Title: Ravaged by Years

Authors: MoJo and Jori 

E-Mails: Mojober@aol.com, Damienma@bellsouth.net

Rating: Strong R

Category: SA

Keywords: Post Episode 'Sein und Zeit'

Spoilers: SUZ, The Pilot, Herrenvolk, Paper Hearts, Amor Fati and the

general Samantha Mytharc

Archive: Yes, but leave both our names attached. 

Disclaimer: Sadly, not ours. They belong to CC and his minions at

1013. Oh, and FOX.

Summary: Set both in the present and the past and told from two POVs,

in this story, Mulder and Scully come to terms with the very personal

events of SUZ and who they can trust. 



This is also a Font Fiction, and Ravaged by Years can be found at

http://fonts.linuxpower.org/

Visit the Font Inspired Fiction Archive for more Font Fiction:

http://netroenterprises.com/stories/font.html



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



FBI Headquarters

February 6, 2000

3:25 p.m.





I scrub and scrub my hands and forearms, sterilizing them until my

skin is red. This autopsy will take about two hours if I can stay

focused. I drop the scrub brush and dry my hands methodically. Next, I

slip them into latex gloves. Left hand. Right hand. I keep telling

myself this isn't going to be any different than the hundreds of other

autopsies I've performed, but that's a lie. The wall clock reads three

twenty-five as I step out into the pathology lab.



_An autopsy, Mulder? I mean it's . . . it's one thing on a stranger,

but you're my friend and she's your mother. . ._



But I didn't really know her. Mulder barely knew her anymore. I could

count the times I'd met Teena Mulder on one hand. 



I was the one who told him she was dead. I will never forget having to

walk into that room and deliver the message, knowing what it would do

to Mulder. She was all the family he had left in this world and now

she is gone. On the plane ride to Connecticut, Mulder's tears fell

shamelessly down his cheeks in silent mourning as he stared out the

window. I cried with him. But not for her.  



_I know, but if you don't do it, I may never know the truth._



Mulder believes her death is another conspiracy. That they killed her

just like they killed his father. 'They' being the men responsible for

Samantha's disappearance. That is what he wants me to find. A direct

correlation between the two events. For so long, he believed she was

involved somehow in his sister's abduction. Holding out against hope

that one day she'd finally tell him what really happened that night.

Instead she left Mulder with yet another mystery to uncover.



I begin to walk slowly forward towards the cooler.



With shaking hands, I unlock the door and feel the rush of cold air

against my skin. I reach into the darkness and grab the edge of the

metal bed. I pull it out slowly, the weight of the body providing

resistance. Positioning the table underneath the lights, I make sure

everything is in place. Beside me, the tray of sterile scalpels and

surgical tools lay waiting. The scale is calibrated and set at zero. I

pick up the tape recorder and hit the record button. 



I raise my fingers to the zipper. The metal teeth separating makes a

harsh sound that echoes throughout the room. I push the sides down,

exposing the body to the harsh light. 



I stare into the dead face of Teena Mulder.



******



Providence, Rhode Island

May 20, 1996

11:30 p.m.





Visiting hours are long over, but Mulder's vigil by her bedside

continues. His shoulders are tense, his face etched with worry and

fear and fatigue. I wish I could tell him she is going to recover, but

I don't know that. Even though the subarachnoid hemorrhage she

suffered was brief and her circulation returned quickly, she is still

in a catatonic state. 



At least Mulder is safe. I don't have all the details of what happened

up in Canada, but I am grateful his life was spared. Jeremiah Smith is

gone. We will investigate the farmlands he described in the morning.

Tangible evidence we can present to Skinner. 



He doesn't know how he got here. He refused to let me or any other

doctor look at him.  I had no idea what they'd done to him. He just

sits waiting by his mother's side. For what, I'm not sure.



"It felt so good to hold her," Mulder whispers, glancing up at me. We

are on opposite sides of her bed. Despite his protests, I wasn't

leaving him alone tonight. 



"Samantha?" I ask softly. I knew it wasn't possible the little girl

he'd seen was actually his sister. A clone perhaps. Why would they

create serial ovatypes of Samantha?



"Yes," he breathes, slouching back in the chair. Mulder closes his

eyes and lets his head fall back. He is beyond tired, but he will not

sleep. "She was part of some agrarian work force.  Apparently, they

take care of themselves and parenting is unnecessary. It was strange

to see her all by herself with no one to watch her." Mulder lets out a

tiny laugh. "That was supposed to be my job."



"Mulder, you can't keep doing this to yourself," I say, seeing pain

sweep across his face. He presses his eyes closed to hold back the

tears. In one fluid motion, he sits back up and leans forward to take

her hand in both of his. 



"Scully, this is all related," he starts, letting his lips brush her

fingertips. "Don't you see? He was here in this hospital."



"Who was here, Mulder?" I ask, not sure if he even knows what he is

saying. His thoughts are random and scattered as he moves from one

subject to the next. He wants to talk about the everything that has

happened over the last two days, but not to me. I am a substitute for

the unconscious woman before him. A woman with more answers than I'll

ever have.



"The Smoking Man," he says solemnly. "He said my mother contacted him,

that she was looking for something, too."



"You can't believe him, Mulder," I counter, leaning forward a bit.

Mulder's eyes shine with unfallen tears in the dim light. When did

that bastard show up? Why didn't he tell me before now? Was he

protecting his mother? 



"I saw pictures of them together. He did this to her. He didn't want

her help me. She never goes to that summerhouse, Scully," he

continues, his voice growing edgy. "Why would she tell me to look for

the lamp?"



"I don't know," I answer, not wanting to argue that point with him

again. Her brain and her thought processes have been radically changed

by the stroke. "And she wrote the word 'palm' Mulder, not lamp. It's

not necessarily connected to Jeremiah Smith."



