Date sent:        Fri, 07 Nov 1997 14:28:45 +0800
To:               x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com
From:             "P.Daza" <majick@webquest.com
Subject:          Friends Even In Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited 1/6


Title: REPOSTFriends Even in Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited 1/6
Author: Penny Daza (majick@webquest.com)

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, The X-Files and all its characters 
            belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox Network.
            We are NOT making any money out of this experience. In summary,
            No copyright infringement is intended.  These characters I've
	written about also belong to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, 
	who gave them life, who gave them soul.

Rating: PG, maybe R for the 'F' word.

Classification: S A  UST

Spoilers: None, Redux is altogether different.

Summary : Part 3 to Friends Even in Childhood

ARCHIVE anywhere.  Retain author's e-mail addy.

AUTHOR'S NOTES (PLEASE READ):
A day or so after I released FEIC 3, a very talented writer by the name of
Joseph Connell e-mailed me a short piece he had written set in the universe
I created.  It was one of the most beautifully written vignettes I have had
the pleasure of reading.

Now, Connell has given me permission to use the segment he's written, and
sculpt it into my plans for what FEIC III will be all throughout, hence the
repost.

Thanks, Connell.  For the words, and for the honor.



Friends Even in Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The amazing thing was, she hadn't even been looking for the damn things
when she found them. 

As the named executor of Mulder's estate, Scully of course had to go
through his personal effects. 

And that meant going into his apartment. 

Her only reluctance was the thought that perhaps she should call her
mother.  That way, it wouldn't come as too much a shock when the paramedics
called to tell her where her daughter's body had been found.

If the cancer didn't kill her, this definitely would.

In the end, she decided against it. Margaret Scully had considered Mulder
as much a part of the family as her own sons. Probably more so, given the
amount of time they'd known each other. And consequently would insist on
helping in the chore.

Scully couldn't allow that. This was her cross to bear, and hers alone.
The last thing she needed was her mother distracting her from the task of
nailing the condemned (herself) to it.

The police tape had long since been taken down, though the chalk outline
of the body still covered the floor in front of that damned sofa. The dried
pool of blood still obscured the tracing of the head. Medically speaking,
it had been amazing at how little damage there'd been to the face and head
when she'd...identified...the body. Now, looking at the outline and the
brown stain, even that bit of interest was gone. 

So she felt nothing, thought nothing, was...nothing.

Nothing except the duty before her, which would be done with the same
competence and care as she might perform a routine autopsy...or tear apart
five years' worth of investigative work and lifetime of belief. Then, when
that was finished, she'd let herself go. Maybe even shed a few tears in the
process, though Scully was absolutely certain she'd run out of tears long ago.

Just like she'd been absolutely certain about so much in her life. 

The nonexistence of extraterrestrial life, Ahab's undying love for her,
her faith in science...

Her complete faith, trust, and love for Fox William Mulder.

Scully spun on her heel and decided to start with the bedroom. It would be
an adequate start, small enough to be manageable and likely bare enough
that reminders of Mulder would be few. She needed to build up her tolerance
before moving to the rest of the apartment.

At first glance, the bedroom looked like it belonged in a monastery
somewhere. A futon, its mattress covered and a couple ragged-looking
pillows at its head. But no sheets or blankets. 

A desk, barely the size of a card table, and chair pushed up against the
wall. Odd papers and journals littered its top, a reading lamp perched
precariously atop a stack of glossy magazines.

There was a bureau whose mirror needed a good wipe. A few articles of
dirty laundry here and there. A single pair of boxes directly beside the bed.

All in all, nothing to suggest much about the late occupant of the place.

The laundry was gathered up quickly, almost comically so as though she
feared each article would come alive and attempt to make a meal of her
hand. The journals, clips, and magazines ("Celebrity Skin" and "UFO
Universe"; why was she not surprised?) were gathered into a convenient pile
for later disposal. A croak of laugh escaped when she saw the lamp had no
bulb in it. It was set back atop the pile. Maybe Goodwill could find a use
for it.

There wasn't much in the walk-in closet. Suits and shirts, shoes, jogging
sweats and boxers, all of which would join the lamp-with-no-bulb at
Goodwill. She'd need to find a box to cart it all away in. 

Distantly, clinically, Scully was amazed at her control. No tears
threatened, not the merest twinge of pain or loss. 

Resolving not to examine this blessed numbness too closely, Scully moved
to the boxes stacked beside the bed. The smaller one on top had been opened
recently, the tape recently torn aside with what looked like a considerable
amount of vehemence. His latest delivery from Adult Home Video? Another
laugh-which-was-not-a-laugh threatened.

More out of a vague sense of curiosity than actual interest, Scully opened
the box and began removing its contents. No videos or skin magazines, but
rather a number of manila folders dusty and green with age. No labels or
indication of their contents, save years written unto their tabs: 1974,
1979, 1980. No order or sequence involved. More 'evidence' of aliens, no
doubt. Still, Scully flipped open the top folder, by far the thickest,
dated 1984. A mass of legal pad and writing paper, held together by an
over-stretched rubber band and all looking quite ragged.

A small hand-written note was paper clipped to the top sheet caught her
attention. It read "Intercepted Correspondence: Oxford/MA 1983-1984".

 The page itself was a letter, written she could see very clearly in
Mulder's handwriting, though neater than his later work. He'd taken obvious
care to every stroke of his pen to paper, as though terrified of the
smallest misspelling or blemish. 

The date was clear in the upper right corner. September 21, 1983. Two days
after he'd flown to Oxford. The salutation was covered by the clipped-on
note, which she moved aside with her thumb. 

Two simple words, written with the utmost care and precision: 

"Dear Dana,"

And the whole damn world fell out from under her feet.


Somehow, Scully had managed to maneuver herself out of the bedroom and
back into the living room, settling herself unto the sofa. The chalk
outline beside her no longer existed. The leather cushions she sat on, the
dusty air she breathed, the distant noise of evening traffic beyond the
walls outside...none of these things were real to her. The clothes she
wore, the blood in her veins, even the cancer eating at her lost all
reality or importance to her. 

Her universe, all that existed, were two words:

"Dear Dana"

The sun had set outside, casting long shadows through the blinded windows.
The universe slowly expanded to include her physical surroundings, as well
as the pain her eyes suffered for staring too long without her glasses.

This headache was a very small thing compared to the tripled-hammer
pounding of her heart. Itself little against the roar in her ears and mind
which washed away all thought, and threatened to cast her into a pit deeper
than any philosopher might have envisioned. 

Dana Scully almost welcomed the abyss. A place where she'd never know the
pain of betrayal... or be constantly tortured by love. 

Almost.

But rather than sink into that blessed release, Scully tore away the
rubber band and let her eyes skim the page. The dusk had already settled
outside, and so reading light was minimal. 

It might as well have been high noon on a cloudless day, the words
standing out as though themselves glowing with all fierce emotion behind
them. Which, given her state of mind just then, they very well might have.
Oh, she might not have been able to read word one clearly, but no matter. 

They were his words. Fox's words. Fox's words to her. Fox to Dana.  Not
Mulder to Scully.

With greatest care, not to so much as crease the already-tired paper,
Scully bent down the page so to examine the one immediately behind it. It
suddenly became quite hard to breathe, as much because the air lacked any
oxygen as because her windpipe was crushed to the diameter of a cocktail
straw.

The date was likewise in the upper right corner: 9/19/83

The salutation was almost illegible in a stylish cursive perhaps she alone
could read, given Scully herself had written it:

"Dearest Fox,"

It was fortunate the world had already come crashing down around her ears.
Seeing her own handwriting like this...

Even so, it was quite enough to wipe the outside world from existence for
another span.

She didn't faint. Fainting was not something Dana Katherine Scully did,
period. No, she didn't faint. She simply...simply blacked out for awhile.
With her eyes open. Open and staring straight ahead. 

