgil Milhouse had been released from the Citrus Grove Sanitarium in Knoxville. Two weeks after his release, he rented an apartment outside of Knoxville. The lease on the apartment had been allowed to expire six months previous; it was then that he had apparently moved into the house owned by his brother, who was stationed with the Navy in the South Pacific. With any luck, it would be there that they would find him. The pilot's voice boomed over the intercom, announcing that the plane was about to land. It had been a short flight, less than an hour; then again, it only took six hours to travel that distance by car. So close, Mulder though. Could Virgil have really been so close, all this time? The plane landed without incident and they were on route to the house within minutes. Sitting in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, Mulder clenched his hands into fists, his nails leaving crescent shaped imprints in his sweat-dampened palms. It was apparent when they reached Derek Milhouse's neighborhood that it wasn't a wealthy area. Far from it, in fact; most of the houses were in severe disrepair. They parked a block away, near some of the vehicles driven by the local agents, and made their way forward on foot. Too easy, Mulder thought, resisting the temptation to wipe the sweat from his brow. Too goddamn easy. Aloud, he spoke to Skinner and another agent, whose name happened to be Taylor. "We'll take the front. Make sure the house is surrounded." Taylor nodded, and turned to announce the plan to the other members of the team. Skinner merely looked at him, his expression grave. "Are you ready for this?" "Ready as I'll ever be," Mulder grimly responded. As they approached the house, Mulder found to his surprise that his thoughts were occupied by his son. He knew that Ryan was safe at Margaret Scully's house; he had spoken to him before they boarded the plane. And yet now his son was uppermost in his mind. Perhaps it was due to the guilt he felt, not having been the best of fathers these past few weeks. Perhaps it was because thinking of him was a comfort. It helped block out some of his fear of what they might find. The maneuver was perfectly executed, with extreme precision, and they were inside of the house in the blink of an eye. Mulder found himself surrounded by agents on all sides, weapons at the ready. He took the lead, anxious to be the one to discover whatever horrors the ramshackle house had to offer them. Inside, however, the house appeared as deserted as it had from the outside. With Skinner by his side, Mulder entered each of the front rooms of the one story house and found absolutely nothing and no one there to greet him. "All clear," came the voice of one of the local agents, whom Mulder could not name. He was the leader of the team who had entered from the back. Shit. The word ran through Mulder's mind unbidden, his frustration springing forth at the idea that this was a dead end. "Agent Skinner?" A different voice this time, belonging to MacKenzie, a female agent who had traveled with them on the plane. "I think I've found something." His feet moving double-time, Mulder followed the sound of her voice down the hallway towards a small room at the end. Skinner was one step behind him as they passed MacKenzie and entered the room through the door that she held open with one hand. Once there, Mulder froze, rendered immobile by the sight that greeted him. It wasn't the room itself that held him in thrall. It was simply furnished, bearing only a bed, a chair and table, a dresser and a makeshift bookshelf. It was obviously a spare room, a room carelessly thrown together to accommodate the occasional overnight visitor. Except for the wall. The wall that was covered in photographs of his wife. Mulder stepped forward, transfixed, his hand rising of its own accord as he closed the interminable distance. There were seemingly hundreds of pictures, taken with a long lens camera, depicting Dana in all manner of mundane daily activities. His fingertips brushed against them, one at a time, heedless of the fact that he might be eliminating prints by doing so. They had no need for them. They already knew the identity of the man who had taken the shots, and the photos themselves were stark proof of the level of his obsession. Of his insanity. "Dear God...." The words were Skinner's, but Mulder barely registered them, so focused was he on the sight that lay before him. It was almost more than he could stand, looking at her, just as he remembered her in his mind's eye. Looking at her and knowing that someone else had done the very same thing, and had dared to leave behind photographic proof of having done exactly that. Skinner had to pull him away from the makeshift collage in order to get him to examine the cellar of the house. Mulder didn't remember the rickety wooden steps that they descended, but once beneath the ground he recognized the damp, dank stench. Recognized the lengths of chain that had bound him to the wall. And when one of the agents found the switch on the wall that activated the blinding overhead light, he remembered that as well. Now, any lingering doubts as to the identity of their quarry had vanished. His intentions were now frighteningly clear. All that remained was to discover where he had gone. Please, Mulder whispered, offering up a silent prayer. Please let us find them before it is too late. "Come on," said Skinner, his words echoing in the squalid cellar. "Let's get out of here." Numb, Mulder could do nothing else but follow as Skinner guided him back up the stairs and out into the light. "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." - Eleanor Roosevelt CHIAROSCURO 17: ABSOLUTION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) There is nothing better than a crisp, winter day. Virgil loves the winter, loves the snow that blankets the mountains, loves the sight of his frosty breath as it exits his body. It hasn't yet snowed this year, which he finds surprising. As a child, he remembers the snow sometimes falling before Halloween. The weather is changing, he thinks sadly. The world is changing. Virgil isn't often pleased by change. He pushes these thoughts out of his mind with little effort. Today he is in a marvelous mood, and he wants to savor every second. Today, when he came up to wake her, she greeted him pleasantly. Not with a smile, not quite, but at least without a scowl. It lightened his heart, especially after her angry outburst earlier in the week. Then, he had been upset. Now, his heart is filled with hope at the fact that she is finally beginning to come around. Today, Virgil welcomes change. Whistling a cheerful tune, he packs the groceries in the back of his Suburban, glancing into each bag to make sure that nothing has been forgotten. He has purchased special things this time: a good bottle of wine, a hunk of expensive cheese, a fancy package of crackers. Two prime cuts of steak, fat potatoes, the freshest of vegetables. A cherry pie, straight from the oven at the local bakery. Tonight, he thinks, will be a night of celebration. Finished loading the groceries, Virgil slams the back door shut and then walks around to the driver's side door. He climbs into the vehicle and starts the ignition, still whistling his happy tune. The radio comes on automatically, but he shuts it off, preferring to be alone with his thoughts. He has everything now. Everything he ever wanted. Virgil drives out of town, closely adhering to the speed limit. It would not do to be pulled over in such a small town; he has no desire for questions. As he drives, he smiles, realizing that at last it is almost all behind him. Soon, he will no longer think of Annie. That fact is a miracle in and of itself. There was a time where Virgil feared that he would never wake without hearing her laugh, never laugh without seeing her smile. She was perfect, his Annie, and he was perfect for her, though she had never seen it quite that way. And yet her very obliviousness had somehow made his feelings for her all the more