"She was trying to tell me something," he insists, letting the tears

slip out. "If she dies, Scully..."



"She's not going to die," I say carefully. That much, I am certain. He

has to believe that. 



"If she dies, then I may never know what happened to Samantha," he

finishes, his watery eyes gazing over at her face. It takes a minute

before I fully comprehend exactly what he is saying.



"You think she knows, don't you?" I breathe, as my heart tightens in

my chest.



Mulder nods mutely.



"And she's been keeping it from you all this time?" 



"She doesn't have a choice," Mulder replies, with conviction. "And I

know better not to ask her for the truth."



Silence falls across the room again. Teena Mulder lays perfectly

still. If she can hear our conversation, I hope it will make a

difference. She has to hear the pain in Mulder's voice. She has to

know how this has haunted him over the years. He risked his life yet

again to go searching for the truth about Samantha. If she knows, why

won't she tell him? Give him release? 



And still, despite this betrayal...he is by her side.  



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



Fox Mulder's Apartment

February 6, 2000



One of these days I'll learn to check this damn thing. The flashing

red light on my answering machine should be enough to catch my

attention, but still, it goes ignored for days. Maybe I just don't

want to hear what might be on it this time. Or any time, for that

matter. People who need to get a hold of me know how to without this. 



And she tried. 



She tried and I never called back. Why would I? To hear more lies?

More of her avoidance? I have learned so well over all these years not

to ask her for the truth. She might have known it, but she wasn't

going to share. And now she is gone. 



I go to hit the play button and then hesitate, knowing what it is

going to be. Someone telling me in some oblique, friendly way that

something has happened and that I need to call immediately, not

wanting to leave the truth on an answering machine. A name. A number.

Anything but the words 'We are sorry, but your mother is dead.' It is

someone wanting me to call, wanting me to tell them what to do,

wanting me to drive to Connecticut. 



I never made it home before they found me. They found Scully instead

and she told me. Who else is there left to deliver such news? No one.

She is all I have now and I asked her to do something she did not want

to. Who else can I trust? 



Maybe I should just erase this . . . but I don't. I play it, for that

is my nature. I have to know what they said, hoping there is some

secret clue hidden in their very words. 



"Fox, it's your mother . . ." comes out of the machine. A voice

reaching out to me from the dead. A voice I was sure I'd never hear

again. Maybe I didn't want to hear it. 



I hit stop and sit down on my desk chair, trying to hold it all

together. I would be lying if I said I haven't cried over this. She is

my mother. 



We flew there instead of driving. Perhaps Scully just didn't know what

she would say for all those hours in the car. She didn't say much on

the plane. I would rest my head against the cool fuselage and shut my

eyes, hoping to just drift out of this whole mess. Tears would come no

matter how hard I tried to fight them. My mother is dead and I am the

only one left to cry for her. Scully cried, but for me . . . for my

pain. She hardly knew my mother. 



After going to the house . . . after taking care of things others

consider important right now . . . we went out separate ways. She went

to do something I asked her to do and I went to Idaho. 



And now I'm back to find a message I should have heard already.

Something I should have listened to instead of everything else I was

doing. I push play once more and close my eyes . . .



*********



The Mulder Residence, Martha's Vineyard

November 21, 1965

10:07 p.m. 



"Fox, it's Mommy," I hear in my sleep. Someone is shaking me and I am

so tired. Mommy is shaking me. I open my eyes and wipe the sandman out

of them. She has my night light turned on even though she told me I'm

too old for it. 



"Mommy?" I ask, yawning. It is still not morning. It is still dark.

Why is Mommy waking me up? 



"Fox, I'm going to be gone for a few days," she says, her hand

stroking my cheek. She is warm and I can smell apples. Mommy looks

sick but I'm so tired. 



"I want to go to sleep," I say, trying to shut my eyes. She pats me on

my back. Why doesn't she just let me sleep?



"Fox, honey . . . I have to go to the hospital now. Remember how we

talked about a new baby?" Mommy asks me. I press my eyes shut tight. 



"Uh huh," I say. I can't sit on Mommy's lap because of the baby. The

baby fills up Mommy's lap. All she talks about is the baby. Daddy

never talks about the baby. Daddy never talks about me. 



"I'm going to go the hospital to have the baby now. Grandma Kuipers is

here to watch you, okay?" she asks. Grandma Kuipers is nice. She makes

me hot chocolate and plays toys with me. She likes to play hide and

seek but Grandpa Kuipers smells funny. 



"I'll be home in a few days. And I'll be bringing you a baby brother

or sister. Did you ever decide what you would rather have?" Mommy asks

and I try to think. 



"A sister. And we will name her Samantha," I tell Mommy, remembering

what she was watching on TV tonight. Mommy likes the show. She let me

stay up to watch it with her because Daddy wasn't home. I like the

name. Mommy just laughs. "Or Endora."



"We will see about that," Mommy says, patting me on the back. Mommy

moans and sounds like she is going to throw up. Mommy doesn't look

good. 



"Teena, we have to go," I hear Daddy say from the hallway. He doesn't

come in my room. Daddy sounds mad that Mommy is having a baby. Maybe

he misses Mommy's lap, too. 



"I'll see you soon, Fox," Mommy says. She kisses me on my cheek. 



"Okay," I say, my eyes closing even though Mommy is still talking.

Mommy is trying to tell me something but I can't hear. Dreamworld. I

want to go back to dreamworld. Mommy is saying good-bye but I'm too

tired to listen. 



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



FBI Headquarters

February 6, 2000

4:05 p.m.





I am halfway through. 



I have already decided to stop by Mulder's when I am finished. I

haven't spoken to him since we parted ways in Connecticut. There will

be funeral arrangements to be made and I did not want Mulder to be

doing any of that alone. No one should have to bury their mother

alone.  