Seeing nothing. 

The night was well along before Scully came to, and immediately became
more than mildly annoyed with herself. Not so much for the episode itself.
That much she could simply write off as plain shock coupled with too much
stress and fatigue.

No, what angered her was that she'd ended up gripping the letters so
tightly they were now a bit creased on one side. If someone had taken a
match to the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence right then,
Scully doubted she'd have been even a tenth as upset.

This anger gave her strength enough to face the next page, dated September
22, 1983. It was from Mulder, again in uncharacteristically neat
handwriting. The salutation nearly undid her a third time: "My Only Love."
Had it come from another, Scully would surely have thought it absurdly
sappy, even amusing.

From Fox, it was nothing short of crushing.

Rather than dwell on it, Scully quickly looked up and away from the words.
Her training took over; all her emotions in a stew threatening to boil
over, and so her mind had to switch to auto pilot or she was likely to
crash and burn and burn and burn until there was nothing left. 

Scully examined the bundle in her hands. It was a very thick pile of
letters, easily spanning the two years the folder had indicated. Two years
of words she and Fox and exchanged but neither heard. Two years of feelings
and secret confidences offered...and never received. 

It hurt to think about that. And in unconscious desperation Scully's mind
threw up a dozen possibilities that these letters were not from Fox. That
she had not misjudged him, hating him for all the wrong reasons and
believing only lies she alone had concocted to explain his inexplicable
silence away. That their enemies could forge his handwriting, intercept his
letters to her, hers to him and switch them...

She felt something slip from her grasp at the bottom of the batch, but
strangely had only been felt in her left hand. It landed in her lap, its
gentle impact a welcome distraction from the mental turmoil even the secure
blanket of logic and reason gave her no sanctuary from.

The room had become dark, the shadows too diffuse to see anything clearly.
More by instinct than by intent, her fingers found the object. An envelope,
an oddly heavy one. The letters in one hand, the envelope in another,
Scully quickly made her way to the apartment's bathroom, wincing as she
turned on the lights there. Obviously she'd been in the dark too long, and
in more ways than one. That, or the tumor was making her photosensitive. 

The envelope was addressed to her, at the address her family lived at
while Ahab had been stationed at in San Diego. The canceled postmark was
faded but clear enough: February 23, 1985, care of Oxford, United Kingdom.

Setting the pile of letters as far as she could from the faucet, Scully
tore open the envelope with greatest care, not willing to risk damaging
whatever might be sealed within. A single, precisely folded sheet came to
hand. Dana Scully was a strong woman, but now had not the strength to do
move than sink to her haunches and stare at the paper in her hand, and wish
with all her might the cancer festering within her would consume her whole
then and there.

Eventually, strength and courage enough returned to her numb fingers that
they could open the letter and reveal their words, though it was longer
still before she could do more than simply stare at them with blind eyes.
Scully took a moment to resign herself to the inevitable, and began reading
his words. Words which would tell her of meeting Phoebe, of how she'd
driven thoughts of all others from his mind, and of how he wished her well
with whoever she herself found.

That first time she had met that wench, he had explained to her who she
was.  No doubt assuming that her lack of a response meant one of two
things:  she had not received his letter or she had received it but had not
bothered reading it.  A vision had probably entered his mind of her in her
room, and Mulder knew intimately what her room looked like.  She receiving
it, reading his name, and uncaringly tossing it into a wastebasket.

The words were in the familiar Mulder-scrawl. There were stains of light
amber on the page, but the words themselves were perfectly clear to her
practiced eye. 

When she was done reading, all the blessed numbness was gone, all the
shock melted away, and all her precious, vital control had collapsed. 


Dana -

For the first time in years, I pray to God. I pray that this finds you. I
pray that somehow, someway, you find it in your heart to forgive whatever
happened...what HAS happened. What I have done.

I betrayed you. No, worse: I betrayed US.

These past few months I've been with someone, her name doesn't
matter...she doesn't matter...or maybe she's the most important thing ever
to have happened to me...us... Christ, I don't even know what I'm thinking
any more.

I have been with her for awhile now. And know what, I fucking hated it.
Every time I fucking came I hated it...because she wasn't YOU. 

What's worse, I liked it. 

Not HER, never fucking HER. I liked...being with her...because then I
could imagine being with you...only you...imagining it was under me was the
only way I could come. I HAD to imagine it was you or nothing would happen.
And here's the joke: she doesn't look a damn thing like you.

So why is she the most important thing ever to happen to me? Because,
Dana, she's shown me I can't be with anybody else, ever...except you.
You're all I have, and all I'll ever want. 

I don't know why you've stopped writing, and I don't care. I don't care if
you've found somebody else. If he makes you happy, I'm happy you're happy
and I'll be happy for both of you. All I care about is you...

I won't betray us again. Never again.

I skipped my lectures today and went shopping. I found the enclosed is
some shop somewhere here, I...don't really remember...but that's because
I'm so drunk right now I probably won't remember writing this or mailing it
in the morning. Just as well, as I'm so goddamn chickenshit I'd destroy the
letter and give...it...to HER tomorrow. Drinking myself stupid is the only
way I can write this.

She doused your pillow in her perfume. Did I write that already? 

Like I said, I don't care if there's someone else. And that's why I bought
what's enclosed. I don't care if you ever wear it, or toss it in the
fucking ocean. Just so you know...just so its on the record. 

God please get this. Please please please let this get to you.

Yours, only yours, always 

Fox 



XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


A camel's strong back can be broken with but a single strand of straw. And
Harry Truman might have felt an entire bale of hay had dropped upon his
shoulders taking over the Oval Office. 

For Dana Katherine Scully, all the moments of every second of the past
fourteen years built up in her stomach. Uncomfortable to say the least, but
hardly producing enough nausea to drive her to empty her stomach with the
force with which she heaved and gagged over the next several minutes. No,
the letter itself, even the obvious agony with which afflicted its author
(testified to as much by rambling content as the almost scrawling
handwriting she found too familiar), was far from enough for that.

It was his references to 'the enclosed' which caught her attention. The
weight of the envelope, too heavy for just the one page to account
for...the envelope was still heavy in her hand. 

Scully tipped out its contents into her palm, at once dreading and fully
prepared for what she knew she'd find. 

A small ring, its band of thin gold, crowned with a tiny diamond. 

Though both band and diamond were dull with years of neglect, the message
was communicated as clearly as though he'd just screamed it into her there
and then. And scream he would have had to, were she to hear anything beyond
the jackhammering of her heart which pounded her every thought and all else
into dust. 

Even with the ragged gasps for air, the cries which interspersed with her
gasps for precious oxygen, the raw agony of living every second which took
him further and further from her...not one second did either eye wander
from the ring nestled in her palm. Even when she could no longer see it for
the tears, the ring became all she could see. 

Only when everything in her stomach was prepared to reach upwards through
her throat did she have presence of mind to lunge for the nearby toilet.
Scully gripped the ring all the tighter, the pain of its bite into her palm
a thousand times more reassuring for its continued presence.

And she fell to the floor, curled in a fetal position, in a futile attempt
to flog the pain away from her. 

The mind of Dana Katherine Scully can be an awesome thing to behold in
action. Dozens of possibilities could be conceived and as quickly discarded
with scientific rigor, facts and observations might be reinterpreted and
connections made with logical clarity their accuracy would be without
doubt. In her own way, within her own framework of belief and reference,
Scully's capacity to reach answers was really no different from Mulder's
particular manner. 

But at that moment, it was not forensics evidence or some manner of
reality-defying phenomenon Scully ruminated over, all emotion at least four
rooms distant and all thought consumed. 

It was five years of looks, touches, words and arguments. It was over
seventeen years worth of beliefs and thoughts and hopes and fears and
expectations. It was close to two decades worth of every memory her mind
could summon.

