DISCLAIMER:  Most of the characters in this story belong to
CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

This is chapter seven of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees
of Separation.  The events in this story precede the events
in 12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. 

Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations. 



12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#7:  "Redemption"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Dana Scully's Apartment
February 16, 1998
5:03 a.m.


Scully tiptoed into the living room, past the still, quiet
form of her partner sprawled on the couch, and checked her
computer.  Her screen saver had kicked in, scrolling a quote
from MOBY DICK across her screen:  "My soul is more than
matched; she's overmanned; and by a madman!"  A small, wry
smile touched her lips.

Yes, indeed.

She moved the mouse and the screensaver disappeared,
revealing a dialogue box in the middle of the computer
screen.  "Open file?" it asked.

Scully's stomach coiled with a mixture of excitement and
dread.  She glanced over her shoulder at Mulder, her
expression softening at the sight of his face, boyish in
slumber.  He hadn't slept much, she knew--she'd awakened
briefly around 2:00 a.m. to find him still up, watching an
old James Dean movie with the sound turned way down so 
as not to disturb her. 

She sighed, wishing she knew what she was going to do
about this exciting, complex man.  Why was it so difficult
for them to test the boundaries of their relationship? 
Friends became lovers every day---and many of them found a
way to make their relationships work.  Her own parents had
been friends first; she had heard the story so many times
she knew it by heart.  Margaret had been a child and William
a teenager when they met.  A friend of Margaret's older
brother Patrick, William had been like another brother--
sometimes playing the role of protector, sometimes
confidante, sometimes patient playmate.  But never anything
but friends--until the summer Margaret had turned seventeen.

That year, William Scully came back from his final year at
the Naval Academy with the news that he had received his
first commission and would be leaving for Mobile, Alabama,
in two weeks.

That's when Margaret Cleary had realized she was deeply in
love with her best friend.

Scully smiled, remembering the chuckle in her mother's voice
every time she told the next part of the story.  "And you
know me when I make a decision...."

Maybe that was the problem, she reflected.  She hadn't yet
made a decision about Mulder.  

The situation was just so complicated.  Whatever decision
she arrived at could have dire consequences.  Ignoring her
growing feelings for Mulder guaranteed a future of
frustration.  Could she really continue to work with him
indefinitely, having to sublimate her desires?  The fact
that they'd managed to stay together this long without
dealing with their feelings was more a result of the
frantic, dangerous nature of their work than of any
carefully considered decision on the part of either of
them.

And what, exactly, WERE Mulder's feelings for her?  She knew
he trusted her implicitly and exclusively.  She knew that he
found her attractive--last night's aborted attempt at
seduction was hardly the first time she'd been aware of his 
appreciation for her as a woman.  But was Mulder capable
of more?  Was he able to love her the way she needed to be
loved--fully and fearlessly, the way her parents had loved
each other?

She closed her eyes.  Damn it, I can't even take the time to
think about this, she realized.  They had so much to do--so
many secrets still to uncover.  

Secrets that might be revealed with a single click of the
computer mouse button.

She turned from the computer and crossed quietly to the
kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker.  The soft hissing sound
of hot water streaming through the grounds in the filter
followed her into the living room.  She paused at the edge
of the sofa, staring down at Mulder, allowing herself one
stolen moment of pleasure at the sight of him.

God, he was beautiful.  Not just physically, although she
found him very attractive.  Mulder's beauty came from his
fierce, ultimately noble soul.  No matter how crazy he made
her, no matter how infuriating his reckless disregard for
his own safety, no matter how single-minded and driven he
could be in his quest for the truth, at his heart, he was a
good, decent man who wanted to do the right thing for the
right reasons.  He was all too rare a creature in this
world, and Scully would always love him if for that reason
alone.

She reached down and gently traced the curve of his cheek. 
He gave a start, his eyes popping open and his body coiling
with tension for a moment, until his eyes met hers.  Then he
visibly relaxed, his eyes softening, his mouth curving in a
sheepish smile. 

"Morning," she murmured, stepping back from him.

"Morning."  He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with his
fingertips and yawning.  His hair was spiked in a hundred
different directions, and his jaw was blue with stubble. His
white t-shirt was rumpled and untucked from his jeans.  He
stretched his neck, baring his throat to her in an oddly
endearing show of trust.  "Coffee?"

"Almost ready," she answered.