My last memory of her will be here on this table, dissected and

cataloged. I show her as much respect and dignity as I can during the

procedure, but a full autopsy doesn't allow me to make many

concessions. I have to be thorough so I can tell Mulder honestly I

examined every since bit of medical data before drawing my conclusion

as to the cause of death.



I stare into the open cavity of her abdomen, seeing her uterus

perfectly in tact. She carried both Mulder and Samantha there. Felt

them grow inside her for nine months, existing as one being. Were

Mulder and Samantha part of some glorious plan from the moment they

were born? Did Bill Mulder really have to give up one of his children

in accordance with the Consortium's deal? Or was it Teena Mulder who

had to choose?



Mulder speaks very little about what his family was like before

Samantha disappeared. I wonder if it is too difficult for him to

remember that time. I like to think they were a real family at one

point or at least gave off the illusion for their children's sake.

Until the lies and the secrets tore them apart.



Perhaps that is why she burned the photographs. All the photos Mulder

said were on her dresser were found in the trash can, many reduced to

ash. Both of her children were lost that day, not just Samantha. It

just took twenty-five years for her to completely lose Mulder. Over

the last seven years, I saw it happen. Little by little, bit by bit.

The closer Mulder came to the truth, the further apart their

relationship grew. 



_Missing is better than dead._



Somehow, that phrase keeps coming back into my mind and I can't quite

remember from where. It must be easier to believe someone is missing

since the possibility will always be there that one day they'll be

found. That is the hope that Mulder has held onto all this time. If he

could only find Samantha, that would set his mother free as well. 

There wouldn't be anymore secrets to keep. 



********



Forks of Cacapon, West Virginia

November 12, 1996

3:45 p.m.





I dig and dig in the dirt, my fingernails scraping along in time with

Mulder's. He is running on pure adrenaline, fueled by emotion. We keep

going until something is visible in the dirt. He continues to push it

aside to reveal a set of ribs covered with a cloth. He stops breathing

and so do I.



There is a paper heart cut out.



I sigh and look back at him. He is staring at the heart in sheer

terror. His fingers are trembling as he reaches out and traces the

silhouette reverently.



"Samantha?" he whispers, as he shuts his eyes closed. Unable to look

at the tiny skeleton any longer.



Earlier, I felt Roche was committing emotional blackmail with Mulder.

But now that we have found the body, I started to wonder if he was

telling the truth. Could he have actually killed Samantha? Was he

really there that night? And what about the other heart? It certainly

was a more logical explanation that the one Mulder always believed in.

The one I could never quite accept as completely as he did.



"Mulder," I begin, pulling back from the grave and standing up. I

watch as his chest heaves slowly up and down, each breath heavy and

weighted. "Mulder, let's go. We need to get a team out here so we're

not disturbing any evidence."



"I'm not leaving," he answers, suddenly sounding like a child himself.

Instead, he leans forward and starts digging again with his fingers.

Harder, faster and with more determination. He clenches his teeth

together as he fights to earth to claim this body back.



"Help me, Scully!" he implores again. "We have to get her out of

here!" 



"Stop it, Mulder," I say, trying to grab his arm. He shakes me off

harshly and continues to claw at the ground. I regain my footing and

try again, this time my touch is gentle. I lower my voice, softening

it as well. "Please, Mulder. Please stop."



"I can't," he says, but his fingers slow down. He shakes his head back

and forth. "This isn't Samantha, Scully. It can't be Samantha. . can

it?"



"I don't know," I reply, as he lowers his head into his hands. I touch

his back gingerly, feeling his body quaking. But not with sorrow, with

anger at being lead again down the wrong path so willingly.  



"It can't be Samantha," he says again. Mulder stands up and starts to

walk away, putting some distance between himself and the grave. He

sucks in the air, trying to steady himself. Then he spins around to

face me, his arms outstretched in an empty embrace. "How would it

explain what I've seen this past year? The clones? The experiments?

Can you tell me scientifically how all that was possible if she's been

here the whole time?"



"I won't have an answer for you until I do the autopsy," I answer

calmly, folding my arms. Mulder paces hard back and forth for a few

minutes before stopping again. He puts his hands on his hips and

shakes his head some more in disbelief.



"And what if it is?" he says, thinking out loud to himself. "I'll have

to tell my mother. Will she be just like Frank Sparks? Missing is

better than dead? I wanted to bring her home. I wanted to bring her

home to my mother...alive."



"Did she remember anything?" I ask gently, wanting him to focus on the

facts at hand and not start speculating about what he will do if it

really is Samantha. We don't know anything just yet.



"No," he says, staring at the ground. "Just that my dad bought the

vacuum cleaner. The stroke. . . you know. She says her memory isn't as

good at it used to be." He lets out an ironic laugh. "It's even more

selective now, I suppose."



I come closer to Mulder so I can look into his face, his eyes. When I

do, I still see anger raging behind his calm exterior. 



"If that is Samantha, then it means your mother had nothing to do with

her disappearance," I say, choosing each word carefully.  



"I wish I could believe that, Scully," he says, his dark eyes

remorseful. 



"If Roche killed her, you can," I say. 



"This is a logical answer for you, isn't it?" Mulder asks, his tone

increasingly bitter. "You never believed she was abducted by aliens,

did you Scully?"



"Mulder..." I begin. He asked me this same question earlier.



"See? You can't say it, can you?" His breathing quickens as he rushes

towards me, grabbing me by shoulders.  Mulder shakes me hard. "I never

believed it, Mulder. Why can't you just admit it?"



"I believe you believe it happened," I say, trying to steady myself

against his body. His fingers release me slowly before dropping to his

knees. He lowers his head penitently. 



"I just want to find her," he whispers desperately. "I can't turn to

my mother to help me now."



