AUTHOR'S NOTES: These series of vignettes are inspired by
my recent trip to Washington, DC. My apologies to
residents of that city or the surrounding area for any
incorrect geographic or landmark references.

Please see additional Author's Notes at the end of Part 1.

All thanks to my betas Hillary, Duke, KatyBlue, and Keleka
who provide me with straightforward and insightful
comments, and keep me honest. A note of appreciation to
Tiny Dancer's XF transcripts which always serve as an
excellent reference tool. Thanks also to my
CrystalShipmates--I couldn't ask for a better support
group for my X-Files addiction.

Feedback is always appreciated...hey, I live for it!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
 

Key Bridge (1 of 2)
 

Several bridges connect the bedroom communities of
Washington to the city and to each other. Probably the
most famous is Arlington Memorial Bridge. Its neoclassical
expanse over the Potomac is graced with majestic
equestrian sculptures, bas-relief eagles, and American
heroic figures. Driving into the city via the bridge, a
visitor is welcomed by the stately Lincoln Memorial; the
Arlington National Cemetery and Arlington House greet
those leaving the city.

I often drive the Memorial to and from work, but I've come
to realize that many of my significant life experiences
have begun as I crossed a smaller, nondescript bridge that
holds no historical or tourist allure.

Key Bridge quietly spans the northwest Potomac River. Open
to two-way automobile and pedestrian traffic, it is not
unusual to see more joggers, dog walkers, and bicyclists
than cars at certain times of the day. I can cross the
bridge in two minutes; or be delayed in traffic up
to a half hour during rush hour, weekend evenings, or
holidays. Gently arching ironwork painted pale blue spans
the length of each side of the bridge, presumably to
prevent accidental--or purposeful--falls.

Key Bridge is named after Francis Scott Key, the author of
the Star-Spangled Banner. With the assistance of one
Colonel John Skinner, he was also called on to negotiate
the release of several American prisoners during the War
of 1812. I find it fitting that in a city memorializing
powerful warriors and statesmen, I come to you via the
edifice of a simple lawyer and poet thrust into
extraordinary acts by extraordinary circumstances.

Key Bridge links Alexandria to Georgetown.

Key Bridge links you to me.

I first crossed the Key in the role of your partner, a
crackpot--albeit brilliant--colleague you inherited in
your bid to gain field experiences and further your
career. There were many trips as your partner, with a
myriad of experiences important in their own right, but
one of the first stands out in my mind for its
simplicity and significance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The bridge was busy that Sunday in April. An unseasonably
warm spring had brought out the beautiful people of
Georgetown in full force.

"Scully, you've got to move, that bridge traffic is
killing me!" I'd only been to your apartment one other
time.

You threw me the eyebrow. I hadn't quite learned how to
duck yet. "Mulder, we can always meet at the office."

You had let me in the door, but it was obvious I was
intruding on your personal time. The smell of Pine-Sol
filled the apartment and a laundry basket was sitting on
the couch. You moved it so I could sit down.

"What's up, Mulder?" you asked, sitting down beside me and
adjusting the headband you were wearing. Your hair was
longer then.

"I just wanted to give you the lab results we salvaged
from the Arctic Ice Core Project. I thought you might need
to review them again before you presented your report to
Blevins tomorrow."

You looked at me patiently. You had the grace not to point
out that you were a magna cum laude, a doctor, and in
the Top Ten of your class at the Academy. You were a big
girl now, sitting at the grown-ups' table--you had already
reviewed the lab results.

My Ice Core Project cover was blown--it was time for Plan
B, the truth.

"Ah, I also wanted to give you these." I reached into my
windbreaker pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

"What are these?"

"Keys to my apartment." I noticed the frown developing
between your eyes and continued quickly. "I thought that
now that we're partners, it would make sense for you to
have keys to my place."

"Why?"

Why? Your question took me off guard. I had expected you
to accept them without question, to accept them even
with some modicum of a smile.

I had to scramble to shift gears. "Ah, so when I'm out of
town on a case, you can have access to my apartment if you
need it. To get case files, documents..."

The frown between your eyes deepened. "Mulder, if you're
out of town on a case, chances are I'll be out of town
with you--that's the whole point of our being partners."

And in the brief time we had been partners, I was again
reminded of your formidable logic. "Well, not always,
Scully. There may be times when we are separated, pursuing
different leads in a case." I was also reminded that I
could call on some formidable logic of my own when needed.

I could see you weren't convinced. "It's no big deal,
Scully. I give my keys to all my partners." Of course,
that was the coup de grace, the 'trust-me-as-the-senior-
agent-that's-what-partners-do-for-each-other' line that
closed the deal.