pure, all the more special. He had mourned her deeply when she was taken away. At first his thoughts had consisted only of finding ways to purify and sanctify her memory. Ways to punish those who had deemed her death insignificant. It was only later that things became clear to him, after he captured the man who represented the evil that brought about her destruction. He realized then it was true that revenge was a dish best served cold, and his own heart was still too warm to exact the proper penance. It was only then he realized that Annie was merely the conduit designed to lead him to his true destiny, to his true love. It was mere icing on the cake that acquiring this love, making this woman his own would serve to undo his opponent better than any torture ever could. Joy floods Virgil as he negotiates the steep, mountainous curves. Images of her, of their future together, drench him with vivid colors, with wild strident sounds. Soon, he thinks, elated. It will be soon. Before long, he reaches the turnoff that leads to the side road up to his mountaintop oasis. He glances at his watch, noticing that he has made good time, despite his stop at the flower shop. Today, his feet have wings. He is early. She will be pleased. Virgil pulls the vehicle up to the head of the drive and parks alongside the house. Keys in hand, he moves to the back and grabs two of the bags of groceries, making sure that the ones he takes are the ones with the most perishable items inside. He walks up to the back door and unlocks it, carrying the bags into the kitchen and dropping them on the counter. It is only after he has put the milk and eggs and cheese in the refrigerator, only after he has unloaded the other grocery bags from the car and tucked their contents safely away, only after he has taken down the crystal vase from the cupboard above the sink and begun to arrange the flowers, only then does the strange feeling hit him. The feeling that something has gone horribly wrong. Virgil abandons the flowers and mounts the stairs to the upper floor with cautious deliberation. With each successive step the feeling becomes stronger until it threatens to overpower him completely. Before he has reached the top step, he knows that his intuition has not failed him. It is the hallway runner that he sees first, its long printed length no longer lying flat against the wood floor. In places the thin rug is twisted, as though something has been dragged across it with the intent of marring its intricately woven pattern. Virgil stops at the head of the stairs, stunned, and it is only with the greatest effort that he manages to turn his head to the left. The doorway to her bedroom is open, hanging ajar to reveal crumpled sheets tossed recklessly on the bed. The room is empty, and its very emptiness siphons the joy out of Virgil's heart inch by painful inch. The ragged sting of betrayal pierces a jagged hole in the wall that holds back his anger, and he draws in a deep, agonized breath. Virgil's feet carry him down the narrow hall to the opposite end, towards the other open door. His door, the door that leads to his sanctuary and his lab. He knows what he will find once he steps through the doorway. The chair that stands crookedly balanced against the doorframe is enough to erase any doubts he might have had; it is her chair, from her room. Now he knows what she has done. Perhaps it is that knowledge that slows his pace, some tiny part of him still hoping that he has been wrong. Still hoping that there remains a chance to set things right. He reaches the doorway and that tiny hope is extinguished as soon as he sees her. She is sprawled on the floor near the broken remains of his bedside table, arms and legs akimbo like a broken marionette. In one fisted hand she clutches the phone receiver as though merely holding it tightly enough would restore its dial tone. Virgil knows better, knows that the line has been rendered useless by the master switch in the basement, which he never fails to flip before leaving the house. He stands and stares at her for a long moment as his disbelief blossoms into fury. Looking at her now he sees what he should have realized all along. There is no beauty left within her, no innocence left to save. The shirt she wears is torn, stained with rings of sweat as dark as her soul. The truth is revealed to him in the damp strands of hair that cling to her face, in the panicked flush of her cheeks, in the hopeless despair reflected in her crystal blue eyes. "Virgil...." She utters his name softly, as a precursor to what would undoubtedly become another in her litany of excuses and lies, but he cannot listen to her now. He must act while the path to salvation remains clearly illuminated. As he turns his back on her and walks down the hall he hears her call for him, calmly at first, and then more frantically. Apologies and pleas mix in with his name, but the sound of her voice means no more to him now than the buzzing of a fly. He descends one set of stairs and then another, entering the basement through the door off of the kitchen. Once inside the basement he quickly finds what he needs; the yellow canisters are clearly marked. Virgil's good spirits return as he sprinkles the kerosene throughout the basement, and by the time he reaches the ground floor of the house they have risen to the point where he feels almost transcendent. He splashes the flammable liquid indiscriminately over each piece of hand-picked furniture, over all of the custom designed additions. Rather than extinguishing his dreams he is purifying them, sanctifying them. There is, he thinks, no more holy an expression of love than ultimate sacrifice. He is almost out of kerosene when he reaches the stairs so he douses the bottom few steps with the remainder of the last container. He pauses for a last moment to appreciate all that he has built, all that he is now so willing to destroy, and then heads back to the doorway that leads to the basement. From his pocket Virgil extracts a matchbook, and from it he plucks a single match. He lights it on his first attempt and tosses it down the stairs. The reaction is immediate; the match ignites a puddle of kerosene in a plume of acrid smoke. Virgil leaves the door to the basement ajar as he turns away, wanting to be sure his fire has enough oxygen to survive. When he gets back to his room she's still on the floor but has shifted position, her back now against the frame of his bed, her useless legs laying limp on the wood floor. Her arms are tucked tightly across her middle as though she is in pain, and when she raises her head to allow her gaze to meet his he can see it in her eyes. "Virgil," she pleads, "you don't want to do this." He knows that she is talking about the fire. The smell of the kerosene is pungent and smoke is already in the air, though it will be awhile before the flames themselves reach this room. "Yes," he tells her, "I do." "No!" Her chin trembles, her eyes weep. "No, Virgil, please. Stop this, stop it now." "This is the best way," he explains, as though to a child. "It's not!" Her eyes are wide with fear. "There's still time. You can save us, Virgil. You can save us both." "This is our salvation." "This is wrong! This is crazy... you're scaring me." She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. "Don't do this, please. You don't have to do this." Even now, she fails to understand. "I am doing this for us." It is then that she really begins to cry, her head slumping below her shoulders, her body shaking as the tears break free. "I don't want to die. Please, Virgil, please don't let me die." Her plaintive, helpless wails touch him, remind him that she is but a lamb who has been led astray. "This is not death," he says gently, moving towards her. "This is our rebirth." She doesn't raise her head as he sits down beside her, tucking his legs beneath him. He folds his arms around her shaking body and leans his cheek against her hair. She allows the touch and in it he feels her growing acceptance. "This is our rebirth," he