His expression changed in an instant, and he stood, crossing
to the the computer.  "The file--"

"I wanted to wait until you woke to open it."  She followed
him, pulling up a chair next to him as he sat in her desk
chair.  He closed his hand over the mouse and started to
click the button, but she covered his hand with hers,
stilling his movement for a moment.

He looked up at her, a question in his eyes.

"I just--"  She took a breath and started again.  "I just
wanted to tell you that no matter what we find in these
files, WE'RE going to be okay.  There's nothing in here that
can hurt us."

His eyes searched hers for a long, electric moment.  Her
breath caught in her lungs, making her head swim.  Then he
nodded and turned back to the computer.  He pressed the 
mouse button, his finger moving beneath her own.  As she 
moved her hand away, the screen filled with writing.

She scooted her chair closer.

     "Dear Fox," the file began.

"It's a letter," Mulder murmured. "From my father."

Scully started to stand and move away, but Mulder reached
over and grabbed her wrist.  "Don't go."

She looked up at him.  "I don't want to intrude."

"There's nothing in here that I would keep secret from you,
Scully."  He gently tugged her back down to her chair and
slid his arm around the chair back, keeping her close.  She
settled into the warm curve of his arm and looked back at
the message on the screen.

     "For twenty-two years, I have lived in utter silence
     with the knowledge of my ultimate damnation, as if by
     never speaking the words aloud, I would have my
     sentence commuted in the end.  But redemption can never
     be had without confession.  Though redemption may be well 
     beyond my reach, for your sake and my own an attempt 
     must be made."

Scully glanced up at Mulder, watching his eyes dart across
the page, a look of utter pain twisting his face.  She
closed her eyes a moment, a sliver of sympathetic anguish
piercing her heart.  Then she forced herself to look back at
the computer screen.  Mulder tapped the cursor down key and
the screen scrolled to the next section.
 
     "In this file, I have compiled what information still
     remains in my possession and my memory.  Regrettably,
     both sources of information have been ravaged by the
     passing years.  And I fear that when all is said and
     done, there will be truths to which I will neither be
     able nor willing to confess.  But I will try to find
     the courage that has failed me in the past.

     "Know also, my son, that I have loved you always.  Any
     choices I have made reflect only my own failings, not
     any failure on your part.  You have been a good and
     dutiful son, far more so than I deserve.  The choices
     you have made in your own life fill me with a deep
     sense of pride--and a deeper sense of shame for my own
     weaknesses.  I wish I had been half the man you have
     become, Fox.  I wish I had shown you and your mother
     even a fraction of the loyalty and devotion you give to
     those you love. 

     Every day I thank God that you have not become your
     father's son."

Scully looked at Mulder again.  Tears sparkled on his lower
eyelids, and he slowly turned his head as if to meet her gaze. 
But he couldn't look at her, and he lowered his eyes back to
his hands.  His mouth worked slowly, silently, perhaps 
searching for words to express the emotions roiling inside 
him.  Scully shook her head slightly, not needing words to 
understand.  She felt what he was feeling as keenly as if these 
tortured, guilty words had come from the heart of her own father.

Mulder closed his eyes, small tears trickling down the sides
of his cheeks.  Scully touched her fingertip to the corner
of his eye, brushing away the dampness.  She didn't try to
soothe him with words--nothing she could say had the power
to ease his pain and grief. 

He took a deep breath a moment later and opened his eyes.
And found the strength to meet her eyes.  "Let's see what 
else is in here."

As he lifted his arm away from her, reaching for the mouse,
Scully caught his wrist.  "I think we should try to print
the file first."  The last time they'd had vital information
in their hands, circumstances and treachery had conspired to
steal it from them.  Scully wanted hard evidence in her
hands--something more tangible and substantial than bytes of
information on a computer screen.

Mulder nodded and clicked the "print" button.  The dialogue
box popped up with myriad options; he chose to print three
copies of the full document.  Scully waited in utter silence
for the printer to begin the soft, mechanical hum that would
signify that the document was processing through the system.
The wait seemed endless.

Then the printer began to hum. 

Scully released her breath, noting with wry amusement that
Mulder's shoulders heaved with relief as well.  He sat back,
dropping his hand from the mouse.  "So far so good."

Scully rested her hand briefly on his thigh, gave a little
squeeze, then stood and crossed to the printer to check the
first pages that had emerged from the feeder.  The type was
clear and readable; the file hadn't re-encrypted upon being
sent to the printer the way she'd half-feared it might.