It was also a blatant lie, but you didn't know that then.

Left unspoken in my offer was my friendship, my apology
for treating you with suspicion at first, and my trust. It
was a gesture of appreciation for the honesty of your
reports to Blevins, and the look of fierce determination
on your face as you stared down Mossinger to claim me from
Ellens Air Base.

However, you really didn't know me then, and you didn't
know that my offer of small tokens like keys masked deeper
emotions.

You studied me intently for a moment and then shrugged in
acceptance and went to put the keys on your own key ring.
I sat on the couch and waited for you to return. As I
glanced around your apartment, my gaze was drawn to the
table behind the couch that housed an array of family
photographs. Your father, ramrod straight in his naval
uniform, stared back at me sternly.

My discomfort at his scrutiny ended as I heard you move
back into the living room. I assumed that you were
returning with a set of your keys for me. After all,
turnabout was fair play.

You returned empty-handed.

My surprise must have shown, but you didn't acknowledge
it. Instead, you asked me if I'd like a drink. As we sat
drinking bottled water that you poured into glasses--
because you didn't believe in drinking out of bottles or
cans then--I was overcome with an uncomfortable
realization that I was not likely to get your keys now, or
in the near future.

At the earliest acceptable moment, I made my excuses and
moved towards the door. As I stood in the doorway, still
wondering how I'd lost control over this phase of our
partnership, you leaned against the open door and smiled
softly at me.

"You know, Mulder, if you ever need to get into my
apartment, you can always contact my landlord. He loves
anything to do with the FBI." A small smile, playing about
your lips as if in response to a private joke, further
unnerved me.

I mimicked your shrug of acceptance from earlier. "Hey,
Scully, you're probably right, neither one of us will ever
need access to the other's apartment."

My tone might have been harsher than I intended because I
saw the frown between your--your father's--eyes again.

It was time to school you in my habit of using humor as a
mask for stronger emotions. "Hey, you're going to
regret accepting my keys. Now it means you have to look
after my fish when I'm gone." Everything was a joke to
Good-times Mulder. Nothing to worry about.

"Your fish?"

"Yeah, especially Kang, he's the boss goldfish in the
tank."

"Kang, the goldfish?" Your voice was tinged with
laughter.

"Named after the biggest, baddest Klingon on Star Trek."

You laughed outright then and I joined you, and I thought
that maybe I was right to trust you after all.

You gave me your keys two months later.

We were returning from North Carolina after the business
with Luther Lee Boggs. I drove you home from the airport,
even though we'd had a standoff in the parking lot
over who should drive. It was my car, my leg was feeling
better, and I was the guy--I thought that way then--so I
did the driving. You'd been very quiet since we left the
airport; actually, you'd said virtually nothing since we
left North Carolina.

Key Bridge was backed up into Arlington. As we waited, I
tried to draw you into conversation. "Scully, you wouldn't
happen to have the file folder with you on the Eve case?"
Before you could protest that I needed to rest, I
continued: "Since I'm still going to be laid up for a few
days, I thought I'd do some 'light' reading."

Reluctantly, you reached into the battered briefcase you
always carried in our first couple of years together. At
that moment, the traffic cleared slightly, and I pressed
on the accelerator to move forward. Unfortunately, my leg injury
was still giving me a bit of a problem, and I hit it too
strongly. The car lurched forward, sending your briefcase
and its contents to the floor.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly in response to your I-told-you-
I-should-drive glare.

As you wrestled getting your papers back into the
briefcase, the sun caught a metallic glint on the floor.
You noticed it too. "Oh, Mulder, I've been meaning to give
you something," you said, as you continued to collect the
spilled papers.

A set of keys jingled in your hands. "My house key is the
one with the blue tag; my car key has the red." You smiled
shyly at me.

The psychologist in me kicked into high gear. I didn't
want your keys out of a sense of obligation or as an
afterthought. I didn't want them as a symbolic offering of
appeasement to a male for the disappointment you thought
your father felt in you. I saw guilt for pulling the gun
on me at the Ice Base. I saw vulnerability after the loss
of your Dad.

"Scully, you don't need...I don't want..."

Your hand rested against my arm, stilling my thoughts.
Your eyes locked with mine. "Mulder, I've had these with
me for awhile. I just forgot to give them to you before
now."

Then, because you had recently enrolled in the Fox-Mulder-
humor-for-emotion relationship school: "It's no big deal,
Mulder. I give my keys to all my partners."

Unfortunately, you must have missed the class when we
discussed appropriate timing for such humor. Besides, I
was your first true partner. You weren't ready for the
game, and I called you on it.