repeats, comforted at last. He is startled when she shifts in his embrace, her hand moving with remarkable speed. He feels the prick of something sharp pierce the skin in his arm and his eyes open wide in shock. He twists his head to face her and what he sees in her eyes is not fear but madness. "What....." The rest of the sentence dies in his throat as his body begins to spasm and convulse. He loses his hold on her and collapses, sliding to the floor in a heap. It is only then that he sees what has been hidden from him, beneath the bed. His prized metal case, its hinges open, its contents disturbed. It is only then that he truly realizes what she has done. No, he thinks. This is not the way it is meant to happen. Virgil shudders, a last gasp of air entering his lungs, and then everything fades to black. "Nothing is as far away as one minute ago." - Jim Bishop CHIAROSCURO 18: DESPERATION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) It was the gradually gathering smoke that cut through her shock, allowing her to tear her eyes away from the dead body of the man who had so recently been her captor. Dana Scully dropped the hypodermic needle on the ground beside her, barely conscious of the clattering noise it made as it hit the hardwood floor. She had taken a risk, and it had paid off big time. She had no real idea what had been in the vial she'd used to fill the hypodermic; she had chosen it because it was the only one inside his silver case that was marked with a red label. There hadn't been time to be any more precise. She'd been lucky to steal as much time as she had. It was time that had been her downfall. She hadn't expected it to take her nearly as long to get into Virgil's room as it ultimately did. She had underestimated the difficulty that she would have with the locks, not to mention how hard it would be to maneuver her body up into the chair in order to reach them. Nor had she expected to get tired so horribly fast. It had taken her almost an hour to get out of her room, and another half of one to traverse the length of the hallway, dragging the chair with her every inch of the way. Her palms were soon bruised and bleeding, her shirt torn at the elbows from pulling herself along. When she finally reached the door to Virgil's room the panic began to set in and she started making mistakes. She knocked over the chair on her first attempt to mount it, and then when she finally succeeded she dropped the paper clip and had to begin the whole thing again. It was a half hour later when she heard the sound of his truck pulling into the drive. He was early. For a moment she had stopped, frozen with terror, unable to continue. It was practicality that forced her to keep moving. There was no way she was going to get back to her room before he discovered her. He was going to find her, of that there was no doubt. The only question was whether it would be before or after she had managed to summon the police. With renewed energy she fought with the paper clip, and by the time she finally popped the lock to his room the sweat was pouring over her in buckets. She slid off of the chair as quietly as she was able and crawled into the room, listening with baited breath to the noise that Virgil was making downstairs, praying that he would take his time doing whatever it was he was doing. When she reached the bedside table she tried to yank the phone down by its cord and managed to break the table in the process. The crash reverberated in her ears like dynamite but through some stroke of luck it didn't bring Virgil running up the stairs. She had felt as though victory was within her grasp as she reached for the receiver and brought it to her ear..... .... and heard absolutely nothing. It had all been for nothing. She was frantically banging on the phone when she heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. It had all been for nothing. The look she had seen on his face when he finally reached the door had told her everything that she needed to know. Anger, rage, fury, betrayal. She had tried to talk to him but he wouldn't listen, wouldn't listen to her apologies or her explanations, and in truth she hadn't expected him to. But by some miracle he had left her alone long enough to give her time to crawl over to where his silver case rested by the wall. By some miracle she had gained enough time to prepare the shot. By some miracle he had been moved enough by her pleas to sit beside her and give her the opportunity she needed to plunge in the needle. Dana sincerely hoped that she had at least one more miracle left coming to her. The smoke was thicker now, and she could almost hear the flames. Somehow, she had to find a way out. She flipped her body so that she was once again laying propped up on her elbows, and managed a deep breath of the oxygen that still remained in the room. Gritting her teeth in determination she raised herself up and began to crawl, her blistered palms throbbing with each brush against the wooden floor. Her elbows were so bruised now that they were almost numb but still she relentlessly pushed forward, out of the room and down the hall, inch by agonizingly slow inch. When she reached the top of the stairs, her worst fears were confirmed. The fire was already raging on the ground floor; the smoke was so thick that it stung her eyes and scorched her throat. Even if she were able to find a way to negotiate the stairs, there was no possible way that she could ever make it as far as the front door. There were tears streaming down her cheeks, mixing with the runny salt of her sweat, but Dana barely noticed. She could not, would not, perish like this. Not when she still had so much to live for. Ryan.... There had to be a way. There was always a way. Don't panic, she reminded herself. Just think, think, think. Mulder.... Her bottom lip was firmly clenched between her teeth as she twisted her body and turned back in the other direction. Her legs were like dead weight as they dragged behind her, tangling in the carpet runner and pulling it down the hall. She passed the room that was her prison without a second glance, wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself and the rapidly encroaching fire. The door to Virgil's room loomed before her like a mirage in the desert, wavering in her blurry vision but she forced herself to continue, sliding forward as though she were a mermaid stranded on dry land. When she reached the room she crawled inside and then shut the door behind her with a powerful swing of one outstretched arm. It wouldn't keep the flames out for long but she would take every extra second she could steal. Shit, she thought, beginning to sob in earnest now. It had been easy to pretend with Virgil; the tears had come automatically, part of the game, a necessary tactic to lure him close enough to launch her attack. But the tears she shed now were real, fueled by helpless indignation and overwhelming fear. She was going to die here. Dana collapsed, flat on her back, allowing the tears to flow across her cheeks. There was nothing left to do, no option left unexplored. She brought a hand up to swipe angrily at her eyes and it was then that she saw it. The window, unfettered and unbarred. Ignoring the pain, she raised her head, contemplating the window. The room was on the second floor. It was insane to even contemplate. And yet, it was a possibility.... Her mind was working again, double-time, taking in the chair that now lolled on its side by the closed door. Contemplating the linens that made up Virgil's immaculate bed. There was a chance.... You can do this, Dana told herself. You can do this. You have to do this. A groan escaped her as she rolled over and propped herself up once more. Moving slowly, painfully, she made her way over to the fallen chair. She dragged it across the floor and past Virgil's prone body until it lay beneath the window. Laying on her back now, she tilted the chair with both hands until it once again stood upright, balanced against the sill. Okay then, she thought. You've started the