She gathered the pages, glancing over each sheet as it
emerged.  After the initial letter came an odd assortment of
documents--what looked like a passenger manifest, a list of
names and corresponding numbers, several pages of graphs
that appeared to chart some sort of test--

Several pages into the document, a name caught her eye, and
her breath faltered and hung in her throat.

Oh my God, she thought, scanning the page to see if she
could make sense of what she was seeing.

She quickly flipped back several pages to the handful of
sheets that had looked like a passenger manifest.  She
quickly scanned the list, noting with frustration that the
names were listed in order of the corresponding numbers
rather than in alphabetical order.  She forced herself to
slow her frantic respiration and concentrate, afraid she
would overlook the name she sought.

Her eyes widened as she found her own name, the notation
dated August 19, 1994--just days after Duane Barry abducted
her.  Her suspicions about the list suddenly seemed
justified--it WAS a passenger manifest, she'd be willing to
bet.  A manifest detailing her passage on a mysterious train
where mysterious doctors had performed God only knows what
kind of horrible tests on her--

She closed her eyes and tamped down the panic.  Breathe
slowly, Scully--in, out.  In, out.  She waited for her
respiration to slow and her heart rate to subside before she
opened her eyes.  When she did, she found herself looking
into Mulder's worried eyes.

"Scully?"

"I think it's a list of test subjects."  She took the list
over to where Mulder sat and showed him her name on the
manifest.  Flipping pages, she showed him another name that
appeared in what seemed to be a summary of a psychological
test.  

"Sarah Chandler," Mulder murmured, noting the name.

She nodded, running her finger down the list of names in the
passenger list.  Still no Sarah.

She went back to the printer and pulled out another handful
of pages.  The paper was hot against her cool, trembling
fingers.  She looked through the new pages, noting what
looked like another list of test subjects.  The dates listed
on these pages were much earlier than the dates shown on the
previous manifest--the first page began at October 1964.  On
a hunch, she flipped forward to November 1973, scanning the
page for a familiar name.  

And found one.

Just not the one she expected.

There was no Samantha Mulder among the test subjects
listed under the 1973 headings. 

But there was a Scully.

Melissa Scully.


*  *  *  *  *


Mulder re-read his father's words, studying the sentences
and paragraphs as if he could somehow decipher a deeper,
more familiar message of disappointment and anger within the
structure of the language.  He was floored by the enormity
of his father's confession.  No truth he might find within
the confines of this file could be more stunning than his
father's admission of love and pride.

Had his father ever spoken such words in life?  Not that
Mulder could remember.  Anger, yes.  Disapproval, certainly.
Embarrassment, definitely.  But never affection.  Never
praise.  Even before Samantha's disappearance, Bill Mulder
had been a cold, reserved man.  He'd drunk too much, slept
too little.  He'd cut off any attempts to get close to him,
hiding behind a wall of disdain and indifference, a wall
inpenetrable to the woman who longed for her husband's 
admiration and affection--or the boy who only wanted his 
father's love.

Mulder blinked back tears that stung his eyes.

Those were feelings Bill Mulder had always seemed to save 
for his daughter, his golden child.  Only Samantha had ever 
been able to breach the barriers.  She'd been that kind of
kid--bright, funny, impossible to ignore.  Mulder's own
feelings for her had always been complex--as resentful and
jealous as he'd been of his father's obvious affection for
Samantha, he himself had never been able to resist her
little girl appeal. 

When Samantha had disappeared, the fabric of their family 
had unraveled, frayed and finally fallen to pieces.  Mulder
had grown up a virtual orphan, estranged by distance and
circumstance from his father, forced by necessity to be both
son and parent to his grief-paralyzed mother.  Life as a
child had ended for Mulder at the age of twelve; he'd been
forced to grow up early.  Except for that one small part of
him that would never grow up, that twelve-year-old who would
always miss his sister--and always blame himself for her
disappearance.

He rubbed his fingertips against his stinging eyes, suddenly
drained by the combination of tension, emotion and lack of
sleep.  Enervated by the rapid-fire succession of events, he
found himself curiously lethargic.  So what if the secrets
of the universe were contained in this file?  He just wanted
to lie down and sleep for a week.

"Mulder?"

Scully's soft, strangled voice crept through the thick fog
of weariness enveloping him.  He dropped his hands from his
eyes and turned to look at her, his vision slightly blurred.
It took a moment for his sight to clear enough for him to
see that Scully was deathly pale, her forehead creased, her
lips parted and trembling. 

He pushed to his feet immediately. "What is it?