"Why now?"

You looked out the window and sighed wearily. "Like I
said, Mulder, I've been meaning to give you my keys--it
was just an oversight on my part."

Your gaze turned from the window to me again, and your
eyes entreated me not to read anything more into your
offer than what you said.

Of course, you were lying. Dr. Dana Scully--magna cum
laude, in the Top Ten of her class at the Academy, and the
big girl sitting at the grown-ups' table--didn't 'forget'
things.

But I didn't know you well enough to see it then.

Or maybe your motives took a backseat to my own need for
your acceptance of our partnership and of me.

Whatever the reason, I took your keys and shoved them into
my pocket. Theoretically, we were partners the day the FBI
paired us together. In my mind, however, we became
partners that day on the bridge. You had my keys and I had
yours. We had access to each other's life.

We had trust.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

My next significant passage over Key Bridge didn't occur
until almost three years later. Of course, I'd crossed
over before then, but that summer evening years ago
carried our friendship to a new level.

Since returning from the Temple of the Seven Stars, I had
been restless and irritable. The cases we were working on
didn't interest me, running wasn't helping, and Skinner's
coolness didn't improve matters.

The results of my regression therapy were constantly on my
mind. Had I really existed in a previous life? Was I
destined to be haunted by the evil of Cancer Man? In my
empty apartment, the questions became too much to bear,
and I fled to my car.

Without thinking, I found myself crossing Key Bridge to
your apartment. I sat in the car for several minutes
debating whether I should inflict my restlessness on you.
You'd lived with it firsthand all week; the weekend should
be as much your downtime as mine. Besides, our trip to
Tennessee hadn't seemed to affect you. You'd given me your
little 'I-wouldn't-change-a-day' pep talk and then carried
on as professionally as usual.

Entering your building, I berated myself briefly for my
selfishness, but it didn't prevent me from ringing your
doorbell. I had no plan, no Arctic Ice Project case file--
I just wanted your company.

"Mulder, is everything alright?"

Even then, I was chagrined that you assumed my appearance
at your doorway was the sign of impending doom. "Sure,
everything's fine...why do you ask?"

"Because it's 1:00 AM." When had it gotten so late? It was
then that I noticed you were dressed in lavender short-
sleeve silk pajamas. Your hair was tousled; your eyes were
tired, but clear.

You noticed me looking at you, and moved behind the door.
"Well, come in, I'll make some coffee."

"No, Scully, I didn't realize it was so late...I'll go."

"Mulder..." Your voice grasped me gently by the shoulder
and steered me into your apartment. I knew better than to
resist.

"Let me just grab my robe, okay?"

I wanted to tell you not to bother, that what you were
wearing was totally unrevealing and not the least bit
distracting, but I knew you'd know I was lying, so I kept
quiet.

While you were gone, I wandered aimlessly about your
apartment, reacquainting myself with your family photos.
But it was another set of photographs, strewn across your
dining room table that froze me in my tracks for a moment.
As I heard the water run in your bathroom, I moved quietly
over to table for a closer look.

Staring back at me were the photographs of Sullivan Biddle
and Sarah Kavanaugh. Not just photographs, but a thick
file folder of papers from the Hamilton County Hall of
Records. Perhaps I wasn't the only one who was having
sleepless nights over this case after all.

In my reverie, I didn't notice you standing at the
entrance to your bedroom. I didn't see you, but I felt
your presence.

"I thought these had been returned to the archive," I said
gruffly, without looking up. Sullivan's picture was
unsettling; Sarah's torn photograph reminded me of Melissa
Ephesian's wasted life. The unease I felt before entering
your apartment intensified.

You moved purposefully to the table and began to gather
everything together. "You weren't supposed to see these,"
you muttered angrily. I wasn't sure if you meant to say
this aloud. The abruptness of your actions startled me,
and I backed away from you.

You suddenly stilled, and leaned against the table. "I
didn't feel I could return them in the condition they
were in, especially Sarah's. I thought I'd try to fix it,"
you said softly. You brushed furtively at your eyes.

For the first time, I noticed the tape dispenser. You
focused on it as well. A frown creased your forehead.
And again to yourself, more than me: "What was I thinking?
I can't fix this...I can't fix any of it."

"I didn't realize you had so much invested in this case,"
I said coldly. I would later attribute this comment to
lack of sleep, post-regression therapy stress disorder,
and an unfavorable alignment of the planets. But, that was
an analysis for later. To hell with your self-flagellation
right now: this case had obviously affected you, but you'd
let me believe otherwise. I'd stewed over it for a week--
and you'd left me alone to do so.