battle. Now win the war. She brushed her matted hair out of her face and then rolled over once more, clawing her way across the floor to the bed. She yanked the comforter aside and then pulled on the top sheet with what remained of her strength until it tumbled off the bed and into her hands. The fitted sheet beneath was tougher to remove but somehow she managed it, and then she began the work of tying the knots. Please, she prayed to whoever might be listening. Please let this work. "The only courage that matters is the kind that gets you from one minute to the next." - Mignon McLaughlin CHIAROSCURO 19: DELIVERANCE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) It was insanity. Absolute havoc. Fire trucks, three of them. Firemen by the dozen, clad in bright flame- resistant coveralls with matching face masks, wielding hoses and foam canisters. An ambulance, off to the side, its lights flashing brightly as they spun around and around. Paramedics, standing by should their services be required. It was a macabre inferno that rivaled Fox Mulder's wildest nightmares. Flames leapt towards the smoke-drenched sky that loomed black as night over the burning house. Broken glass and charred pieces of wood and debris littered the driveway and the front lawn, some fragments still smoldering where they had fallen on the grass. The house was perched precariously on the edge of the mountain, its far side surrounded by trees. Their leaves and branches were ablaze as well, ignited by the burning embers pinwheeling through the air. Mulder watched helplessly as the fire finished its job of demolishing the house, as the firemen fought to extinguish the blaze. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, itching to rush inside despite the fact that he wasn't dressed for the occasion. Flanked by the other agents on the team, Skinner stood solemnly beside him like a guard. If they were all that held him at bay Mulder would have brushed them off and rushed inside, heedless of the potential danger. But the place was surrounded, a burning fortress guarded by what seemed like an army of firemen intent upon their work. All Mulder could do was stand and wait. The waiting was killing him. He'd been in a state of agitated anticipation from the moment they tracked down the sale of a house in the Kentucky mountains, purchased under the name of Virgil Milhouse's deceased mother. Arranging the travel and securing the assistance of other federal agents had gone quickly, but not quickly enough for Mulder. The plane trip had been agony; the drive had been worse. They hadn't been able to land anywhere near the small town at the foot of the mountain, forcing them to drive nearly an hour before they reached the summit. And then Skinner's cell phone had rung, bringing information from the chopper pilot they had sent ahead. The house was on fire. The hope Mulder had been nourishing was nearly incinerated by the news. If it would have brought him up the mountain any faster, he would have leapt out of the car and run up the winding road that led to Virgil's private oasis. Instead he merely sat with his hand clenching the armrest as they raced along the narrow stretch of blacktop. Counting seconds, praying with every one that they would not be too late. By the time they arrived, the firemen were already hard at work, trying to save a house that could no longer be saved, swarming in and out of the house like a particularly industrious colony of ants. Visibility was hampered by the ashy smoke and the gathering darkness. A cacophony of sound swirled around them, the rush of pounding water, the babble of numerous voices. Through it all, Mulder waited, the minutes crushing him with the weight of hours. The blaze had begun to die down when Mulder spotted two firemen headed away from the house. Between them they bore a stretcher draped with a shiny silver blanket and the sight stirred him into action. "Mulder!" Skinner's voice was frantic. "Mulder! Hold on, wait a minute!" Mulder barely heard him, his feet moving of their own accord towards the far end of the driveway. He brushed his way past the paramedics and was beside the firemen in an instant, tearing frantically at the blanket despite their protests. The body that was revealed to him was scorched, the skin bubbled and blackened. It was however quite clearly the body of a man. A large man, by the looks of him, in good shape before he was ravaged by the flames. There was no doubt in Mulder's mind that he was gazing down on the shell of Virgil Milhouse. His prey, consumed by the infernal blaze. "Where did you find him?" The words rushed from Mulder's mouth like machine gun fire. "Upstairs, in the bedroom." "Anyone else?" "No, sir," one of the men replied. "We found no one else." Mulder felt a steadying hand on his shoulder and turned to see Skinner standing there, his expression unyielding but his eyes full of compassion. "There was the remains of a wheelchair, downstairs," the second man volunteered. "But I doubt it belonged to this guy, unless someone carried him up to the room." The captain stepped forward, his face grave beneath the soot and dirt that covered it. "There's nothing left inside at all. I'm betting it was deliberately set, and whoever did it did a thorough job. There's almost nothing left in there but ash." Nothing but ash.... Mulder wheeled around abruptly and started towards the house, weaving through the crowd like a man in a daze. He hadn't gone ten steps before several of the firemen were on him, pulling him back. "Hey! You can't go in there!" Mulder fought with them blindly, furiously, raging like a tiger in a cage. "Get your goddamn hands off me! Back off!" He was choking, struggling to breathe in the smoky air, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered now. "Mulder!" Skinner nearly had to shout to be heard over the commotion. "There's no one in there! Listen to me. She's not in there." "How do you know? How do they know?" Anger rushed over him in a wave born of frustration. "We have to keep looking, dammit, we have to be sure --" "We will," Skinner declared, pushing past the firemen to grip Mulder firmly by the shoulders. "We will. But I need you to keep it together. I need you on this." He paused, then added, "Dana needs you on this." Mulder could read the plea in Skinner's eyes. Don't do this. Don't fuck this up. "I'm on it," he finally muttered, and his words sounded sincere enough to convince them to release him. "We'll let you in as soon as its clear," the captain informed him, and Mulder acknowledged the information with a nod of his head. As the firemen went back to work, Skinner stepped forward as if to say something more, but Mulder brushed him aside with a wave of his hand and walked away. Nothing but ash.... Desperately needing some space, Mulder crossed the lawn until he was facing the far side of the property. Alone, at least for the moment, he buried his face in his hands, heedless of the black soot that covered his fingers. A deep shuddering breath rocked him as he whispered her name. "Dana...." He swallowed once, hard, and then dropped his hands, forcing his eyes open. He stared bleakly up at the charred, smoking remains of the house. And it was then that he saw it. A torn piece of white cloth, caught on the edge of a windowsill on the top floor. It dangled there, bright against the dark sky, blowing in the breeze like a flag of surrender. Mulder's eyes traveled from the scrap of fabric down the side of the house, to the shattered remains of the wooden deck that had once clearly offered a panoramic view of the mountainside. Seized by a sudden impulse he started to run, making his way to the edge of the cliff where the ground dropped off into nothingness. "Dana!" He paid no attention to the debris falling around him from the still smoldering trees, dropping to his hands and knees as he peered over the edge. From here it was apparent that the drop was not as severe as it seemed from a distance; the ground sloped down gradually for several hundred feet before falling