Her throat bobbed wildly for a moment, her eyes wide and
afraid as she met his gaze.  He felt a frisson of anxiety
ripple through his gut.  

"What, Scully?"  He closed the distance between them and
cupped her elbow, steadying her. 

She held out the sheaf of papers in her hand.  They
fluttered in front of him as her hand continued to shake.
Then her lips pressed tightly together, and she visibly took
hold of herself, tamping down the shock and fear.  Mulder
had seen similar transformations from her before, but as
always, her sheer determination left him in awe.  "Melissa's
name is on this list, Mulder."

He stared at her for a moment, certain he'd misunderstood. 
"Melissa?"

She thrust the papers toward him again.  He took the small
stack of printouts and looked where she indicated.  

     #062863 - August 18th, 1973 - Kingsport, Tennessee
     Melissa Scully.  DOB 3/4/62.  Red/green  5'0" 81 lbs.
     SPE, RFLP, GME, PsProf. 8/18/73-8/19/73.  
 
Mulder frowned.  "What is this?"

Scully shook her head.  "I don't know."

He flipped back a few pages, looking for some sort of cover
sheet, something to indicate what this notation might mean. 
But there was nothing but listing after listing of numbers,
dates, names and abbreviations.  The last thing before the
list began was a short notation from his father.

     "we treat innocent citizens with all the respect with
     which we would treat cattle being led to the slaughter
     like merchandise like chattel"

He glanced back through the pages, looking for other notes
from his father.  As he backtracked, he realized that the
notes at the beginning had been much more coherent, but his
father's thought processes had steadily eroded from page to
page.  

He must have been drinking, Mulder thought.

Scully picked up another copy of the listings and grabbed
her glasses from the drawer of her desk.  She sat in front
of the computer and pushed the keyboard out of the way,
making room to spread the pages in front of her.  Mulder
retrieved the other copies of the file from the printer tray
and stacked them neatly in order, letting the automatic
motions of his hands free his mind to consider the
implications of this newest discovery.

Melissa, too?

How  many lives touched by the far-reaching hand of the
consortium? he wondered.  William Scully, both of his 
daughters--who else?  The Scully sons?  

God forbid--Margaret Scully?

"I think these may be test results, Mulder."

Mulder turned toward Scully, unable to meet her eyes. 
"What kinds of tests?"

"RFLP stands for restriction fragment length polymorphism.
Basically--it refers to a genetic marker.  An RFLP test 
would provide very specific genetic information--more than
you'd get from a more standard polymerase chain reaction
test."

Mulder nodded.  "And what about SPE?  Or GME?"

Scully shrugged.  "SPE might be 'standard physical
examination.'"

That made sense.  "PsProf might be psychological profile? 
If we're right, maybe each person on this list was given a
battery of tests--"

"IF we're right, Mulder---and that's a pretty big if." 
Scully picked up several  of the sheets in front of her and
flipped through them.  "Not everyone was subjected to the
same procedures, either--if we're interpreting this
correctly."

Mulder sat down next to Scully and looked at the information
she indicated with a small tap of her forefinger.  

"Most of the people on this list have SPE and RFLP
designations. But only a handful have PsProf or GME."

Mulder glanced over the list, trying to figure out a pattern
to the notations.  "Can we deduce that the date notations on
this sheet indicate the amount of time a given test subject
was in the hands of his or her abductor?"

Scully shifted in her chair as if uncomfortable.  "Mulder,
I think it's a bit early to draw any such conclusions--"

Mulder frowned, inexplicably irritated by that single, prim
little refutation.  "Look, Scully--I'm not saying that
extraterrestrials were involved, if that's what you're
afraid of." 

"I'm not afraid, Mulder."  She bristled, her eyes pinning
him like a bug under a microscope.  "I just don't think we
can make any broad statements about what these papers mean. 
I need a lot more evidence--"

Nothing new, he thought.  Scully could be face to face with
Marvin the Damned Martian and want more proof.  "What else
could they be?"

They stared at each other, tension buzzing between them. 
Scully looked away first.  "I don't know."

Her quiet admission dissipated his anger.  He put his hand
on her shoulder.  "I don't want to believe that your sister
was subjected to God knows what kind of tests, Scully.  I
don't."

"I know."

He squeezed her shoulder and let his hand drop to his lap.
"Any idea what GME stands for?"

She shook her head.  "It's not a standard medical acronym. 
It could stand for any number of things."