All of it suddenly suspect. 

"You seemed a little territorial.  I don't know--forget it."
 "Of course I was."

"I still have my work. . .and I still have you."

Finding it so easy to pull the trigger on himself, but using every ounce
of restraint and mental prowess to tell her to run.  Run to safety.

How he'd gone against Deep Throat, or any of his other informers when she
told him he was chasing after shadows.

The way he hugged her after Donnie Pfaster.  At first with reluctance,
then with fierce protectiveness.

The turn of his gun when she told him to let it go after the quack doctor
drilled a hole into his head, reducing him to a guilt-stricken, sobbing
mess with his head and hands on the floor.

The way his face froze when she told him why she had been infected with
cancer.

Every meeting of their eyes and brushing of hands now having new meaning. 

Every word and clash of opinion suddenly taking on new significance. 

Each and every dream and fantasy which had fluttered through her head
since that day at summer's end in 1983 becoming more...so much more.

This was not a completely good thing, as it left her suddenly with nothing
but suspect memories and feelings which she'd left festering too long. Such
was not good material upon which to build the foundations of a career,
never mind a life. 

It was still incredibly hard to believe just how far the conspiracy had
gone.  That a bunch of  old men in shadowy rooms found it so much easier to
kill with the silence of deception, rather than the noise of lies.  

Peddlers of souls.

She somehow found herself back in the bedroom, the letters in one hand,
the ring still clutched in the other. The first light of morning shown
through the window and its thin curtains. The long shadows it cast
illuminated room. Scully might have prayed with fevered desperation that
they could likewise light as clear a path through the maze of disjointed
thoughts and emotions which her whole being swayed through.

To this point, Scully had clung to the desperate belief that Mulder (Fox!)
could not have taken his own life. That if he'd still felt even the
smallest fraction of the feelings in that last letter, not even his
all-consuming guilt and self-loathing would drive him away like this. That
he'd simply ditched her once more, not abandoned her to her fate, whether
death at the end of some felon's weapon, or to be slowly consumed by the
cancer. Even the supposedly sure knowledge that she had been deliberately
poisoned with this disease, simply to further support already-established
lies, would not have been enough to drive him away.

The open flaps of the box, sitting illuminated by the first shafts of
morning's light, supplied her the final piece of the puzzle. Written there
in black felt-tip was a very clear "Vineyard House 1986". Why Mulder had
returned to his father's house in West Tillsbury was beyond her just then,
as well as why he'd chosen to return with this particular box. 

Had he known about the letters before going to the Yukon? If he'd known,
what would his reaction have been? To know that his motives, his career,
his every decision to date was built upon...lies? 

To come to realize they were both so...irrelevant...that the last letter
he would ever write to her was not even significant enough to be opened
like the rest?

To come to believe that he, Fox William Mulder, was directly responsible
for the death of the only...the only...woman he would ever love?

Scully knew that if she let herself believe even a tenth of this...the
Alexandria police would find a second suicide in this apartment in the
morning.

So, she refused to believe it, this great and elaborate lie. Any of it. 

All of it. 

There were little gray men abducting men and women and breeding hybrids
off them. 

Aliens did build the pyramids of Giza, wrote the Ten Commandments, and did
sculptures of themselves on Easter Island. 

The Bavarian Illuminati changed everything from the stock market to the
length of women's skirts on a annual basis. 

Masons conducted secret rituals every night around the world to call up
dark forces and seize control of the world... 

The Cubans were still fermenting revolution across the Caribbean... 

Nikoli Tesla invented a reverse gravity engine in 1912...

The fucking moon was made of green cheese...

All of it was true. It had to be.


This was the mantra that looped over and over in her mind. For her to
believe anything else at that point would have proved lethal. Logic and
scientific certainty were useless to her now, telling her only of her
coming death and the impossibility of love. The first she already knew, the
second she rejected as casually as she might the claim that the Earth was
flat or that the clear afternoon sky was lime green. 

So, rather than ruminate over the obvious shortcomings of her holy and
all-knowing science, Dana Scully let her mind wander hither and yon for
some time. It was a strange, new experience for her, and not an
unpleasurable one. One she knew Mulder (Fox!) no doubt experienced on an
almost daily basis in their work, for how else could he draw out such
brilliance from the ether, and find the answer before the question itself
was ever asked?

It was perhaps as close to making love with him, to him, she would ever
taste. 

Unless of course, he was alive.  

And he was.

Scully looked out his bedroom window.  It had started to rain. 




He woke up engulfed in darkness.  For a second, he had forgotten all that
had happened, but in a torrent of memory, everything came back.  Everything
that mattered.

Scully.

Dana.

My soul will find yours.



The room was cold and dark.  She was depleted of strength, even her
breathing was an effort.  Yet another round of treatment over and done
with.  Yet another obligatory fight with an enemy that could beat her no
matter how hard she raged against.

Rage.

Rage against the dying of the light.



"Fox!  Stop squirming!"
"Why?  Does THIS tickle you to the bone?"
Laughter.  Her laugh was magical.


"You sure have soft hair for a boy."
"I still use baby shampoo."
"Bet the guys on the track team don't know that."
He grinned.  She loved it when he did.


It was too much of an effort to sit up.  Slowly, he tried feeling which
muscles had started functioning again.  His feet were out of the question,
but he could tell they were in shoes and socks.  He could also make out the
rasp of jeans against his legs.  Curling his fingers, it gave him hope that
the rest would soon follow.  His left hand had almost gained complete
feeling again, but his right was suffering from a bad case of pins and
needles.  He laid back and decided that what he needed was time.

But how much of it would he still have?  He closed his eyes and thought
about her.



They were at school again.  Some ten years ago.  It sounded like ancient
history, but the memories were clear and undiluted.

He was standing beside her locker as she violently wrestled with the lock
and refused his help.  Finally, it opened with a tiny click.  She looked at
him triumphantly.  He grinned at her and ruffled her hair.  She swatted his
hand away.  And smiled at him.  He put his arm around her shoulders and
walked her to her class.  She punched his ribs and asked him what he was
grinning about.



The smell of the antiseptic was not unfamiliar.  Her mother sat in an
uncomfortable looking chair, asleep with a rosary in her hands.

Tired.  She was so damn tired.

She missed him.  So, so much.

To escape, her eyes closed so that she could dream.  And remember.



Baking.  He was such a lousy cook.  It was the only typically male
attribute that he had, aside from the lack of order with his things.  Her
mother and siblings were laughing hysterically at the picture he made,
covered from head to shin in dough.  Egg white was dribbling down the front
of his shirt, and where the yolk might be was anyone's guess.

He looked adorably helpless, and he looked at her ashamed for making a
fool of himself.  She had walked over to him and hugged him, absorbing a
third of everything that had stuck to him, then whispered into his ear,
"You're a lousy cook but I'd bet any girl would still want to have you."

She was embraced fiercely, and right before her brother pulled them apart,
he whispered back, "Would you?"



I miss you, Mulder.

I miss you, Fox.



I miss you, Scully.

I miss you, Dana.

He was strong enough to sit up.  Sunlight peeked from the closed drapes.
His muscles groaned in protest, and so did he.

"He's awake!  Guys!  He's awake!"

Footsteps scrambled towards him.  He was still woozy, and had a hard time
focusing on the faces.  A glimpse of a beard here, a messy lock of dirty
blond there.  The smell of alcohol somewhere.

Pats on his back.  Hands grasping his arm, helping him to sit up.

He was back.



"Are you sure you're feeling well enough, honey?  It wouldn't hurt to stay
an extra day to recover some of your strength."

"I'm fine, mom.  There's no more nausea."



She came home and opened her computer, just like she did every day.  The
ritual kept her sane, because there was hope that one day she would get
what she was waiting for.  A sign, a signal.  That everything was going to
be alright.