away entirely. Bushes and shrubs covered every inch of land, forming a tangled mat of greenery through which little was visible. Bracing himself with his hand Mulder angled his body to slide down the slope, his feet kicking up rocks and dirt with every step. He could hear Skinner and the other agents behind him, calling after him, but he did not stop. His eyes searched the encroaching darkness frantically as he shouted her name over and over. "Dana!" A glint of white caught his eye amidst the greenery and he clawed his way towards it like a madman. He moved forward, guided by unexpected signposts. A length of bed linen, twisted like a rope by virtue of several well- placed knots. A shredded piece of jersey fabric caught in the bushes. A trail of broken branches strewn in the dirt. And then he saw her. His wife. She was face down on the ground, and lay silent and motionless. Her head was turned slightly to the side facing away from him. One arm was pinned beneath her body, the other outstretched, revealing jagged holes torn in her long-sleeved tee shirt. Her legs were splayed behind her, bare feet peeking out from beneath dirty sweat pants. "Dana!" Mulder was with her in an instant, fighting down panic as he knelt down beside her. Her eyes were closed and her lips were slightly parted but it didn't seem like she was breathing. He raised two trembling fingers to the side of her neck, and waited. He could feel her pulse pounding beneath her skin. It was faint, but it was there, and the discovery brought tears to his eyes. She was alive. "Skinner!" He got to his feet and cupped his hands to his mouth to amplify his shout. "*Skinner*! I need the paramedics down here, *now*! I found her! I found her!" He heard Skinner's answering yell and then turned his attention back to his wife. Mulder forced himself to remain calm, to resist the urge to sweep her into his arms and hold her close, well aware of how dangerous it was to move her without knowing if she was injured. He stripped off his FBI windbreaker and covered her with it, and then lay down beside her. He raised a gentle hand to her face and brushed aside the tangled strands of red hair that were draped across her cheek with an awe that bordered on disbelief. Her eyes fluttered slightly, but they did not open. Still, it was enough for Mulder. "Dana...." he murmured. "My Dana." It was then that his tears began to fall. "The best way out is always through." - Robert Frost CHIAROSCURO 20: REUNION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) "I want to go on a business trip." At the moment, there wasn't anything that Ryan Mulder wanted to do more. The way he saw it, business trips were kind of like your birthday and Christmas all rolled into one. When you came back from a business trip you got to go to the hospital and lay in one of those cool beds that went up and down when you pushed a button. His bed at home wasn't nearly as much fun. And then after the hospital there was cake. When his daddy came home they had chocolate cake for dinner, and today his grandmother had been in the kitchen all afternoon making a yellow one. There wasn't anything Ryan loved more than cake, and he didn't want to have to wait until his next birthday to have more. And if he got to lay in one of those special beds all by himself it would be the best thing ever. But that didn't seem like it would happen unless he went on a business trip, so he decided he'd better get started. "Grandma," he repeated, "I want to go on a business trip." "You will, sweetie," she called to him from the kitchen. "When you're all grown up, you will." "But I want to go on one *now*." Ryan frowned. "I'm all grown up now." Uncle Walter laughed, putting down the newspaper that he had been reading. "You're not grown up enough." "Yes I am," Ryan insisted, holding up his red backpack as evidence. "I'm all grown up and I packed all my stuff." His backpack was full of everything he needed. Two of his favorite model trains, his very best crayons, his basketball, and his bunny rabbit. The backpack wouldn't shut all the way with the bunny at the top but Ryan didn't care. He wasn't going anywhere without George. "You won't be all grown up until you're as tall as me," Uncle Walter declared, rising from the chair until he was as big as a giant. "And you're not quite there yet." "I am," Ryan declared. "Almost. By tomorrow, I will be." "Well then," Grandma said as she walked into the room, "you can leave tomorrow. How's that?" Looking up, Ryan saw his grandmother and Uncle Walter share a smile. He didn't think they were being fair but they seemed really happy so he decided not to argue. If they stayed happy he could probably get a second piece of cake, and that would be almost as good as a business trip. "Okay," he answered. "I'll go tomorrow." He dropped his backpack on the floor and looked around the room. It was decorated with streamers and balloons and a banner that he had colored with his magic markers. The banner said 'Welcome Home, Mommy' in big letters -- Ryan couldn't print them yet, but he could read them just fine. Grandma had done the printing and he had filled them in with all of his favorite colors. "I like our sign, Grandma," he announced. "Do you think Mommy will like it?" "I think she'll love it, sweetie." "I'm not a sweetie." Ryan stuck out his tongue and crouched down on his hands and knees. He took a deep breath and then tried another handstand. He'd been practicing them forever but he still couldn't do them the way that Jenny could. Jenny was the best handstand girl in his kindergarten class. Taking a deep breath he shifted his weight to his hands and pushed his body forward. He was up, up, up.....and then he came crashing down. "Ryan! Stop horsing around in the house!" Ryan fell over onto his back with an anguished groan. It really made him mad that Jenny was better at handstands than he was. And his grandmother just didn't understand how important it was to practice. "Gr-and-ma...." "Just sit still for a few minutes," Grandma ordered, and Ryan tried as hard as he could, climbing up on the couch and sinking down in the cushions. He tried to sit still like a real grownup and was doing a pretty good job until he heard the sound of the car in the drive. "Mommy's home!" As sad as he was that his mother was leaving the hospital and its wonderful magical bed, he was very happy to have her back home. Now maybe he wouldn't have to spend every afternoon with his grandmother. Now maybe things would go back to normal and it would just be the three of them together all the time. "Mommy's home!" He was so excited that he ran straight for the door and stood there watching as it opened. His father was the one who pushed it open, holding the knob with his keys still in one hand. His mother was standing right beside him, a happy smile on her face. "Hi Mommy!" Ryan was so excited that the words just tumbled out of his mouth. "You're home! We made you a banner -- see? And Grandma made cake." "That's terrific!" His mother stepped through the doorway and leaned over to give him a big hug. "Did you help Grandma with the cake?" "No," Ryan replied. "I had to practice my handstands." He tugged on his mother's hand insistently. "You have to look at the banner, Mommy. I colored on it with all my best pens." "You did a great job," she announced after looking closely at the sign. "It's beautiful. I think it's probably the best banner ever." "It is." Ryan grinned, happy that she was pleased. It was then that he noticed the cane in his mother's hand, and the way that she leaned on it as she made her way over to the couch. "Hey, Mommy -- did you steal that cane from the hospital?" "No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm just borrowing it for a little while." She sank down on the couch and smiled at him. "Just for a little while." "Cool," Ryan announced. "Can I see it?