Mulder's arms come up around my waist in an awkward hug, but his eyes

stare back at the grave.



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



Fox Mulder's Apartment

February 6, 2000



". . . So much that I have left unsaid . . ." 



I hit the stop button again. Would it had made a difference in what

you did had you heard from me, Mom? The sad part is, I don't know the

answer. I don't . . . didn't . . . know you well enough anymore to

know the answer. I loved you and I hated you. Doesn't every son? If we

didn't, we would never move on. Never break that tie. 



She called me in California and I brushed her off. I was thankful for

her call because it ended Scully's line of questioning, but then I got

rid of her as fast I could. 



Nothing had been easy between us since I was hospitalized. I know she

was there. I know what she did. I saw the security tapes from the

painted over cameras. But we didn't talked much since then. The last

time we saw each other before then . . . and the hospital doesn't

really even count . . . was when I helped her move into her apartment.

The house was getting to be too much for her, or so she said. My

mother was getting old and wanted to live in a smaller place. It

didn't come as a shock to me, yet that unsettling feeling that comes

with the knowledge that one's parent has grown old took over. When Mom

was gone, there would be no one else. A few cousins I haven't heard

from in over a decade. That was it. And now that time has come.



Most of the house was cleaned out by the time I got there, thanks to a

garage sale arranged by her friends. The basement was empty. The attic

contained nothing but some old trunks of clothes. All I had to do was

rent a truck and move some furniture and boxes. I stayed with her, and

we avoided each other as always. I helped her arrange her photographs

in her room and we talked about when I had the chicken pox. We

discussed what I was doing at work. We talked about anything other

than Samantha. The we shared small talk over a dinner of pot roast and

vegetables and she then went to visit some garden club friends. I left

while she was gone. I had to be home in time to go to work in the

morning. Or so I told myself. 



Mom, if you had something to tell me, you had plenty of time to do it

in. My lifetime. Your lifetime. I can't allow myself to feel guilty

because I wasn't there at the last minute. 



But I know myself better than that. A part of me will always regret

not calling you back just because you might have been ready to tell me

the truth. Ready to tell me anything. 



Damn you for doing this. Damn you for dying like this. 



I press play one more time and close my eyes. I let her voice wash

over me as I try to discover what she was trying to tell me. 



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



Martha's Vineyard

July 18, 1973

11:56 a.m. 



"Fox!" I hear Mom call from a distance. 



"It's your mother," Donny Abbot says, followed by his imitation of my

mom. He has his hands on his hips and his face pinched up, pretending

to call me in for lunch. He's always teasing me about my mother. I

think it is because his mom could care less. She's probably already

finished her first bottle of wine for the day and it isn't even noon.

"Better run off to mommy, Fox."



"No one calls me Fox, you little prick. It's Mulder," I say, gathering

up my baseball equipment and looking around for my kid sister. I nod

to the other guys standing around, watching us. "I'll be back after

lunch."



"Fox! Samantha!" I hear again, and wince. It isn't bad enough she had

to do it once, but now she has to announce to the world that the

munchkin is with me. 



"Fox! Samantha!" Donny mimics, as he spits on the ground. Samantha is

playing with some other little girls over by the bleachers, including

Donny's little sister, Erica. Samantha ignores me as I motion for her

to come with. Instead, she goes back to playing dolls with the rest of

the brats she hangs out with. 



"SAMANTHA!" I yell, and she flicks me off with a stubby middle finger.

Where in the hell did the brat learn that? Probably Erica Abbott.

She's barely ten but she wears makeup and according to Samantha, she

shaves her legs and French kisses boys. "Samantha, get your ass over

here NOW!"



"Fox, drop dead!" Samantha whines back at me, smug as ever. I swear,

if I could just get rid of her for a day, I'd be happy. Instead, I

have to drag her all over with me while Mom does whatever it is she

does. At least she doesn't drown herself in a bottle of booze like

Mrs. Abbott. 



Dropping my equipment, I walk over to where she is playing with her

friends and she ignores me. I grab the doll out of her hands and

threaten to twist its ugly, blond head off. Samantha hacked off all of

its hair with a scissors a long time ago, yet she insists on playing

with the hideous thing. 



"We have to go now. Mom is calling. Lunch is ready," I say, holding

'Millie' in the air, my hands around her plastic neck. Samantha

scrambles to her feet and claws at me, trying to get her doll out of

my grip. The munchkin can't reach. 



"Give her back to me!" she shouts and another girl kicks me in the

shin, trying to free the stupid doll. I play keep away knowing that

I'm going to have more bruises on my shin than just that one unless I

give it up. 



Donny runs over to join in, but has to go to extremes. He takes

Erica's doll and rips a plastic arm off, sending it flying over the

bleachers. The little girl goes into a screaming frenzy, tears flowing

out of her eyes and washing her shiny blue eye shadow down her face,

streaking her candy apple rouge cheeks. Next he grabs for Samantha's

doll, wanting to tear her apart, too. I'm taller then him, so he can't

reach it easily. Instead, he hits my face. 



"You jerk! What are you doing?" I shout, Samantha's doll forgotten as

my arms come down to grab Donny's baseball jersey. She darts toward

the doll lying discarded in the dirt, worried that Donny will get his

hands on it. 



"Whatcha gonna do, you pussy? Beat me up?" Donny says, spit dribbling

from the corner of his mouth. I twist his shirt, pulling him closer to

me, looking him in the eye. His Red Sox cap falls off, allowing his

stringy black hair to come tumbling down over his eyes. 



"Maybe I will beat you up," I say, staring into his eyes. Samantha is

now crying harder, pulling at my shirt, wanting this to end. "Or maybe

I'll let you live, you slime encrusted cock sucker."