E-mail from Frohike.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
FROM: bigstud@hot4U.com
TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: Hi there!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
Hi, pretty lady.  A mutual friend of ours asked me to give you a message.

Message is as follows:

	Promise kept once again.

							Whips and chains,
							    Fabulous F

PS  Have no worries.  The anonymity of this letter is just to make me more
mysterious.  No one can hack into this e-mail.  Or whatever you'll send
out.  
Your 3 Musketeers have made sure of that.  Both our systems are more 
secure than the MJ documents in the Pentagon.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

She sat back and smiled, unaware her fingers were already caressing the
charms hanging from the bracelet on her wrist.

The following morning, she woke up bright and early and went shopping.
Memories of a night so long ago pushing her on.  The first time she had
seen him as a victim, his eye and lip bruised badly.  The night he had
slipped the bracelet on her wrist and smiled sadly.  The night he wrote her
a letter asking her to read the inscriptions.

He had kept his promise.  She needed to let him know she understood and
would be waiting.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
TO: bigstud@hot4U.com
FROM: D_Scully@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: RE: Hi there!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------


Thanks, wonder lust.  I need a favor.  Think you're up to it?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------



---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: bigstud@hot4U.com
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Hi there!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

Hell, YEAH!!!!!!!!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------



Title: REPOSTFriends Even in Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited 3/6
Author: Penny Daza (majick@webquest.com)

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


Frohike grudgingly handed Mulder the box.  He was having dinner with Byers
and Langly when he walked in, reeking of cologne.  Langly almost choked on
his pizza when he walked in from the stench.

"My god, man!  Why do you reek?!" asked Byers.

"Thought the red-headed angel finally came to her senses.  Turns out she
wanted me to play Mr. Postman for Mulder here."

Mulder grinned and took the package.  "That could've sounded kinky enough
for your taste, Frohike."

"Shut up."

He stood and walked to a quiet corner and opened it.  Inside was an ID
bracelet made from white gold.  An inscription on the plate.

<Soul mates reunited.

His hand closed around it tightly as he fought back the tears of
exhilaration.

Then he slipped it on.




Something inside her tingled.  She was familiar with it, but had not
experienced it this strongly for a long time.  When they were younger, it
was the same feeling she got when she knew he was coming. 

In their adulthood, when the cynicism and arrogance of old age, and the
products of broken hearts affected them, it had diminished almost
completely.  Almost, but not quite.

He had the bracelet, and she knew he was wearing it.



"Ouch ouch ouch ouch!"

"Quit being a baby."

"It hurts.  Blow on it, for pete's sake."

"Blowing on it increases the chances of an infection, you know."

"Why, do you have cooties?"

"Shut up, Fox."



"I can't believe you did that!"

"He was a jerk.  Bill and I were looking out for you."

"Throwing the very first date of my life out the door is NOT looking out
for me!"

"It is when you're 14, and the guy you're going out with is MY age.  And
hell, Dana, sorry but that home-made tattoo of a woman with breasts the
size of a Marvel comic heroin on his arm didn't do anything to endear him
to Bill or myself."

"I HATE both of you!  No, no.  I take that back.  I hate both of you, but
I hate YOU more!!"

"Hate me all you want, but when it comes to you - "

"When it comes to me what?!"

"I - never mind."



He spent the long and boring hours looking at and caressing the bracelet
lovingly.  Sometimes, boredom would not have to progress before he found
himself staring at it again. 

It happened many, many times a day.  Sitting in front of the television.
A meeting with the Lone Gunmen.  Dressing up.  In the shower. 

He never, ever took it off.



It would hit the small area of her laptop as she typed.  Or get in the way
of her cooking.  It snagged on a lot of her clothes.  But she kept the
bracelet on.  On the instances it would become an irritation, she would
merely smile at it, as though telling it to wait for better things to come.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: bigstud@hot4U.com
SUBJECT: miserable
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

Red-headed angel,

Our friend would like to give you a message:

Never allow yourself to be subjected to second-hand smoke.  Great gifts come
to those who wait.

Your jilted and miserable lover boy,
Fabulous F
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------



---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
TO:bigstud@hot4U.com
FROM: D_Scully@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: RE: miserable
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
Fabulous F,

Please tell our friend - that goes without saying.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------


Scully sent the e-mail off and smiled.  She noticed she'd been smiling a
lot since she got back from the hospital.  It had become a luxury, smiling.
 And then she tried to remember the last time she had laughed out loud.
Really, really laughed out loud.

Not since she and Mulder had been on that first case in Oregon.  And even
that was an isolated incident.  Before that she had FBI anxiety, Quantico
anxiety, defying-your-parents anxiety, and first-love-never-dies anxiety.
But Scully never had post-adolescent anxiety, no.  She had Fox back then,
not Mulder.



"So the guy says - 'Ohhhh.  I thought you said TESTICLES."

She had burst out laughing.  He told jokes so well.

"That's gross, Fox."

"But you're laughing your head off anyway."



Mulder missed the couch at his apartment.  He could sleep in a bed like a
normal human being but not for weeks at a time.  Rolling over was
uncomfortable for him, and it irritated him when he did.  He liked knowing
what he was doing every micro-second of every day, and unconscious movement
deprived him of that security, menial as it was.

But like the trooper Mulder was, he discovered a position that made it
alright.  On his side, one hand tucked beneath his pillow, the other
clenched in his fist just a few inches away from his face.  He enjoyed that
position a lot, because he fell asleep looking at the bracelet on his wrist.



"Dana, wake up."

"Hm?"

"Wake up.  It's sunrise."

"Three more minutes, mom."

"Dana!  I'm not your mother.  Who, by the way, will kill me for keeping
her little girl out all night stargazing AGAIN for the third straight night
in a row."

"I like stargazing."

She snuggled into his arm even more and fell asleep again.  He hugged her
and gave her ten minutes more.





With bated breath, she waited for several days for a sign from anyone
about the cover-up.  Two weeks after the last report had been turned in,
filed and marked as 'closed', she relaxed and kept up the
partner-in-mourning facade.

She and Skinner maintained communication.  FBI related cases that needed
to be discussed were always conducted in his office.  Non-related FBI
matters were discussed much more covertly.

The Lone Gunmen had sent him a security program similar to Scully's
e-mail, virtually unhackable.  But Scully's had been worked on much more,
thanks to Frohike's undying love which he was not prepared to do for Skinner.

Grudgingly, he accepted his new e-mail address but not without giving
Scully a piece of his mind.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: TopGone@hairless4U.com
SUBJECT: All clear?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------


Case files on Mulder has been finalized.  The investigating committee has
put it to rest.  Confirmed suicide from the autopsy report, based on
fingerprints on the weapon, bullet entry
angle, circumstantial evidence, and blood-splatter pattern.


Now all we do is wait.

TO: TopGone@hairless4U.com
FROM: D_Scully@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: Sources
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

Our friend says second-hand smoke should no longer be tolerated.

No attempts at contact from the source anyway.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------

The room which had housed the X-Files division in the basement of the J.
Edgar Hoover Building had been turned into a make-shift, hi-tech
fax/copier/e-mailing room

Scully had received a memo informing her to take all of her belongings out
before the end of the month, and to kindly set aside Mulder's belonging to
be sent to his mother.  All other material found after that would become
official FBI property.

Taking Mulder's poster down had been the hardest part, but this she rolled
up and placed into her own box.  The meaningless knick-knacks, like pens,
folders, notepads and other office supplies she sent off to his mother.

Another big change which happened in just that one day were all the male
agents who suddenly thought of asking her out, which would have been
flattering really, to any other woman, except that one female agent asked
Scully out as well.

When she politely said no thanks, her suitors smiled understandingly, but
misinterpreted her reaction.  They thought Scully was still in a period of
mourning, and would of course feel obligated to remain celibate till an
appropriate time had passed. 