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed it from where she had leaned it against the table and raised it in his hand. "Ryan, put that down," his father demanded. "It's okay," his mother said. "He can play with it. Just be careful, Ryan, and don't hit anything with it." "I won't," Ryan promised, already thinking about what a good sword it would make. As his grandmother and Uncle Walter gave his mother hugs and kisses, he raised the cane off the ground and twirled it in a little circle. It was almost as tall as he was, which would make it a really mighty sword. Maybe if he was really good Mommy would let him take it out to the backyard. "Hey, big guy." Ryan looked up at the sound of his father's voice. "You want to go and get your surprise for Mommy?" "Oh!" The surprise. Ryan grinned. He had almost forgotten. "Okay," he replied, dropping the cane to the floor and racing towards the stairs. Halfway there he turned around and added in a loud whisper, "Daddy, which one should I bring?" "Whichever one you want," his father answered, giving him a wink and a smile. "Okay," he said, and ran up the stairs as fast as he could. When he reached his bedroom he went straight to the bookshelf by the window and pulled out three of his favorite books. He looked at the shelf, and then yanked out a fourth one, and put one of the first ones back. These were the best, he decided. He would bring these, and let Mommy choose. When he got back downstairs, Ryan found everyone sitting down in the living room except for Uncle Walter, who was standing and twisting the top of a big green bottle that he held in his hands. The bottle top came off with a loud pop that made everyone laugh, probably because the stuff in the bottle was running out and down the sides in a rush of clear bubbly liquid. It was dripping on the carpet, but no one seemed to care, which made Ryan feel a little better about the fingerpaint he had spilled earlier on the rug in his room. Ryan watched as Uncle Walter finished pouring the contents of the bottle into tall skinny glasses and passed them around. "Can I have one?" he finally asked, curiosity having gotten the better of him. "Not one of these," his father replied. "But you can have some apple juice, if you want." "Okay," Ryan agreed. If everyone was going to have a glass, he wanted one too. He was a little disappointed when his father brought him his juice in a plastic cup, but his good spirits returned when his mother patted the spot on the couch next to her. "Come up here," she said, "and sit next to me." Ryan dropped his books on the carpet and climbed up on the couch, taking the plastic cup from his father. "Everybody ready?" Uncle Walter asked, and when everybody nodded, Ryan did the same. "Let's hear it for happy homecomings and safe returns," Uncle Walter declared, and raised his glass. Ryan watched as his mother and father and grandmother did the same, so he raised his cup as well. All of the glasses clinked together with a tinkly sound that was just a little bit hollow where they hit his cup. "Cheers," Grandma said, and Ryan heard his parents say the same thing. Then everyone drank, so he did too. There was nothing better than apple juice. Well, except maybe for cake. After that there was just a lot of staring and smiling and Ryan felt a little silly. "Can we do the surprise now?" "Of course," his mother replied, putting her glass down on the coffee table. "What's the surprise?" Ryan put down his cup and gathered up his books. "This is the surprise." He handed her the books. "You have to pick one." She gave him a suspicious glance. "Why do I have to pick one?" "Because!" Ryan beamed. He couldn't help it. He was too excited. "Because I always pick the ones for you to read to me. So this time *you* get to pick, and *I* get to read." "What?" His mother's blue eyes opened wide and Ryan knew that the surprise had worked. "I can do it, Mommy. I can read, at least these books." He looked up at his father and saw the approval in his grin. "Daddy's been helping me." When Ryan turned back to his mother, he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Mommy!" he said with some alarm. He hadn't meant to make her cry. "You don't have to pick, if you don't want to. Really! I can pick one for you." "I don't want you to pick one," she told him, her words coming out all sniffly and small. "I want to hear you read them all. Every single one. But first, I want you to give me a hug." "Okay," Ryan agreed, and leaned into his mother's outstretched arms. She kissed him on the forehead and squeezed him tight and it felt good, soft and warm and safe. He was pretty sure that his Mommy gave the best hugs in the whole world. When she finally let him go, he could see that she was still crying, but the smile on her face made them seem like happy tears. "Mommy," Ryan declared, "I'm really glad you like your surprise." "Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?" - Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy CHIAROSCURO 21: EXULTATION (1/2) NC-17 Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Fox Mulder put the last of the cake plates into the dishwasher. Dumping in a healthy amount of detergent, he set the dials and then pushed the power button. The machine started up with a soothing low-pitched whir. Finished with the last of the clean up chores, Mulder switched off the lights in the kitchen and then did the same in the other rooms on the ground floor. He checked the locks on the front door one last time, just to be sure, and then headed up the stairs. He could hear Ryan's voice before he reached the landing. An amused smile crossed his face as he realized that it had to easily be the sixth time that evening that his son had read this particular story aloud. It was, as Ryan was so fond of declaring, his 'very favorite', so the constant recitation came as no surprise. Still, Mulder mused, even the most devoted listener would eventually grow tired of "Green Eggs and Ham". Mulder moved quietly down the hall until he was standing in the doorway of his son's room. His silence was deliberate, designed to feed the recurring hunger he often had to merely observe the beauty of the interaction between his wife and his child. Ryan was ensconced comfortably under his train-illustrated flannel sheets, his stuffed bunny rabbit tucked in beside him. He held the book open on his lap, its pages pressed flat beneath the weight of his small palms. His forehead was crinkled in concentration as he sounded out each of the words. It was obvious that he was actually reading, and not merely repeating the text for memory. Watching him, Mulder felt an inordinate sense of pride. If the look on her face was any indication, his wife was feeling exactly the same way. Dana was seated on the edge of the bed, her back resting against the headboard. One arm was protectively draped around Ryan's shoulders, and she used the other to turn each page for him as he continued to read. It was near the end of this particular rendition of the Dr. Seuss classic that Dana raised her head. Glancing back over her shoulder she spotted him standing in the hollow of the doorway, and the twinkle in her eyes made Mulder suspect that she knew he'd been there all along. When Ryan finished the last page, a triumphant grin bloomed on his face. "That's it, Mommy," he crowed. "That's the end!" "That it is," she agreed. "And now it's time for bed." "Not yet," he shook his head. "Let's read another one." Mulder took the opportunity to announce his presence. "No more reading for you tonight, big guy." He entered the room and came to stand beside the bed. "You need to get some sleep. And Mommy and Daddy do too." Dana looked up at his words, one eyebrow raised in the signature gesture she used to convey so many different thoughts. There was something about the way she wielded it now that was suggestive enough to send a hot flush racing down his spine. "Daddy's right," she said, and Mulder was impressed by the level tone of her voice. "We can read more tomorrow." Ryan sighed his trademark sigh of resignation. "Tomorrow's so far away," he complained as he handed over the book and scooted down under the covers. "Not so far away," Dana countered as she