"Fox, stop!" Samantha cries, pulling at the hem of my shirt. I try to

brush her off, not wanting her to get hurt if I have to slug this

creep. She gives up and I don't know where she goes. I can't see her

and focus on Donny, too. 



"Better listen to your sister, dickhead, before I knock your teeth

out. Of course, that would be an improvement over . . ." he starts to

say, but Samantha kicks him in the shin so hard that he goes down into

the dirt. Then she follows through with a well placed kick to his

nuts. 



Donny is on the ground, grabbing himself and trying not to cry when I

hear 'the voice' behind me. Samantha's wide eyes are stuck open,

unblinking, like the broken eyes of the old plastic doll in her small

hands. 



"Fox William Mulder! What do you think you are doing?" my mom asks,

her high pitched voice enough to make my heart pound harder. I'm in

deep shit now and I didn't even start this. 



Donny scampers to his feet, trying to look innocent. He begins to

rattle off all the things I did to him faster than I can even think.

The kid must be used to pleading his case. His sister is still looking

for her doll's arm and I can hear her sobs from here. Mom stands with

her arms crossed over her chest, looking as pissed as I've ever seen

her. Usually she reserves this look for when Dad finally comes home

days after he promised. 



"You named him right. Your son is an animal, Mrs. Mulder," Donny says,

grinning all the time he's saying it. Oh, he is dead now. I will pound

his skinny ass to the ground the next time I get a hold of him. 



"Fox didn't do it, Mommy. I did," Samantha says, her voice so tiny we

hardly heard her. I stand there, looking stunned. Samantha is taking

the blame for something? She looks up at me with those little girl

eyes and begins to tell her side of the story. "I didn't listen to

him. . . about coming home. Then Donny hurt Erica's doll and he was

going to hurt Millie but Fox stopped him. I'm the one who kicked him.

I'm sorry."



Mom looks from one dirty face to the next, trying to determine what

the truth really is. I'm still staring at Samantha, amazed that she

did that. Usually, the brat lets me take all the blame. Maybe she

isn't so bad. She's still crying, looking far too small to be the

person who brought Donny Abbott down. She's tougher than I thought.



"Are we in trouble?" I ask, digging my heel into the dirt. I'm always

in trouble. Samantha never is. I'm supposed to watch her, to take care

of her, and when I fail, I catch hell. Just like I know I'm going to

when we get home. But I was watching her. Will Mom understand that?

I'd never let anyone like Donny hurt her. 



"I'm so mad at both of you, I wouldn't know where to start," Mom says,

her eyes still hot with anger. Samantha and I look at one another

before looking at the ground. Donny hasn't said another word. Good

thing, too. I'm ready to punch him. Mom sighs and takes Samantha's

small hand in hers. "Let's just go home."



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



FBI Headquarters

February 6, 2000

5:15 p.m.





The file nearly slips from my hands and I lay it on the empty metal

bed. It came from her doctor in Greenwich, a specialist in bone

abnormalities. My eyes wandered over the information, silently

absorbing it into my head. Paget's disease of the bone is a chronic,

slowly progressive skeletal condition of abnormally rapid bone

destruction and reformation. Coupled with carcinoma, cancerous tumors

of the bone. 



It explains my findings perfectly. Because the bones affected by

Paget's disease grow more blood vessels than normal, it makes the

heart work harder. She was suffering from minor heart problems as well

from the extra strain. Pain. She lived in constant physical pain from

the bones swelling and the fractures. There is no cure for Paget's

carcinoma. It was a death sentence that could have taken years to

carry out.



I lean forward and press my fingertips into my eyes and the truth

becomes apparent. This was no conspiracy. No homicide. No murder.



I look down and see her blood on my scrubs. Staining me with the

truth.



_She killed herself._



Anger rises deep within the pit of my stomach. Couldn't she at least

have told him why she did it? Why should Mulder always have to search

for the answers himself? 



I didn't want to believe she could do this to herself. But here it is

in black and white before me. A mercy killing, self-inflicted. She

must have know we'd find these records and we'd put it together. She

never explained any of her actions anymore. Even when it was obvious

it was destroying the last bit of trust Mulder had in her. Their

relationship was ravaged by the years beyond repair.



_Trust no one._ 



He must have learned that from her.



********



Mulder's Apartment

November 19, 1999

5:30 p.m.





"Mulder?" I call, knocking on the door of his apartment for the third

time. I know he's in there and the television is on. I'm supposed to

be taking him to the airport.



"Just a minute," he says from behind the door. Eventually, I hear the

locks turn and rattle. It swings open and Mulder's austere face is

staring back at me. "I'm sorry, Scully...I should have called you."



I look him up and down disapprovingly. He's got on an old gray t-shirt

and jeans with no socks or shoes. I glance at my watch. "Why aren't

you ready, Mulder? Your flight leaves in one hour."



He opens the door wide enough to let me enter. His apartment is a

wreck after four weeks of recovery at home. I fought everyday to keep

him here and resting from the brain surgery they performed on him. The

scars on his scalp are still healing, but they are clean enough to go

without the bandages. His hair sticks up in all direction, disheveled

and unkempt.



"I'm not going to Connecticut, Scully," he mumbles, collapsing back on

the couch. He leans his head backwards and shuts his eyes. The room is

dark, the only light source is from the muted television. "My head

hurts too much to fly."



On the table are tapes and files that he had shipped from work. He

makes no attempt to conceal them from me. The hospital manifest...the

security tape. I pick up the remote from the sofa cushions and rewind

the VCR.  I ease onto the couch beside him, sinking into the worn

leather. 



My thumb hits the 'play button' and the image of Teena Mulder comes

up. She is talking to the Smoking Man, but he remains in the shadows

and out of view. Her face is an unreadable mask as she listens to

whatever he has to say. The tape is squeaking against the VCR heads,

evidence of how many times Mulder has watched this particular section.