Blue eyes widened in surprise. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you aren't the curator of the archive--it's up to
them to handle these things." And just in case you hadn't
realized that this case had me off balance: "Besides, it's
an improper handling of evidence...you should know
better."

Blue eyes narrowed with anger. "I didn't realize you were
such a proponent of rules and regulations." The air
crackled. "You're welcome to censure me with
Skinner if that's what you want."

No, I didn't want that. I wanted you to tell me that this
case had crept into your very being and was taking up
residence. I wanted you to feel like I was feeling.

I didn't want to be alone.

"I haven't been sleeping," I said quietly.

I expected you to say 'what else is new?', but instead you
looked closely at me. Your expression softened. "You've
got to let this go."

"I can't. Scully, I know you don't believe in this
regression therapy, but I've been thinking." I sat down
heavily at the table. You took the chair beside me.

"Scully, why were we all different?"

"What do you mean?"

The thoughts swirling around in my mind that week took
hold. I grabbed the photograph of Sullivan.
"I mean, why was I a soldier in one life; a young Jewish
woman in another?" I picked up a section of Sarah's
damaged picture. Why was Melissa my fiancée during the
Civil War, but Sidney another time?" Why were you...?"

"Mulder." You tried to cut through my turmoil. I felt you
grip my arms, and shake me ever so slightly. "Mulder, I am
Dana Katherine Scully. That's who I am--that's who I've
always been."

I ignored your attempt. "But Scully, if you were my
sergeant and later my father, then that must say something
about this whole idea of soul mates."

"What, that they don't exist?"

Your question made me pause. "You don't believe in soul
mates at all? Even if they are just limited to one life?"

Your gaze, locked on me a moment ago, dropped to the
floor. You measured your words carefully. "I think there
are too many people in this world to say that there is
only one person for another. I think within a person's
circle, there are people who play a variety of significant
but different roles. And people move in and out of that
circle all the time."

I considered your theory. "And maybe those roles change,
not just in one life, but over several." My thoughts began
to coalesce. I could feel my excitement mounting.

"Scully, what if there are different types and levels of
soul mates, and you can move from one to another? Maybe
you even have to prove yourself to better your position
from one life to the next--like moving from an
acquaintance in one to a husband or wife in another--or
you can even regress and drop back." I searched for a
parable. "Maybe it's like a board game, or a video game."
I didn't say the theory was perfect.

Your eyes crinkled with laughter. "Soul mates as a
function of Donkey Kong, Mulder?"

"Well, maybe more Snakes n' Ladders. I don't know Scully,
perhaps you have to answer the skill-testing question, or
grab the brass ring, or make the shot at the buzzer, or
whatever... But maybe what you were in a past life doesn't
mean you'll be the same in a present, or future life for
that matter."

The implications of my thoughts suddenly became clear.

To both of us.

For both of us.

I saw the fear in your eyes. I was challenging your sense
of well being. You could allow me my beliefs, support my
various quests, but your own sense of self demanded that
you keep your feet firmly planted in the scientific world.
Not for the first time, I wondered how working with me and
juggling such a paradox didn't leave you unbalanced or
feeling compromised.

Even through the fear, I saw the tenderness in your eyes,
and I thought I had my answer.

I could have pursued it. I could have pushed.

Instead, I let us both off the hook. Since you were now
in the process of obtaining your post-secondary degree in
the Fox-Mulder-humor-for-emotion relationship school, I
knew you would appreciate my attempt at levity. I placed
my hand gently on your shoulder.

"No matter what, Scully, I have a feeling that you're
gonna be my 'boss' in all my lives." My voice sounded
gravelly to my ears.

You smiled at the image, and the tension in the air
deflated. Your relief was almost palpable. You took the
photographs from my hands and placed them in the folder.
"Let's leave Sullivan and Sarah in peace, Mulder. C'mon, I
promised you some coffee." Then slyly, when I lingered
over the folder: "That's an order."

"Yes, ma'am."

We strolled to the kitchen, reinvested in the present. In
another time and place, had we walked--and would we walk--
together as friends? As if reading my thoughts, your
sparkling eyes peered over your coffee cup to meet mine.

I was certain of it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The leaves fell gently around us at the gravesite the day
I realized I had become your follower. Not a follower in
the traditional sense of the word--disciple, imitator,
attendant, or servant--but in the terminology of your
science: the part of a machine that receives motion from,
or follows the motion of another part.

It was quiet; the only sound was the distant traffic of
Key Bridge below. An aunt sobbed softly, still bewildered
by the sudden loss of her only sister and nephew. Diana
stood slightly removed from the group. Skinner and Kersh's
faces were set in granite.