With her back turned, Scully would smile to herself and shake her head.
If they only knew.

All these changes left Scully exhausted, both physically and mentally.
Skinner had given her a choice between joining the VCS or moving back to
Quantico.  The offer was made in his office, merely as a formality, and
merely for the benefit of the listening walls.  Both of them knew weeks ago
she would choose Quantico.



When a man as brilliant and excitable as Fox Mulder gets confined to a
small space for a long time, things are bound to happen. 

He can spend hours staring into space and recalling events in his life
which flood him with happiness, or thinking and nitpicking his future so
that plans, when executed, are flawless.  But a brain like Fox Mulder's
gets tired too, after all, it is also only human, and it becomes stubborn
and refuses to do any thinking until he gives it a break.

Those breaks would be the death of the Lone Gunmen.

Board game after board game had been played just for Mulder's sake.  It
irritated all three of them to no end when they asked him why he was in the
mood to play Trivial Pursuit for geniuses and he answered, "My brain's
tired.  I need to give it a break," then win five out of five games.  Byers
barely made it to second place.

Next was the computer.  Mulder was no hacking genius like Langly, but
boredom took its toll once again.  He sat beside Langly looking over his
shoulder for a few minutes at a time, ask a question here and there and
stare again.

Langly answered him patronizingly, the way hacking geniuses do when a five
year old asks them similar questions.  He explained to Mulder the
fundamentals of hacking into a system, and what measures should be taken so
as not to be caught.

Today, Langly was trying to hack into the computers of the Centers for
Disease control and had started talking to his computer screen in
exasperation when Mulder sat down beside him again and asked him to give
him a shot.

Langly gallantly waved his arm and let Mulder at the keyboard.  "Be my
guest." 

Two minutes later, a large "ACCESS GRANTED" screen flashed repeatedly.
Mulder stood up without a word or gesture, off to find something else to
keep him preoccupied.

Frohike was an entirely different matter.  He and Mulder really got along,
especially during Mulder's intellectual malaise.  He enjoyed Mulder's tales
of the cases he and Scully had worked on, from her very own theories to
reactions of his. 

Mulder regaled him with Scully-kicks-ass stories too, and
Scully-gets-fed-up stories.  Frohike listened in absolute rapture.

"So you and Scully never=85never, uh=85" he asked.

Mulder grinned.  "Nope, never."

"Didn't you ever want to?"

"I'm a flesh and blood man, Frohike.  What do YOU think?"

"So why didn't you?"

Mulder thought that one over for a long time.  He wasn't quite prepared to
tell Frohike that he and Scully had known each other as kids and that she
had broken his heart.  Frohike knew all about Phoebe, thanks to a
tequila-with-the-buds session they once had.  But he needed to give Frohike
a good enough answer.

"I couldn't stand being rejected.  I don't think she finds me attractive."

Frohike stared at him with his mouth open.  He took in the 6'0 frame,
strong jaw, deep-set eyes, soft and brown tamed-to-perfection hair and
lanky physique.  Then he thought about HIS lack of hair, pot belly, overly
hairy torso and fish lips before standing up and walking out on Mulder.

Mulder grinned to himself.  Three for three.  Mulder, he thought. <You
sure can be a bitch when you're bored.

Title: REPOSTFriends Even in Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited 4/6
Author: Penny Daza (majick@webquest.com)

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


A thought suddenly occurred to him.  It came when he was dreaming of her
at 3:42 AM.  He bolted out of bed into a sitting position, his mind coming
awake so quickly it gave him an instant migraine.

His hands burrowing themselves into his hair, Mulder condemned himself for
his carelessness.

He had been so obsessed with their plans, thinking about it day in and day
out, second for second of  his existence he had completely forgotten about
everything else.

Three hours before she had been called to identify his body, she had
received directions on what to do.  It was a six page letter that detailed
what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen in the future.
 It was - THE PLAN.

But Mulder had forgotten about everything else. 

It wasn't the first time Mulder had forgotten something, although many who
knew Fox Mulder would say he was a man who never forgot.  Unfortunately for
Mulder, the two times he did have lapses in memory were the most vital in
his life.  This wasn't the first.  It was the second.

He had forgotten he had named her executor of his estate, which meant that
would make it her duty to go through his belongings.

Had she found them?  Did she already know?  If she did, what was she
thinking?  Did she find them before or after giving him the bracelet?

He almost drove himself crazy with all the questions.  Well, maybe he did,
but only for a couple of hours.

The memories came back.  And with his blasted eidetic mind, they were as
clear as they could ever be, perhaps even clearer.

Mulder cursed it, and cursed his mind.  The last few months, although
deprived of Scully, were one of the happiest periods of his life.  Because
as the old cliche goes, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder".  But this
absence of her in his life came with the profound anticipation that once
reunited, everything was going to be alright.  Better than alright.

He was in his father's home again.  It seemed as though he had taken a
quantum leap back in time.  Everything was still so clear.

Blood was soaking his shirt and hands, as his father passed away in his
arms, but not before motioning to him a thick pile of envelopes on the
dining table.

But Mulder had called Scully first - he was too sick to do anything else -
and the toxins in his system were too busy wreaking havoc with his internal
organs for any cognitive thinking to get through.  The envelopes he stuffed
into the trunk of his car without another thought, a small mental note was
taken to be retrieved at a future point when rationality would come back.

It was days later that he remembered them, what with Scully shooting him,
his venture into the land of the dead, and his return to the world of the
living only to be thrown into plot after plot and conspiracy after
conspiracy against him and Scully and the rest of the world.

Not much could be said as he opened them at his apartment.  He was
prepared for the shock after reading the first label.  "Intercepted
Correspondence: Oxford/MA 1983-1984".

And then he knew.

And he wept as the fury, betrayal, pain, sorrow and loss of a love that
never was became a litany in the form of hundreds of letters made from
paper and ink.




Everything was clicking into place, just as she and all privy had
anticipated. 

Gradually, the figures that followed her around disappeared one by one.
The clicks on her phone diminished until they disappeared completely.  The
vans and cars parked around her home finally found somewhere else to park.

Skinner had informed her he too was experiencing the same welcomed losses.

Now it was 'their' turn to keep their end of the bargain up.



The grossly expensive charcoal suit was wrinkled.  It had been
immaculately pressed as always just a few minutes ago, and for the first
time in its occupants life, he was scared shitless.

Scared enough to sob.  Scared enough to shake.  Scared enough to forget he
had watched presidents die.

He was surrounded by men who were once his allies, and as powerful as he.
But all that crumbled to ashes in the last twenty minutes.  Now, they were
his superiors.  Now, they owned him, everything in his life and everything
that he had become.  Including his soul.

What they were planning to do with it was nothing short of terrifying to
no one else but him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: 20:12:12 oxClII-^%^^Iiiaswe 2312-322-5%^** recip$ient suppr&essed
at source+=3D=3D
SUBJECT:

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------
Success is at hand.  Stand by.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------


"Almost two decades of vigilance.  Down the drain.  Because of your
delusions of authority and power."

"Fox William Mulder is dead.  Our fears that his mission would turn into a
crusade is now inevitable.  Thanks to you and your reckless impunity with
his life, and the life of Agent Scully."

"We were so close to having him.  He could have been ours."

"You were supposed to watch him.  His father, one of our own, asked that
much from you, in spite of your betrayal."

His heart started pounding in his ears, the roar of fear drowning out all
else in the room.  Calm, monotonous, controlled voices verging on whispers
sounded like shrieks from the very depths of hell to him.  All beckoning.
All taunting. 

A shadowy figure stepped forward from across the room.  And another from
behind him.  His arms were grasped, he was lead out, the deathly silence
from his former colleagues serving as his sentence.