I sigh and let it play out silently.



"You're not going to get the answer from this tape," I say, looking

over at him. Mulder opens his eyes and brings his head upright, his

hand slipping over mine to take the remote away. He turns off the TV,

leaving us in darkness.



"I thought I was ready," he mutters, tossing the remote on the coffee

table. It makes a loud smack at it hits the surface. "I *was* going to

see her today, but I just can't. I mean, what am I going to say to

her?"



"She's your mother, Mulder," I remind him gently. I slowly move my

hand over to his, lacing our fingers together loosely. "You have a

right to know why she did it."



"She signed me over to them, Scully," he says, pulling his hand from

mine. He leans forward and picks up the hospital manifest. He slaps it

with the back of his other hand. "Right here...Teena Mulder."



"He's obviously coerced her into doing that," I say, pointing to tape.

I didn't like making excuses for her actions, but I wasn't sure what

else to tell him. "We don't know what was said between them or what he

told her."



"Don't you get it, Scully?" he says, suddenly rising to his feet. "He

didn't coerce her into anything. Did you see her face? She did it

willingly."



I remain seated as he moves back and forth, releasing some of the

repressed anger. I am at a loss for words at this point. None of it

makes any sense at all to me either.



"She handed me over to him like she did Samantha," he continues,

spitting out each word. "Maybe he's her father too for all I know."



"What did you say?" I ask, confused. I lean forward and rest my elbows

on my knees and giving him my full attention. Imploring him to

continue.



"He said he was my father," Mulder finally says, voice trailing off.

His eyes wander around the room randomly and focuses on nothing. "That

bastard said he was my father. And do you know what, Scully?"



"What?" I whisper.



Mulder clasps his hands on his chest. "I believe him." 



"Was that in your dream, too?" I ask, wondering when he got the

information from.



"My father hated me, Scully," Mulder says spitefully. "He always

looked at me with casual disinterest. I knew something wasn't right.

All this time I knew he resented the fact I was still here and

Samantha was the one who was missing. He had to give someone up,

Scully. Remember? He gave up his daughter. He couldn't give me up

because I wasn't really his son."



"So you're saying he and your mother had an affair?" I speculate,

shaking my head in disbelief.



"Why not? Would explain so much, wouldn't it? They both know what

happened to Samantha. Probably made some secret pact never to tell

me," he continues. Mulder sits back down on the couch and wraps his

arm around me harshly, forcing me to look ahead. The other arm reaches

for the remote again. He rewinds the tape and plays the scene over. 



"Just look at them, Scully," he breathes in my ear. "She's not

arguing, she's not getting angry. She just stands there, hanging on

his every word. He knew her before I was born, Scully. He was trying

to tell me something all those years ago."



"Then you should get on that plane and confront her," I say,

struggling to get out of his grip before he plays the tape again. He

rewinds it anyway. "Stop it, Mulder. I don't need to see it anymore!"



"Confront her?" he sneers, letting me go. I stand up and move away

from him, manually taking the tape out of the VCR. "Why should I even

bother? She'll never admit it. She never does. She just keeps her

mouth shut like she always has."



I stand my ground firmly. "You need to confront, Mulder. You're never

going to get the answers any other way."



He shakes his head, his lower lip trembling. "She's rather die than

tell me, Scully."



"You don't mean that..."



Mulder doesn't answer.





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



Fox Mulder's Apartment

February 6, 2000



". . . I'm sure you are busy."



Too busy. Always busy trying to find out exactly what you already

knew, Mom. Now I have more to do. More to find out. Because of some

cryptic message you left. Just once . . . for the last time in your

life, you could have told me the truth. Just come out with it. 



Now you are gone and I know nothing more because of it. Fucking piling

mystery on top of mystery. I have to figure out why you died. I had to

send my best friend off to take you apart to find answers. I hope some

are there. If anyone can find the truth from you now, Mom, it is

Scully. All I have is this recording and your voice as you try to tell

me something you should have told me years ago. Scully has everything

else. 



But no matter how many times I play this, I can't dissect you any

better than I could in life. I hit play over and over and over and the

answers aren't there. What are you trying to tell me, Mom? What is it

I can't hear? Help me understand. 



You tell me that you hope one day I will understand your actions. I

don't want to understand someday. I want to understand now. 



My mind tries to piece together the answers. Whatever you knew cost

you your life. I've spent my life trying to find out what you might

have already have known. The price has been too high. Too many lives

and now yours, too, Mom. The truth had better be worth it. 



Where you afraid of what I'd do once I knew the answers? Afraid I

wouldn't be satisfied? Afraid I'd hate you for sins of the past? For

driving me away? For not loving me enough? 



I rest my head on the machine, your voice in my ear. It is as if I'm a

little boy again, resting my head against your breast, desperate for

solace. You once were a safe place for me to go to, but that was so

long ago I can hardly remember it. Then came Samantha and I had to be

the big brother. Then she was gone and I had to be the one left

behind. Left behind with only you to comfort me and you didn't do a

very good job of it. Perhaps because there was no one there to comfort

you. We should have been there for each other, Mom, instead of against

each other. 



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



Bill Mulder's Residence, Martha's Vineyard

August 23, 1980

4:29 p.m. 



"Fox?" 



My name echoes loudly through the house and Erica's eyes open wide. I

stop moving, feeling my hard-on falter quickly with the sound of my

mother's voice. 



"It's your mother!" Erica whispers, pushing me off of her. She jumps

out of bed, trying to find her clothes. Too bad we left them in the

living room. She pulls her long, tangled brown hair into some kind of

twist but it doesn't hide that just fucked look. 



"Here," I say, tossing her my t-shirt. At least is is something, but

it is still obvious what we were doing in here. I grab a pair of

shorts and pull them on carefully, the zipper painful on my still

sensitive penis. 