Mulder glanced over the listings again.  He paused at
Melissa Scully's name.  "August 18th, 1973.  Does that ring
any bells for you?  How about Kingsport, Tennessee?  Were
you living there then?"

"No, in '73 I think we were living in Pensacola--that was
the year after we moved there from San Diego."  Scully
absently threaded her fingers though her hair, pushing the
touseled mass away from her face.  "I suppose Mom might
remember more."

"Good thing we're planning to talk to her anyway."

Scully frowned.  "I wish I didn't have to tell Mom any of
this."

"So do I."

She turned her head to look at him, her gaze direct yet
gentle.  For a moment, he couldn't breathe.  Only when her
soft voice broke the thick silence was he able to draw in a
chestful of air.  "Mulder, why don't you go take a shower
while I finish getting dressed?  We need to at least make an
appearance at the office, check in with Skinner.  I'll drop
you by your place to get a suit."

He nodded and stood.  "Okay."  He let his hand brush across
her shoulder as he stepped past her on his way to the
bathroom.  He grabbed duffel bag on the way through and took
it into the bathroom with him.  Once the door closed behind
him, he pulled his cell phone from the pocket of the jacket
and dialled a number.

"Yo."

"Frohike, I need some help.  Any idea what the notation
'GME' might mean--in connection to some sort of medical
tests?"

"Sure--the latest in high tech information gathering.
Genetic Material Extraction."

Mulder's eyebrows rose.


*  *  *  *  *

"Genetic Material Extraction?"  Scully arched her eyebrows.

"Well, it's not a run of the mill procedure, of course, but
it's well within our technological means."  Alan Pendrell's
voice was thick with sleep, making him sound like a drowsy
adolescent.  "The bigger question, of course, would be why
anyone would want to extract genetic material."

"Any ideas?"

"Well, the most obvious reason would be for comparative
testing--sort of carrying RFLP testing a few steps further."

"What would be the point of such testing?"

"Perhaps to ascertain reproductive compatibility, maybe to
clone given organ cells---I suppose, theoretically, cloning
technology might one day advance to the point that we can
clone whole new organs from somatic cells.  We'd never have
to worry about finding compatible organ donors--people could
have somatic cells extracted from their vital organs and
frozen until the time comes when a person needed an organ
replaced.  The organ could be cloned from the somatic cells
and implanted with virtually no worries about rejection."

"Alan, what you're talking about is science fiction.  That
technology doesn't exist."

"It doesn't exist yet, Dana.  But thirty years ago, the idea
that man would some day walk on the moon was also called
science fiction."

God, she thought, when did Alan turn into Mulder?  "But how
long have we been capable of genetic material extraction?"

"Officially, since the early eighties, although according to
the guys at the GUNMAN, tests were thought to be carried out
as early as the late fifties."

According to the guys at the GUNMAN?  She'd KNOWN better
than to let Pendrell leave with Byers, Langly and Frohike.
"Thanks, Alan.  Again, you've been a big help."

"Are you coming back to work today, D-Dana?"  He still
sounded uncomfortable using her first name. 

"Mulder and I are going to come by the office briefly, but
we have to go talk to a few people about the new case.  But
if you think of anything else, you have my cell phone
number."

"Yeah."  Pendrell sounded absurdly pleased.

"Thanks, Alan.  Mulder and I owe you."  She hung up the
phone and went into her bedroom to get dressed.  

She was brushing her hair when the door to the bathroom
opened and Mulder emerged, bare to the waist, towelling his
hair dry.  Scully took advantage of his covered eyes to take
a long, appreciative look at his lean body, the long torso
and the muscular stomach.  She knew from experience that his
skin was soft and his muscles hard, and no matter how ill-
advised the thought, she couldn't help but wonder what it
would be like to feel his bare skin against the bare skin of
her breasts, her stomach, her thighs--

He pulled the towel away from his head and looked up at her.

She lifted her eyes quickly to meet his gaze, hoping that
the heat she felt washing over her face and neck wasn't
quite so apparent to the eye.

"I think I left my razor at my mother's house--do you
have an extra?  And shaving lotion?"

"In the cabinet over the sink."  She followed him back to
the bathroom.

He opened the cabinet, rustling around until he found the
package of disposable razors and a can of shaving gel.  His
lips curved at the sight of the pastel can.  "Lucky I'm in
touch with my feminine side."  He sniffed cautiously at the
top of the can.

Hiding a smile, Scully reached into the cabinet for her
moisturizing face wash and scooted in next to him at the
sink.  "Mind if we share?"