In the hallway, his eyes welled up and the tears started pouring.  He
laughed bitterly, amazed his tear glands still knew how to cry.  But a
niggling voice inside gleefully reminded him that his end would surely
justify any tears he would shed.

His escorts, stone and steel-faced said nothing, until they led him into a
room and shut the door quietly behind him.

"Sir?"

He turned to face them, his cheeks soaked with tears.  "Yes?"

A small cigarette, pinched between two fingers was extended to him.  "One
last cigarette?"

He wasn't going to show fear to these men, who would never ever fathom the
power he once held.  With his hands shaking, and his voice cracking, he
managed to answer with some degree of dignity, "That isn't my brand." 

The escort smiled ruefully at him.  "Dead men can't be choosers."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: 20:12:12 oxClII-^%^^Iiiaswe 2312-322-5%^** recip$ient suppr&essed at
source+=3D=3D
SUBJECT:

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------
Your partner's benefactor has been dealt with for failure of protection of
his ward.  Stand by for your next bread crumb.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------

Back in the room, when the first anguished scream echoed through it, men
with no names or labels stood, preparing to leave.  Their coats were slid
over their shoulders by their assistants, as papers were gathered from the
table.

In the far corner, a figure veiled in darkness sat.  One by one, the men
in the room passed and gave their silent till-next-we-meet-again-nods.
Perfunctory, actually.  It would be years till all the confidences and
secrets would be shared with her. 

The last man to leave hesitated, then turned.  "Be careful."

She looked up at him and gave a small, reassuring smile. As he watched,
she sent a final message off and shut the laptop.  "I'm always careful,
father."




---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: 21:42:23 oxVljkIiiaswe 2312-322-5%^** recipient s$$-_uppre#ssed
at=3Dsource13 +=3D=3D
SUBJECT:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
Luna Nicole Patterson.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------




TO: bigstud@hot4U.com
FROM: D_Scully@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: name

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------
Luna Nicole Patterson.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------


And the ball rolled.



Toronto, Canada

Luna Patterson was finished washing her dishes.  All her daily chores
finally done.

She sank into her living room couch with relief, and ran her fingers
through her hair.

<Thicker than it ever was.

In spite of her exhaustion, she was happy.  Just three months before, with
only half her chores done, would already leave her more exhausted than she
already was now.

Her hands caressed the sofa's armrests distractedly, as she gave a silent
prayer of thanks to God for her recovery, her happiness, and the
comfortable life she was leading.

A loud knock on the door interrupted Luna's devotions.

"Ms. Patterson?  Hello.  This is Richard Langly, Lawrence Frohike and I'm
John Byers."



Mulder became a borderline schizophrenic after his realization that Scully
might have found and read all the letters.

Mulder the control freak had lost all control.  Guilt-stricken for having
put her through the denial of their past - the magic of a first love that
transcended most romances throughout time - and had blamed her for his
inability to love and cherish, had driven him to a two day alcohol binge.

Unsure of how to face her, he had kept everything inside and let his
silent suffering be his penance, till perhaps one day he could find a way
to purge himself and find absolution.

The knowledge that it was HIS father's doing that had tragically affected
both their lives almost made Mulder hate his dead father again, and for the
first time in years, he had honestly felt like he was a rebellious,
confused teen once again.

Between his fear of how it would affect her and himself, he had to oversee
the execution of one of the last stages in THE PLAN.

When Penny had died, Mulder and Scully had been led to believe she had
been the last link to finding an answer for her cancer.  What had been kept
from them care of the consortium, was a single name of the true remaining
survivor.

Frohike had received a name in his e-mail from her, which had started the
proverbial ball to roll long and hard.  Langly had accessed several hundred
government and private data bases to learn more about Luna Nicole
Patterson, who, it turns out, was a former MUFON member.

There was an inordinate lack in records about her, and it had been Byers
who had recognized why.  He recalled seeing similar cases similar to hers
for individuals under the country's witness protection program.

Ironically enough, all the information had been stored in FBI databases.
Luna Nicole Patterson, formerly Janet Parker, had been witness to a mob
rub-out shortly after her membership with MUFON.  Her name had been under
Mulder and Scully's noses the whole time.

But the power and tenacity of the consortium had already sunk their teeth
into her way before then.  What Ms. Patterson/Parker had not known and
still didn't, was that the entire murder she had witnessed was staged
entirely for her benefit.

It was an excuse, albeit a very large and convoluted one, to pull her out
of the public's eye and plunk her into an entirely different situation
where she could be closely monitored and used as a guinea pig.

Perhaps, if Ms. Patterson/Parker, had not been so blinded by what the
'FBI' had to offer her - a brand new, upper-middle class home, a higher
paying job and of course, completely free, 'state-of-the-art' medical
treatment for her newly-discovered cancer, she might have been just a tad
more suspicious.  In her delight at a chance for a new life and a cure from
her disease, she had not even questioned the lack of press coverage, or the
inordinate speed of the judicial system.

When The Lone Gunmen had showed up on her doorstep, she had rushed into
her kitchen and retrieved a butcher's knife and her broom, ready to defend
herself.  The three diverse strangers, she assumed, might have been the
'mob' who had found her somehow, but her fears were quickly allayed when
Frohike used Langly as s human shield for two seconds before running as
fast as his feet could take him away from her.

Langly and Byers had stood rooted to the spot, their hands held up as
their mouths opened and their jaws started spilling out the reason for
their visit.  Luna decided then that no mob hitmen could be as chicken as
that.

She had let them into her house, the knife momentarily put away, but the
broom handle still clenched firmly into her palm.  Frohike had poked his
head out, watching his comrades disappear into the house, before meekly
following inside as Luna gave him a 'you-chicken' look.

Luna, The Lone Gunmen noted, was a very pretty woman in her mid-30's.  She
stood only 5'2 in height, and weighed 100, maybe 105 pounds.  Her extremely
short-cropped hair, obviously recovering from some sort of chemotherapy,
solidified their stance they had found the right woman.  She had a gleam in
her eye that sparkled in tranquillity, in spite of all that she must have
suffered.

It had been difficult for Byers, reluctant representative to be spokesman,
to open up the reason they had come visiting.  But after an elbow into his
rib cage from Langly, and a swift kick to his ankle from Frohike, he
managed to talk.

He pulled uncomfortably at his collar.  "Ms. Patterson=85 you're wondering
of course why we're here -"

And Luna had startled them all by interrupting, "Quit it.  You Mulder?"



Title: REPOSTFriends Even in Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited 5/6
Author: Penny Daza (majick@webquest.com)

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx



One by one, she read every letter.  In her sofa, by a small light, with
music playing somewhere in the background she carefully opened the
envelopes lovingly, and let her eyes wander over the paper line by line.

The Mulder scribble she had come to know from her working relationship was
nowhere in sight. Instead, every little loop, every little line and every
cross on a T and every dot on an I was carefully written.

The words were never familiar, she and Mul- Fox=85had not reached that point
in their relationship where undying and eternal love had been discussed.
His words conveyed emotions that only Scully and Dana could ever understand
he was capable of feeling.  The sorrow and loneliness he was feeling while
he was at Oxford made her feel guilty she had not been there for him, in
spite of her efforts which she could not have known had been futile, to say
in the least.

The lengths which they had taken to get him.  It was nothing short of
amazing, and in the five years she and Mulder had worked together she had
seen some pretty amazing stuff.

Scully often thought of Mulder as a victim, but of his own choosing.  His
paranoia, his lack of commitment to anyone, his inability to trust people
and cultivate friendships - damn it all to hell if he wasn't right after all.

Dear Dana,

Months have passed, and yet I can't bring myself to forget you.  God, if
you only knew how much I've tried.

Why, Dana?  Why? 

Fox


Dear Dana,

At night, the dreams take control of me and I find myself in darkness.  I
get to relive Samantha's abduction, and I get to relive the pain of losing
you. 