Fuck this. Mom wasn't supposed to be here today. I knew she was coming

to the Vineyard and that she has a key to Dad's place, but she said

tomorrow. I leave soon to go back to England and she wanted to see me

one more time before my flight. Leave it to her to fuck everything up.





"Fox?" Mom calls again, and I hear her footsteps approach the door.

Erica Abbott pulls the hem on the shirt down, but it doesn't help

much. Her long, tanned legs are still a mile long and her perfectly

shaved crotch is barely covered. Shit. She looks like a porn star and

Mom will probably have a stroke. And Erica will probably never do it

again with me because of this. Then again, this is Erica we are

talking about. She'll do it with most anybody. 



Mom stands in the doorway, staring at the two of us. Her mouth twists

but she can't find the right words for what she is feeling. Well, what

else is new? She hasn't been able to tell me what she's been feeling

for years. I told her I was going to Oxford and she didn't say a damn

word for two days. I come home and she assumes I'm too busy to talk to

her. 



"Fox William Mulder," she says, her voice ice cold. "What are you

doing with that girl?"



"Well, I'm pretty sure you can figure that one out for yourself," I

say and Mom stares at Erica. I know what she is thinking, where this

is headed. Samantha. The world still revolves around Samantha. 



"Go get your clothes and go home, Erica. I thought you knew better

than this," my mother says, as if Erica is 'bad' because she was doing

this with me. Never mind the fact that just about every other guy in

this little town has done her, too. 



Erica scurries past my mom, her ass hanging out of underneath the

t-shirt hem. Damn. I wanted a piece of that badly, too. 



"Fox, she's a friend of your sister's. The same age . . ." my mother

starts to say, her voice shaking at the thought. 



"Mom, don't start with me. Erica was . . . is older than Samantha.

She's not a child anymore. Just because Samantha will forever be eight

in your mind doesn't mean the rest of the world didn't move on since

then . . . hell, if whatever happened to her didn't happen to her, you

might have caught her with some guy . . ."



"Shut up," she says angrily. Yes, Samantha is still her baby and I'm

the kid who didn't do enough to stop . . . whatever it was. It is

still a blur in my mind. She was there and then she was gone. And it

is my fault. 



"She's gone, Mom. As much as I've wished for her to just show back up

here, it hasn't happened," I say, pulling on a t-shirt and looking at

myself in the mirror. She is behind me and our eyes meet in the

reflection. That's funny because she can hardly meet my eyes in

person. 



"How do you know she is gone and isn't coming back?" Mom asks, her

voice growing softer. Usually does when she talks about Samantha. 



I turn around to face her and she looks away. She always does. Does

she hate me that much? Can't stand that I'm the one who's here and

Samantha isn't? What did I ever do to deserve this? Dad treats me with

casual disinterest and Mom acts as if I did something criminal by just

existing. And they wonder why I want to get the hell away from here. 



"I know she isn't coming back because you have never told me

otherwise, Mom," I say and finally she looks at me. 



"One day . . ." she starts to say, but stops herself. 



"One day what, Mom? All you ever tell me is one day. Fuck this. You

don't even know, do you?" I ask, and she just turns away from me. I

follow her down the hallway to the front door. 



"One day you'll understand," is the last thing I hear her say before

the door slams shut on my face, separating us. 



"Yeah. But not if it is up to you."



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



Fox Mulder's Apartment

February 6, 2000

6:00 p.m.



I fall to my knees, unable to support my own weight at the moment.

Tears start to swell in my eyes but I fight them. I have to be strong.

I have to try. 



Mulder twists in the chair, hunched over as the anger becomes sorrow.

He rotates to the left as if he's been stabbed in the heart. Pain

radiating from deep within and consuming him whole. It is like she's

died all over again, but this time he must accept it.



I lay my hand on his arm to keep him from collapsing, offering the

only explanation I have for her actions. "She was trying to tell you

to stop. To stop looking for your sister."



His muffled sobs break the silence of the room. 



"She was just trying to take away your pain. . ." I say, voice

trailing off as my own tears begin. I hope that is what she was trying

to do. I couldn't think of anything else that her suicide would

accomplish besides finally releasing Mulder from his obligation to

find Samantha. His atonement for whatever she did in the past. 



I catch him in my arms as he slides out of the chair.



I cradle his head against my breast, my heart. Wishing I could take

away this pain. My lips kiss his neck gently as his arms clutch at my

waist. Holding me tighter and tighter as we sink together to the

floor. 



"I don't understand, mom," he whispers, thinking out loud. "One day

I'll understand what? Why you stopped looking for her?"



It's probably a reference to a conversation they had long ago. It

sounded like something she'd say. She spoke in cryptic, half-truths to

him and always with a double meaning. I bet he spent all afternoon

listening to that message. Just like he spent all afternoon watching

that security tape, going over each and every detail trying to

decipher the cause and reason for her actions. 



I close my eyes and let the tears stream down my cheeks. I rock Mulder

back and forth slowly and kiss him again, offering what little comfort

I can. My fingers smooth his hair down. I wonder when the last time

Teena Mulder held her son was. They should have been there for each

other. I know Mulder wanted to be there for her, but he couldn't bring

himself to do it. I've watched how he's tried. In the hospital room in

Rhode Island. The grave in West Virginia. The missed flight to

Connecticut. 



"I'm sorry, Mulder," I choke out between my own sobs. "I'm sorry I

didn't find anything..."



"There was nothing to find," he replies, slipping further down my

body. We cling to each other in quiet desperation. "I listened to that

damn message over and over again. The answers aren't there either. I

don't know where to look anymore, Scully..."