He glanced at her.  "Your sink."

She turned on the water, testing its warmth.  He mirrored
her movements, his hand sliding against hers as he scooped
up a handful of water and dampened his stubbled jaw. 

Scully trembled, suddenly aware of the innate intimacy of
what they were doing.  Sharing the sink in her bathroom--
Mulder half-dressed, still damp from the shower.  The
mingled scents of soap and his tangy masculine deodorant
filled her nostrils, invaded her lungs.  She looked up in
the mirror and saw his reflection staring back at her. 

His eyes locked with hers, he leaned over her shoulder and
dipped his hands into the stream of warm water again, his
fingers slipping over hers like a caress.   She tried to
draw a breath and found she couldn't.

He eased away from her slowly, his touch gliding up her
wrist like a whisper.  He trailed drops of water up her arm
before lifting his wet hand to his face again.  She stood,
frozen, her hands still under the running water, and watched
his reflection squirt a dollop of shaving gel in the palm of
his hand.  A faint sea-scent rose from the gel.

"Nice," he murmured.  He spread the gel across his jaw, his
hand rasping softly against his beard stubble. His jaw
whitened with foam.

Scully swallowed with difficulty and tore her eyes away from
the mirror.  She squirted moisturizing wash on a soft face
cloth and set about the business of cleaning her face and
neck.  She was NOT going to look back in the mirror.  She
was NOT.

She looked back in the mirror.

Mulder's eyes met hers in the glass.  He ran the razor down
his jawline in a long, slow, sure stroke.  Great hands,
Scully thought.  The man could've been a surgeon.  Long
fingers, strong and sure.

She trapped her lower lip between her teeth and watched him
maneuver the razor over the curve of his chin.  The blade
left a swath of smooth skin, slightly pink from the rasping
of razor's sharp edge.  Her fingers tingled with the
overwhelming need to touch his face, to feel the difference
between his harsh beard and his satiny smooth skin.  

Only by the greatest of effort was she able to return her
attention to her own task.  She finished washing her face
and bent over the sink to rinse away the soap.  With her
eyes averted where Mulder couldn't read her every thought,
she could let herself admit that she liked the way she felt,
standing next to his half-naked body.  She liked the utter
awareness of her femininity, the contrast to his maleness. 
She liked the intimacy of his nearness, the way the heat of
his body washed over her like a caress.  It felt natural and
phenomenal, all at the same time.  She could imagine playing
out this scene morning after morning for the rest of her
life.  Longed for it, even.  Ached for it.
 
And that scared the hell out of her.

She straightened, patting her face dry with a hand towel. 
When she moved the towel away, she darted another peek at
the mirror.  Mulder was nearly finished shaving, only the
underside of his jaw left untouched.  He stretched his neck,
baring his throat to her again, and dipped the razor beneath
his jaw.

He jerked suddenly and hissed a quiet oath.  Blood beaded on
the skin beneath his jaw.

Scully turned and looked up at him, lifting her hand
automatically to his wound.  "Let me--"

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her.  "No."

She stared at him, startled by the sudden tension in his
voice.  "I was just going to see how much damage you did."

He released her wrist.  "It's a nick.  Dr. Scully can take
the morning off."  He grabbed the towel she'd just discarded
and patted the excess shaving lotion from his face, moving
several feet away from her, his back turned.

Scully stared at the reflection of his back in the mirror. 
What the hell was that about?  His shoulders were slightly
hunched, his muscles taut.  For God's sake, she thought,
you'd have thought I was going to strangle him.

She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of him.  What
was happening to them?  Every word, every touch seemed only
to intensify the aching tension between them.  Mulder in
particular seemed unable to take a step forward without
taking two steps in retreat.  

She opened her eyes and stared at his reflection, thinking
of a thousand things she should say to him about trust and
love and taking risks.  But she said none of those things
when she finally spoke. "Do you want bagels for breakfast? 
Or cereal?"

Mulder turned to look at her.  His face relaxed slightly. 
"Got anything loaded with fat and sugar?"

"I'll see what I can come up with," she answered, venturing
a slight smile.  They were both making an effort to ease the
tension between them, she recognized.  But it wasn't quite
working. 

She followed him slowly to the kitchen, lagging behind,
trying to read his thoughts in the curve of his spine 
and the set of his shoulders.  He was on edge, tightly
wound.  So was she.  

And they couldn't go on that way forever.

One day soon, they were going to have to figure out what to
do about each other.

End of #7