rose from her perch on the edge of the bed. She handled the simple movement with grace, but Mulder still detected the barest hint of strain in her face as she leaned over to give Ryan a kiss. He kept a close eye on her, on the progress that she was making as she put the ordeal she had survived ever further behind her. The damage that Virgil had inflicted upon her had been severe, but as it turned out, more psychological than physical. Without the daily injections of the drug, Dana had quickly regained feeling in her lower body. But the recovery time had been slow, three long weeks of physical therapy before her doctor had deemed her strong enough to leave the hospital. Mulder still felt the horror that had overwhelmed him when he first learned of what she had endured, and had not yet managed to quench the guilt he felt about his role in her suffering. It was hard, even now, to put the rage and anger behind him. Part of Mulder couldn't help wishing that Virgil had survived the fire, so that he could have the satisfaction of killing the man himself. "Goodnight, sweetheart." Dana kissed Ryan and placed another little kiss on his bunny's stuffed head. " 'Night, Mommy," he said with a yawn, pulling the bunny even closer. " 'Night, Daddy." Dana moved aside as Mulder bent over to tousle his son's hair. "Sleep well, Ry." He gave his son a kiss and tucked the blankets up over his shoulders. He followed his wife towards the door and was about to turn out the light when Ryan called out to him. "Daddy?" "Yes?" Mulder glanced back over his shoulder and found Ryan's wide blue eyes fixed on the closet door on the opposite side of the room. "I think you better get the goo detector." "Ryan -- " "Daddy, you have to get it. You *have* to." " 'Goo detector' ?" Dana gave him a quizzical look that was not without mirth. Mulder shrugged and was about to explain when his son did it for him. "The goo detector checks for goo. And finds it and gets rid of it." Ryan frowned, pointing at his bunny. "George doesn't like any goo around when he's sleeping." "It's my flashlight," Mulder clarified in a murmur designed for his wife's ears only. "See, they were running the original 'Blob' on cable the other day, and --" "Don't even try," Dana said, holding up her hand palm out as though to ward off further discussion, a rueful smile on her face. "You handle the goo situation. I'm going to go get ready for bed." "You've got a deal," Mulder replied, giving her a quick kiss as she headed towards their bedroom. He stepped into the hallway and retrieved the flashlight from the hall closet. Back in Ryan's room, he turned on the flashlight and then switched off the overhead light. "Okay, kiddo," he declared. "Time for a little goo detecting." By the time he finished checking every nook and cranny for possible goo invasion, Ryan was already sound asleep. Mulder adjusted the bedcovers one final time and then quietly shut the door. He reached the master bedroom to find it empty, save the sound of running water from the connecting bathroom. The light from the lamp on the bedside table spilled across the carpet to intersect with a faint glimmer from behind the half-closed bathroom door. Mulder sank down onto the bed, kicking off his shoes. He listened to the noises coming from the bathroom, the clink of bottles, the squeak of faucets, comforted by their very familiarity. A wave of contentment washed over him as he sat, bathed in the simple joy of having the people he loved most safe at home. The water stopped running, and then Dana called to him in a soft voice. "Mulder? Did you finish your flashlight mission?" "The room's been cleared of any and all goo," Mulder reported wryly. "And the big guy is down for the count." "Good to know," she replied. "Good to know." Mulder heard the flick of the bathroom lightswitch and the room grew dimmer. He turned his head as she exited the bathroom, prepared to greet her with a warm smile, but his first glimpse of her stole his breath away. At first the shadows tricked him, made him think that she was standing there naked, wreathed in darkness. As she moved towards him, crossing the pool of light cast by the bedside lamp, he saw her more clearly. She wore a breathtakingly fragile negligee that draped her body in the sheerest of fabric. The floor length gown caressed her curves, dipping in at her narrow waist and then flaring slightly to hug her hips. The swell of her breasts pressed against the bodice, their nipples taut and visible through the elegant lace. Her hair was swept back, its coppery strands just brushing the top of her pale, creamy shoulders. Her face glowed in the faint light, illuminated by a brilliant smile. She stopped in the middle of the room and Mulder rose to his feet, his breath caught in his chest as he gazed at her. His palms were damp with sweat as he fought for words. "Dana..... God." He swallowed, bringing moisture to his dry throat. "You look...." "You like?" She indicated the negligee with a wave of her hand. "Oh, yeah," he managed, taking in every inch of the pale peach gown. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his wife in this kind of sexy nightwear. Her taste tended more towards silk pajamas, which she had worn almost exclusively after the birth of their son made sleeping in the nude a less regular occurrence. "When did you..." "When you were gone. I bought it for you," she whispered, her smile dissolving into a more solemn expression. "So I'd have it, when you got back." "For me," he said, a powerful wave of love and longing sweeping over him. "For you," she echoed, moving forward once again to close the distance between them. He simply stood and watched, feeling the fear and anxiety and anguish that had consumed him these past weeks fade away with each successive step. She was limping slightly, favoring her left leg, but Mulder hardly noticed. She was lovely, perfect, amazing, beautiful. To him, she was everything. When she reached him, he took her in his arms and held her close. He drew in a deep breath, drinking in the faint scent of her perfume and the sweet smell of her skin. The crown of her hair just brushed his chin as he tucked her against him and sighed. "I love you, Dana. God, I love you." She pulled back and gazed up at him. What he saw in her eyes was a fascinating blend of acceptance, love, and unbridled arousal. She reached up and twined her arms around his neck, pulling him close. "I love you too," she murmured, and then she pressed her lips to his. end "Chiaroscuro 21: Exultation" part 1 of 2 CHIAROSCURO 21: EXULTATION (2/2) NC-17 Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Dana Scully kissed her husband boldly, taking the lead, devouring his mouth with hers hungrily, almost ferociously. She had waited far too long. She had been patient far too long. And she told him so with her tongue as she slid it between his lips. With her hands, as she caressed his neck and twined her fingers in his hair. With her body, as she pressed it against his, feeling his street clothes rough and cool against her nearly bare skin. Mulder returned her kisses and caresses with equal ardor, one hand running up and down the length of her back, the other cradling her head, his thumb gently tracing the outline of her ear. He didn't break off the kiss until they were both breathless with it. Dana opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her, his deep green eyes filled with longing and regret. "Dana....." Her name was the barest of whispers. "We shouldn't....." She knew him too well. Knew how fond he was of guilt and self- flagellation. How willing he was to deny himself anything if it meant protecting her. But tonight there was no room for denial, and she was determined to make him understand. "Mulder." Dana brought one of her hands up to cup his cheek. "You disappeared in August. The second week of August. And now, it's eleven days until Christmas." She flashed him a coy smile. "Don't tell me that you haven't missed me as much as I've missed you." "Oh, there's no doubt about that." He brushed