"I wish I had more to offer you," I say, knowing the words sound

terribly inadequate to convey the emotion behind them. If I knew how

to bring Samantha back, I would. I want him to have closure. Whether

she's alive or dead or on some damn alien ship. Mulder has a right to

know.



His arms let go of me so he can sit up on the floor beside me.

Mulder's breathing becomes more steady as he struggles to regain his

composure. Somewhere, he is getting strength and determination. I can

see it in his eyes, that tiny spark of tenacity that is synonymous

with Fox Mulder.



"More to offer me?" he repeats, shaking his head as if he didn't

understand my statement. 



"I don't know what else I can do," I answer, clenching my fists

together to keep my hands from shaking. "Tell me what I can do,

Mulder."



His hands reach out and cup my face. Now I am the one who cannot

breathe, overwhelmed by emotion. 



"You've done so much, Scully," he says after a long pause. "I know you

didn't want to do that autopsy. I should have never asked you to, but

I didn't know where else to turn. I knew I could trust you to tell me

'the truth.' Even if it was something I didn't want to know."



"That's why I'm here," I begin, his face becoming blurred and

distorted behind tears. "I don't want you to go through this alone,

Mulder. She was still your mother."



"But you were the one who's always been there, Scully," he says. His

hands move to my shoulders and I feel his inner strength extending to

me. "From day one, you seemed to understand what finding Samantha

means to me. You never stopped me. You never let me give up."



"We'll find Samantha," I pledge, looking deep within his eyes.  



His hands slip away and Mulder stares at me. "We'll?"



I nod, laying my hands on his face. I press my thumbs against his

lips, tracing their fullness briefly as they turn up in a tiny,

hopeful smile. 



"Yes," I affirm. "Without your mother."



*******



Mulder's hotel room

Bellefleur, Oregon

March 9, 1992



"I was twelve when it happened. My sister was eight. She just

disappeared out of her bed one night. Just gone, vanished. No note, no

phone calls, no evidence of anything," I tell her. 



I don't know why she is listening so intently. She probably already

knows all this. 'They' probably filled her in with every detail of my

life, however minute and unimportant. 



Yet, she hangs on every word I say, as if she is pretending to be

Sherlock Holmes trying to make all the pieces come together in a

logical fashion. Somehow, I don't think logic applies when it comes to

my family or Samantha. Or even me. 



I look at her, resting on my bed and curled up under my blanket. Can I

trust her, this woman who has moved into my life so quickly as to be

this comfortable around me? She is lit only by flickering candlelight

and the dim streetlight from the parking lot, diffused and distorted

by the rain running down the window. She is now my partner whether I

like it or not. I cannot treat her as anything more until I know I can

trust her implicitly. But I so want to share everything with someone. 



Maybe Scully even knows all the answers already. Perhaps they told her

everything and she is just here to lead me into certain failure. I

hope that isn't the case. I would like to have a partner on this . . .

search of mine. Someone to challenge me. Diana was only a lapdog,

happy to go along with whatever I suggested. If Scully *can't*

disprove my theories, then the theory will be that much stronger. 



"You never found her?" Scully asks. 



I'm sure she knows that, too, but there has been no one else who has

wanted to talk about this. I don't even know if Diana listened. I want

to tell my story. My mother will not discuss it. She turns to stone as

soon as I mention what I've learned about that night. She tells me I'm

crazy. That I should just let it go. That I shouldn't waste my life

pursuing this. 



My father pretends I'm not alive. It as if I'm not his son, or at

least not since I went through regression therapy. When I told him

what I thought happened the night Samantha disappeared, he walked away

from me, but not before telling me to never mention that night again. 



The old Mulder way. Let's just pretend it didn't happen. 



"Tore the family apart. No one would talk about it. There were no

facts to confirm, nothing to offer any hope," I say. All I want to do

is find some hope. Something that tells me what might have happened to

her and where she might be now. I want to find Samantha. There can be

nothing else in my life until I do so. 



If my mother knew, would she have told me by now? When she realized I

was pissing away most of my career to find her, would she have come up

with the answers to save whatever respect I still had? Does she even

care anymore? 



"What did you do?" she asks, sounding overly curious and caring. I'm

sure she knows this, too. My educational history is no secret. I ran

away from my parents to go to s school on the other side of the

'pond.' Maybe I was trying to start over, but I couldn't. I had to

come back here. Had to find the answers. I just didn't know that is

what I would be doing when I first got back. 



"Eventually, I went off to school in England, I came back, got

recruited by the bureau. Seems I had a natural aptitude for applying

behavioral models to criminal cases. My success allowed me a certain

freedom to pursue my own interests. And that's when I came across the

X-Files," I say, filling her in with what I feel safe to tell her. I

need to tell her more. Need to trust someone. 



Is she the one? The one I will be able to trust without question? I

can't trust my parents. Can't trust the government. Can't even trust

myself all the time. I need someone to be there with me, someone who

will not betray me and lie to me. 



I look at her, Special Agent Dana Scully, listening to me as if I'm

the only person on earth. She will either raise me up or bring me

down. This woman who has either been sent to spy on me or to save me.

Only time will tell, but for now I have to learn to trust her, even if

she is on their side. 



She asks another question, and I want to give her all the answers. I

want her to help me. I *need* her to help me. 



Maybe she has been sent merely to help me find closure. 



*********



The End



Author's End Notes (by Jori): Mojo and I missed working together after

'Lessons' and this is what came about. Sorry about the lack of M&S

smut, but it just didn't seem to fit in here. Maybe next time. Please

direct any feedback to both of us... well, if you REALLY hated the

Mulder POV, send the nasty feedback to Jori and if you REALLY hated

(how could you?) the Scully POV, direct the nasty feedback to MoJo.

Send any nice, loving feedback or feedback about the complete story to

both of us or we can exchange. Or pehaps we are even the same person .

. .