I write these letters like a fool, insisting to myself that you get them
and smile when you read them but something else inside tells me that they
all end up somewhere in your room where to rest of the garbage goes.

Nothing can be more fatal to me than your silence, and silence is all that
I have from you.  Yet I continue to live, Dana.  Hoping that one day, the
silence will be broken and I can learn to live again.

Fox.


Dear Fox,

Why haven't you written?  Did I do something so wrong that you've banished
me from your thoughts forever?  You could have at least said something,
anything, to sever the last threads of hope I kept so I could move forward.

Is it another girl?  Someone you met at school?  I would understand, you
know.  How can I compete with all those college girls who are prettier than
me, smarter than me and can interest you more than me?

I just wish you would come out and say it, instead of totally ignoring me.


Dear Fox,

I've resigned myself to the idea that what you felt for me was nothing
more than youthful fancy.  Painful as it was, I've gotten over it and have
now moved on.  I don't think about you as often anymore and although once
upon a time, I wished you the same pain I was going through, now all I have
are hopes that you are happy.

I've matured, Fox, and I guess it's all thanks to you.  My mom is very
proud of me, and so am I.  Very, very proud.

Dana




She fell asleep just as she finished the last letter.  A lot of them she
couldn't even remember having written, but the convictions and notions were
definitely hers. 

Every letter of Fox to her made her cry.  She could almost hear him in her
head as he must have written them.  The low voice, trying desperately to
keep his emotions veiled but not really succeeding.

Dana could feel his pain.



As Mulder sat before Luna Patterson, a feeling of overwhelming
satisfaction and hope soared higher and higher inside.  His heart began
thumping more loudly, and he was almost sure she and The Lone Gunmen could
hear it.

The adrenaline in his system was coursing throughout his veins, and his
hands started shaking in excitement.

Luna explained that a woman had come to her home maybe two months ago,
with a thick envelope which had everything from newspaper clippings to top
secret government files, to dossiers about her and her situation.

This woman - blonde, very pretty with an indescribable accent, she said -
proceeded to tell her about her unique condition.  The staged murder she
had witnessed, the witness protection program's many benefits, and most
importantly, her cancer treatment.  She also told Luna that the men who had
fabricated this lie were capable of having her 'taken care of', mob-style
for believability should she be deemed no longer an importance to them.

After a healthy screaming frenzy, she had managed to calm down and hear
the rest of the story.  How, in a few months, a man named Fox William
Mulder from the FBI would come knocking at her door and ask her how she had
survived and beaten the tumor that had grown inside her body. 

The woman went on to explain that Fox Mulder was a man who needed answers,
because his partner of five years, Dana Scully, was suffering from what
Luna had successfully subjugated. 

She explained to Luna how important Dana Scully was to Fox Mulder, and she
explained it so well that Luna, at first reluctant to be any more part of
the lie she had lived than she already was, finally agreed.

Luna never did get her name.  When she asked the woman, she had only
smiled and answered that her name was irrelevant.  What was important at
that moment was for Luna to give Agent Mulder all the information he would
need to save his partner.

She stood up and disappeared into her bedroom for a few moments, then came
out with a portfolio-sized leather satchel, and gave it to Mulder.  "The
woman said for you to let your partner read through this.  She'll know what
to do."

Reaching out, Mulder smiled at her gratefully. "Thank you so much, Ms.
Patterson.  You'll never realize just how indebted I am to you."

Mulder turned, allowing Frohike, Byers and Langly to proceed him out the
door, when Luna suddenly asked him, "Does she know?"

Mulder turned.  "Excuse me?"

Luna stepped forward and gazed at him.  "Does she know.  How much you love
her."

A soulful sigh escaped his lips, his head shaking confusedly, unable to
find the words he wanted to say.

"Mr. Mulder=85 I'm no psychic, but a blind man could see the love in your
eyes.  And you know,"  she sighed.  "If that woman was anywhere near
ballpark range about how much you care about your partner=85chances are, Dana
already knows.  But it would be good for her if you told her."






At 5 AM, Dana woke up to an insistent knocking on her door.  A little boy,
about nine years old with dark brown hair smiled at her apologetically for
having obviously woken her up.  "A scruffy man paid me five dollars to give
this to you, ma'am."

He bodily picked up the thick leather portfolio in his bright read wagon
and deposited it into her arms.  "He also said to tell you to read it
through real well."

Scully had ruffled his hair and thanked him, taking the package to her
dining table and spilled the contents out.

Medical forms.  Extremely detailed and well-documented medical forms of
Luna Nicole Patterson. 

The extraction of a chip from the dermal layer of her skin.  Initial
diagnoses of cancer exactly three months after said extraction.  X-rays of
the tumor's growth.  A log of the cancer's progress, including day to day
blood-work analyses, and finally, the insertion of a chip at the bottom of
the nape on month 6.

A mere three hours after primary insertion, another x-ray was taken along
with some blood-work.  Medical findings showed an immediate cessation of
unhealthy cells' growth.  A few hours after, unhealthy cells became normal.
 And then healthier than normal. 

They became something incredible. 

They became anti-cancer cells, viciously attacking what they once were and
effectively turning them into what they had become.  According to the
records, Luna Nicole Patterson was cured completely within 8 days of
insertion  of  the second chip.  Total, absolute and undeniable absence of
cancer cells throughout the entire anatomy.

On the 10th day, the chip was extracted, but regular check-ups continued
displaying the presence of the soldier cells, although retroactive.

Scully stared incredulously at what the journals were telling her,
thinking this had to be the cruelest hoax of all.

But there they were.  The colorful DNA sequences speaking volumes, as were
the chemists' and doctors' findings.  The medical doctor in her refused to
believe, but Dana wanted to very badly. 

If only there was some way to test it first.



"What's taking her so long?!" Mulder screamed.

His pacing and violent outbursts were causing some degree of fear among
the Lone Gunmen.  He had at first started pacing.  That they could handle.

Then he started perspiring.  They could handle that, too.

But then Mulder had started swinging his arms and hitting walls and doors.
 So The Lone Gunmen started getting worried.

None of them were willing to voice any theories as to what was taking
Scully so long to read through the reports.  Perhaps she had read through
them and found them totally unacceptable.  Perhaps they had never even
reached her.  For all Frohike knew, the kid he had paid five bucks was
lying in a gutter somewhere, his red wagon a shambles, cursing him to hell
and back.

An electronic voice interrupted them.  "You have mail."

All four men pounced on the computer console.

TO: bigstud@hot4U.com
FROM: D_Scully@fbi.gov
SUBJECT: thumbs up
----------------------------------------------------------------- 

Reports have been received.  I've read through them.  On paper, it's
plausible.  But in reality - it's an altogether different matter.  The
miracle chip they're talking about is not here, nor does it give an idea or
even an inkling of where it is.

Is he there? 

Tell him I want to believe.

----------------------------------------------------------------

"The chip?  What chip?" asked Langly.

Frohike stood up and faced him.  "The chip!  Haven't you been paying
attention?"

"Paying attention?!  Byers!  Do YOU know anything about this wonder-chip?"

Byers slowly shook his head.

"See!  Unlike YOU, Byers and I didn't snoop the reports before handing it
over to Scully, so don't -"

"GUYS!  Shut up!  Step aside, big stud.  I need to get to the keyboard."

"But Mulder, what about the chip?!"

Mulder reached into his leather jacket. "You mean this chip?"

----------------------------------------------------------------

TO: D_Scully@fbi.gov
FROM: bigstud@hot4U.com
SUBJECT: RE: thumbs up

----------------------------------------------------------------

Believe, Dana.



Fox.

----------------------------------------------------------------


Dana  sat back and smiled.