her lips with a kiss. "No doubt whatsoever. But you've only just come back from the hospital. The doctor said -- " "The doctor said I'm fine," she finished, cutting him off. "I'm an outpatient now, remember? Besides," she added in a deliberately seductive tone, "I didn't get a gold star in therapy for nothing. I had a specific goal in mind." "Ah." Now it was Mulder who was smiling, a mischievous smile that erased some of the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes. "A specific goal. I wonder what that would be." "That's for me to know, and you to find out." "I'll take that as a challenge." Mulder dipped his eyes, allowing them to roam freely over her body. Dana could feel the searing heat of his gaze like a physical touch. He raised his hand to her chest and allowed a single finger to dance slowly along the curve of her breasts. Desire ravaged her as she watched him touch her, as she watched his cheeks flush and his eyes darken with arousal. He looked up at her, finally, a last question on his lips. "Are you sure you're okay?" "I'm fine," she promised. "Really." The last traces of worry slipped from his face and he smiled again, a darker, sexier smile. "Then I guess I should open my present." Mulder hooked one finger under the thin strap that rested on her right shoulder, tugging it gently. "The thing about presents," he mused, his eyes on her chest, "is that it's so difficult to decide how to open them." As though to prove his point, he released his hold on the strap and brought his hand down to the bodice of the negligee. A shiny length of satin ribbon held the bodice closed and he deftly unfurled it. The fabric parted gently, baring her breasts to his gaze. "I mean, you can open them slowly," he continued, bringing both of his hands up to cup her breasts. "Preserve the suspense." He teased her nipples with his thumbs and an anguished sigh escaped her lips. Dana watched him quietly, her passion building. He was her dark prince, in his black turtleneck and jeans. He was her white knight, the light in his eyes burning bright enough to bleach the shadows from the room. "On the other hand, sometimes it's more fun just to rip them open." His eyes flickered up to meet hers and the fierce hunger that she saw there made her tremble. "Come here," he said, offering her his hand, and Dana did not argue, allowing him to guide her over to the bed. She waited as he pulled back the comforter and then she lay down on top of the sheets, nestling her head against the pillows. Mulder didn't take his eyes from hers as he backed away from the bed. Slowly, he pulled the turtleneck up and over his head, leaving his hair a rumpled, tousled mess. He unfastened the buttons on his faded jeans, sliding them down and kicking them off along with his boxers. She lay still, drinking in his beautiful body as it was revealed inch by precious inch. The bodice of her gown still hung open, and she ached to rub her throbbing nipples against his bare chest. Her breathing was loud in her ears as she whispered his name. As though in defiance of her plea, he moved towards her with agonizing slowness. He sank down beside her on the bed, his cock already hard and erect. Dana reached for him but he shook his head, stilling her hand. "It's still my turn," he murmured, and she acquiesced, dropping her hand down on the cotton sheet. Leaning over her, Mulder pulled down the straps on both sides of the gown, brushing gentle kisses on her shoulders as he did so. He placed another kiss in the valley between her breasts, and then sat back to admire his handiwork. "Seems to me I'm going about this the wrong way." His voice was low and dark, and she waited to see what he would do. Her unspoken question was answered as he scooted toward the end of the bed. He took her right foot in his hand and raised it to his lips. He placed a kiss on her instep and she shivered with pleasure, curling her toes. Attracted by their motion, he ran his tongue across each of them, suckling them, and she writhed against the bed. "God, Mulder..... that feels so good." "I'm glad," he said, and their eyes met in a moment of unspoken communion. He placed her foot back down on the bed and reached for the hem of her gown. Taking his cue, Dana bent her legs slightly and allowed him to glide the gown upwards. The satin slid smoothly up over her skin with an erotic whisper that faded as the fabric pooled around her waist. His hands were warm and damp where they touched her thighs, spreading them and pinning them open. Dana waited until she felt his mouth against her, hot and wet and hungry, before she closed her eyes. His tongue teased her, searching her moist depths until he found her innermost core. His lips seized up on her clitoris and suckled her, making her hips buck against his face, the barest shadow of razor stubble scratching her thighs. "Oh, yes....." Her fingers clenched into fists, balling up the sheet on which she lay as she quivered with the pleasure of this most intimate embrace. Her head twisted against the pillow, strands of hair catching in her mouth as she moaned helplessly, caught in an excruciating web of tension and desire. "Mulder, please...." Release crashed down on her with a thundering roar, her body thrumming with soaring ecstasy and unbridled joy. She was still shaking in the aftermath when he kissed her, his lips sweetened by her own flowing juices. Dana opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her like a vigilant sentinel standing guard over her pleasure. He brought a reverent hand up to caress her cheek, brushing the damp strands of hair away from her face. She smiled at him tenderly. "I want you, Mulder," she breathed. "Now." He nodded, and then gathered her crumpled negligee in both hands. Dana raised her arms and arched her back, enabling him to pull it up and over her head. He let the fabric fall to the floor and then moved until he hovered over her, balanced on his elbows. She shifted her legs until she was straddling him, his cock poised at her entrance. "I love you," he whispered, as he slid into her. Dana gasped as he filled her, assaulted by a new rush of sensation. She twined her arms around his back, pulling him closer, bringing him deeper. When he was buried in her to the hilt, he thrust against her once and then pulled back, almost all the way out. He slid in again harder, more forcefully, and a soft cry escaped her lips. "Shhhhh," Mulder teased, brushing a hand over her mouth. "You don't want to wake the baby." A blissful smile crossed her face at the familiar words that called to mind so many other nights with him, in this bed. Their shared past, their history. "I'll keep it down," she promised, kissing the tips of his fingers. "As long as you keep it up." "Your wish is my command," he grinned, punctuating his words with another thrust of his hips. Rational thought fled her mind as they rocked together, their bodies tangling in a passionate frenzy. Everything blurred into a dizzying combination of touches and caresses and kisses as familiar territories were explored and new discoveries were made. It was a private celebration of torrid passion and undying love, a reunion rendered all the more precious by long weeks of anticipation. It was a simple, perfect union, their circle once again unbroken. Dana wasn't sure how many times she had come, having lost the ability to count by the time Mulder finished with a jubilant cry. He collapsed against her and they lay entwined for a long moment before he finally pulled out. Mulder rolled onto his side, bringing her with him, tucking her against him and holding her close. Nestled in his arms, Dana closed her eyes, feeling limp and utterly satiated. This, she knew, was everything. Everything that she would ever want or need. She felt his lips on the back of her neck, a soft, tender kiss. "Welcome home, Dana," he murmured. "Welcome home." "I am incapable of conceiving infinity, and yet I do not accept finity. I want this adventure that is the context of my life to go on without end." - Simone De Beauvoir