You lingered afterwards offering condolences to the small
group of family and friends while I fidgeted in the
background. I had not wanted to attend, but you had
disregarded my reluctance: "Mulder, I'm going. Whether you
come or not is up to you."

You'd been talking to me like that a lot since we were
removed from the X-Files. Clipped, short sentences that
left dull ragged cuts on my soul.

I moved up the knoll to where Diana stood. She placed her
hand on my arm, dismissed me with a sympathetic smile, and
joined Kersh as he walked back to his car.

I turned back to the gravesite to collect you.

'You betrayed me.' I saw it in the indigo flint of your
eyes as they met with mine over the heads of the mourners.
All the anger, recrimination, and frustration of the past
few weeks crossed the distance between us in a scarlet
wave. I was almost pulled under by the undertow.

I walked down the knoll to where you stood. You put your
sunglasses on to protect yourself from the late afternoon
sun, and me from being further wounded by the anger in
your eyes. Quietly, we walked towards the car.

"We failed him. We failed her," you said flatly.

Already reeling from the emotionally charged atmosphere, I
snapped back at you. "I don't see it that way. Cassandra's
path had been chosen long before we came on the scene.
Spender's..." I paused, searching for the words. "Spender
just chose not to see."

"We didn't help him."

"What did you expect me to do, Scully?" I hissed, still
mindful of the few remaining mourners. "Tattoo the
evidence on his ass?"

I cringed inwardly when you stiffened at the unwelcome
image of Philadelphia and Ed Jerse.

You turned and looked up at me. I desperately wished I
could see your eyes.

"Mulder, we've had six years of conspiracies, abductions,
viruses, biological entities that may or may not have been
extraterrestrial...Jeffrey had nine months. He didn't
stand a chance. And we didn't make it easier for him."

We reached the parking lot. From our vantage point on the
hill, I could see the Key and its late afternoon
commuters. You leaned against the passenger side of the
car and swept your foot absently across the gravel.

"We didn't help each other either."

"Scully, we..."

"There was no 'we' during this case, Mulder."

I suddenly felt very tired. "Scully, if this is about
Diana again..."

You took your sunglasses off then and I braced myself for
more recriminations. Instead, I was taken aback by what I
saw.

Loneliness. Abandonment. Loss.

And like a freight train slamming into my chest, I
suddenly realized that--in your mind--this funeral might
have marked the passing of more than just the Spenders.

In my arrogant complacency, I'd always expected you to
support me, to be by my side, much as I expected my right
arm to be attached to my body everyday when I woke up.

For the first time in six years, I realized I might be
wrong.

Shaken, I took a few steps away from the car and looked
back out at the Key. Out of the corner of my eye, I
noticed you did the same. The bridge lights began to flick
on. You took it as a signal to walk back to the car, arms
crossed protectively against your chest, head bowed.

I was tempted to call on my studies at the Fox-Mulder-
humor-for-emotion relationship school and dazzle you with
some glib proclamation of my commitment to our
partnership--"C'mon, Scully, we've got bad guys to catch,"
or some such nonsense--but the sadness of your expression
made me swallow my words.

Instead, I touched you gently on the arm as we moved to
either side of the car. I'd told you in my hallway when
the FBI was splitting us apart and you were leaving that I
didn't think I could continue without you; that I didn't
think I wanted to.

At that moment, it wasn't a question anymore.

"It's personal for me, too, Scully."

I met the full intensity of your gaze as we looked over
the hood at each other. You were in the driver's seat,
literally and figuratively. Slowly, you nodded and climbed
into the car. I followed suit.

"Don't make me question it, again, Mulder." Your voice was
barely above a whisper. It thundered in my head.

No smart-ass comeback. No banter. No argument.

We might continue our work relationship in the same rhythm
as always with you 'following the motion' of me, but in
our personal relationship, you would take the lead. I
could push, I could cajole, I could suggestively tease,
but any movement forward would be on your timetable.

And in my alpha, one-upmanship, 'how-often-have-I-been-
wrong?' world, I was quietly amazed to discover that that
was fine with me.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
 

AUTHOR'S NOTES FOR PART 1:

Col. John Skinner was an actual participant in the War of
1812. I don't know if CC used his name as an inspiration
for the Big Guy, but I'd like to think so.

IMHO, Kang from the original Star Trek episode, Day of the
Dove, is the consummate Klingon. Go to
http://www.startrek.com/library/episodes_tos_detail.asp?ID
=68792 This one's for all you original Trekkers.

The definition of a follower is paraphrased from The
Living Webster Encyclopedic Dictionary of the English
Language.
 

Continue the journey on Key Bridge. Check out Part 2!