Although Mulder desperately wanted to see Scully again, he felt it was
still too dangerous for him to come out of hiding.  Although confirmation
of the Cigarette Man's death had long since been validated, there might
still be those who would rather see him dead for good, for real.  Despite
the assurances of their ally, Mulder was still understandably worried.

He put Byers in charge of escorting Scully to a private medical facility
in Canada, where one of Mulder's former associates who owed him a favor was
chief of surgery. 

Langly and Frohike were in charge of surveillance of Mulder's friend.
When he contacted no one as promised, they alerted Mulder and Scully, who
headed for Canada, paying cash for their plane tickets under an aliases.

Scully checked herself into the small hospital under the name Danielle
Langly, and Mulder checked into a motel under the name George H. Frohike.
Technically, they would only be approximately 15 miles apart, but the short
distance, considering their situation, might as well have been three
galaxies over and a few light years away to the left.




Scully oriented Mulder's friend, Dr. Peters and his 'best and most trusted
friend Dr. Hope' on her surgery.  Peters would implant the chip while Hope
would do the local anesthesia and assist.  The operation would be over in
less than an hour.

She had been in the hospital a total of 8 hours now, having had to wait
for most of the staff to leave before talking to the doctors.  The
corridors were empty, with only a few orderlies and one or two nurses
making their silent patrols like faceless phantoms in white and blue.

Langly, Byers and Frohike waited outside in the corridor, checking on her
every few minutes to ask her if she needed anything.  She smiled at them
reassuringly, unable to bring herself to ask what was really on her mind.

Frohike walked in and sat on the edge of her bed.  Taking her hand in his,
he smiled. "It'll work, Scully.  Mulder promised it would, and he always
keeps his promises."

Come to think of it, Scully thought, there was no real way of confirming
that.  Mulder had never made a promise to her, therefore there was nothing
for him to break or keep.  This certainly seemed like a landmark move for
both of them for a first time.


She was wheeled into the operating room about an hour after that, with
Langly and Frohike guarding the door.  The doctors had allowed them access
into the operating room if they wanted, but only Byers took them up on the
offer.  He wanted to make DAMN sure that it was THE chip they implanted.
The same chip which he and the rest of The Lone Gunmen kept their eyes on
for the last three days to make sure it hadn't been switched with something
else.

Scully didn't even need to be asleep during the surgery.  She watched as
Byers' eagle eyes observed every move of the doctors, and wished Mulder was
in there too.  To at least hold her hand and tell her this was going to
work.  She would be okay.  Better than okay. 


At a nameless and faceless motel, Mulder watched as a light rain began
pouring on the pavements, as a chill began seeping into his room.  The cold
went unheeded, his mind adrift on blissful memories of his treasured
childhood with Dana Scully. 

A small, small smile graced his handsome features.  A smile that said to
anyone who saw it he was blissfully aware only of the little world he had
created for himself, as Fox Mulder remembered.


"Fox?  How come you don't have a girlfriend?  Bill's courting Kathryn, and
even Charlie's been eyeing Gina."

He had been startled by her question.  It had come from nowhere, as they
busied themselves eating Twinkies and playing gin rummy.  It was rare that
Dana could shock him, and he wanted to have some fun. "Because you're not
old enough yet."

"What does my age have anything to do with you having a girlfriend?"

"It has everything to do with it.  You're going to be my girlfriend when
you're old enough."

"Blech!" she had said, as she stuck her tongue out at him.

Fox had mocked agony at her mocking.  Then he grabbed her arm, threw a
pillow across her belly and started tickling her.  "What's WRONG with my
being your boyfriend, huh?  Huh?"

She laughed hysterically, trying hard to push him off and failing.
"You're too skinny is what's wrong!!"




Drowsy from the sleeping pills Dr. Hope had given her, Dana settled
herself into her bed as she checked that Byers, Langly and Frohike were
still there guarding her door.  She promised herself to show her eternal
gratitude to the trio for what they were doing for her as soon as she was
able, then drifted to sleep, a silent mantra of hope replaying in her mind
over and over again for the chip to get to work and cure her off all this
misery.

Her dreams turned to memories.  Of a little girl with a best friend named
Fox Mulder, who was her confidante, her ally, her pillar of strength.


"What's wrong, Dana?"

"Billy said I looked like a hillbilly idiot with all my freckles."

"Billy?  Your brother Bill?"

"No!  Billy Connors!  Do, I Fox?  I hate them!  I hate them so much, you
know!!"

Fox hugged her, tucking her under his chin as his arms circled her
protectively.  "Billy Connors doesn't have that much going for him, ya know."

Sniff. "What do you mean?"

A chuckle.  "Your freckles will fade with time, but he'll have that
potbelly and grossly exaggerated overbite for the rest of his humanly
existence."

A small laugh, another sniff.  "You think so?"

Fox cupped her chin.  "I know so.  Freckles fade.  They're just pigment on
the skin, but a genetic potbelly and bad bone structure are for LIFE."

She felt better.  Fox knew it.  Hook, line and sinker.  "C'mon, princess.
Race ya to the lake!"



Title: REPOSTFriends Even in Childhood III: Soulmates Reunited 6/6
Author: Penny Daza (majick@webquest.com)

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


3 Months Later
Room 1231

"Well, Dana.  You were asking for a miracle.  Here it is."

A pile of medical records were handed to her, as thick as her wrist and
maybe a pound heavy.  Her heart beating frantically, she opened the first
one slowly, her eyes focusing on the charts before her.  At the bottom of
the last page:

Cancer appears to be in full regression.

All the remaining folders from X-rays, blood work, chemical analyses, DNA
testing and CAT scans lead to the same conclusion.  Dana inhaled deeply,
confused at what to do first.  Cry in happiness, jump out of bed and do a
dance of joy, or hug Dr. Hope and Peters.  

The tears won out as they started falling across her cheeks, and breathing
became difficult.  Hope and Peters smiled at each other, before giving her
a gentle squeeze on her shoulder.  "When's Mulder going to get the good
news?" asked Hope.

Dana smiled.  "I think he already knows."



The Lone Gunmen Headquarters 
Washington, D.C.

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESS!!!!!"

High fives, whoops, cheers and much hopping and jumping.  If a computer
monitor could think, it would be wondering why four grown men were acting
so hyperactively.  All it did was present a screen that read Danielle
Langly on the top, and "Cancer appears to be in full regression" at the
bottom.

Amidst the rejoicing, no one, not even Fox Mulder, noticed the tears that
poured down his cheeks.




1 Week Later
Vancouver, Canada

He looks like a little boy blissfully dreaming of puppies and playgrounds
right now as I write in my journal.  I haven't told him of the letters that
I found at his apartment, but something tells me that he already knows.

For now, I'm content not to talk about it.  For now, all I want to do is
bask in his strength.  Sitting up in bed writing in my diary as he sleeps
beside me makes me happier than I have ever been in my life.  Maybe even a
little happier than during those times in our childhood when we were still
innocents, without any of this behind us, following closely and biting at
our heels.  

I can feel his warmth, smell his unique scent, and be lulled into blissful
lethargy listening to his steady breaths.  I feel so safe, so protected,
even if no part of his body is even touching mine.

How possible is it that the cancer inside me has been defeated?  I refuse
to allow myself to celebrate until I have the irrefutable proof.  So very
like you, Dana.  Irrefutable proof.  Always looking for it.  Mulder isn't
one to look for irrefutable proof.  No, Mulder clings to the smallest of
breadcrumbs and lets his heart and mind lead the way.  

I'm so glad I followed.



The journal is set aside as Mulder stirs.  He smiles at her, and places an
arm around her.  "Hi, princess."

She smiles back at him, and slides down into the bed so they're face to
face.  "Good morning, Fox."

"Good morning, Dana."

The kiss was sweeter than any kiss that ever passed between two people, as
only a kiss from soulmates reunited could offer.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx
XxX
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THE END