Title: Twist
Author: fran58 (fran58@WonderHorse.net)

This is the last part.  Let me know how it went!

Previous parts may be found at: 
http://www.WonderHorse.net/authorspgs/fran58/fran58.htm
Feedback loved and appreciated.

headers in part one

Twist part 7


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

"This is unbelievable!  I can't believe it!"  Byers was still sputtering
at her as he madly tapped on the keyboard in front of him.  He
squinted at the screen in the low light of the Gunmen's main room.

Langly sighed in Scully's ear.  "He's been wacko ever since you
gave him that printout.  I know love is blind, but in Byer's case I
guess it's had a lobotomy, too."

"How did you manage to find out where the fingerprint came
from?"  she asked.

"Friend of Byers, the one who sent the print."

Scully furrowed her brow.  "Why didn't he just tell you in the fist
place?"

Langly shrugged.  "I dunno.  He's some sort of high brow muckety
muck with the FCC.  Guess he wanted to know whose print it was
first.  Who knows how bureaucrats think?"

"Well, where did he get the print?  Where is she?"

"He got the print in Belize.  Don't know if she's still there yet. 
Signs look good though.  The Muckety-Muck says he was given the
print by another source."

"What's an FCC official doing in Belize?"

Langly shrugged again.  "Dunno.  Didn't ask."

Scully desperately tried to not roll her eyes.  Frohike caught her
reaction and grinned.

"So what happens now?"  she asked him.

"We keep doing what we've been doing.  Byers seems to trust his
source – we're just trying to figure out exactly where Modeski is
and how to contact her without drawing attention to us or to her. 
Byers thinks the print may be a sign for us to get in touch with her." 
Frohike stretched and cracked his knuckles.  "I'm not so sure about
the legitimacy of the second source, but Byers trusts his FCC guy
and the FCC guy trusts whoever he got the print from..."

Scully nodded.  "I see."

Frohike leaned in close.  "He's trying hard not to over-react, but
Byers is desperate to find her.  I think he has finally come to the end
of his rope."  Frohike frowned, his voice tinged with concern.  "I
sure hope this is legit."

They stood for several moments in silence.  Frohike finally spoke,
shifting uncomfortably as he did so.

"Langly saw Leo the other day.  They have that ongoing Tetris thing
happening, you know."

"I know."

"Anyway, I wanted to... extend my condolences."

Scully's upper lip twitched.  "Condolences, Frohike?  He didn't die. 
He dumped me."

"Yeah, well.  Anyhow, it's too bad.  I liked him, the son-of-a-bitch."

Scully nodded shortly.  "Yeah, I liked him, too."

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

Mulder paced.  He had a lot of room to pace in.  Karen was gone
and along with her departure went a large portion of their furniture. 

Thank God she had left the good television.  He had been camping
out on the couch, watching videos late into the night when he
couldn't sleep.  How quickly he had succumbed to old habits.  Bad
habits, probably, he thought.

Karen had phoned the day before.  The conversation left Mulder
feeling unsettled.  A something-was-out-of-place feeling he couldn't
shake.  She had sounded good – energetic, excited.  Getting on with
her life.  He wanted to be happy for her.  Instead he felt hollow.  He
reminded himself that it was his choice to stay in Virginia, and not
go to California.  It didn't matter.  He still felt hollow.

Coupled with the hollowness that Karen's departure had left was the
other feeling Scully had excited – a coiled yearning 
that made him ache inside.

Despite the fact that they had agreed to start over, Scully was still
distant from him.  He could feel her shut down as soon as they
started to connect.  He wondered if the cause was plain fear or
something else.  He was trying to be patient, but it had been several
weeks.

Mulder looked around for the stereo remote.  Damn, he should just
get a universal remote and be done with it, he thought.  He finally
spotted it balanced on the window sill.  What the hell?  He snatched
it up and pushed the power button on.  Van Morrison flooded the
room.  Good enough.  He raised the volume.  Loud, loud enough to
keep from thinking.  Thinking was his downfall.  Stupid brain.

He flopped onto the couch, laid the remote on his chest and wished
for a beer.  He had forgotten to stop at the grocery store.  He
probably had little, if anything, palatable to eat in the house.  More
bad bachelor habits.  Luckily for him, the phone was nearby and he
knew the numbers for several good restaurants that delivered.   All
was not lost.

He again wondered about Vega, and about what Scully saw in him.
Idiot, he answered his own unasked question.  Why shouldn't she
like him?  He was, by all accounts, a nice guy.  A nice guy wrapped
up in a good-looking, well-toned package and ready to do what it
took to keep Scully by his side.  When he thought about it, he
realized should be asking himself why Scully would abandon Vega
for him – a decade older, cynical, not always so nice guy with no
regular income.

Way to go, Mulder.  Just the ticket to brighten up the evening.

He could see Vega's face suspended over Scully's, sweat beading
on the man's forehead as he held himself over her.  He knew how
she would feel under Vega, her body moving with his, her back
arching, the way her eyes closed, then flew open when she
climaxed, the small sounds she made.  There had only been that one
night, but, grieving though he had been, Mulder hadn't forgotten.
Vega always starred with Scully in these fantasies of late, but
somehow, by the end, she always shuddered her release in Mulder's
arms.  
                    
********************

The dream began slowly.

Leo stood against the wall in her room.  The night air was heavy
with humidity.  She sat up in bed, moving slowly, her movements
made difficult by the heaviness in the air that surrounded her.  Leo
pushed towards her, almost ponderously, and dropped to the edge of
her bed.  It was then that she noticed he wore no clothes.  The dim
light that shone from the window glowed on his burnished skin.

"I know what you need."  His words dripped with a meaning that
she couldn't fathom.  "Dana."  He leaned into her, stripped her
pajamas off and laid his body down on hers.

He began to kiss her eyes, nose and mouth.  He pinned her hands
above her head and prodded her knees apart.  She made no move to
help him, nor did she resist.  He bit down on her shoulder as he
entered her.  

Surreal, she thought.  This can't be happening.

Leo began to move, hips thrusting down, hips lifting up.  Scully's
body responded, as always, and she moved with him.

"I love you, Dana, I love you," he said.

No, she thought, no, not me.

Leo shuddered and collapsed onto his side.  He curled his body
around hers, enfolding her in a tightlye.  Scully couldn't breathe, her
arms and legs felt bound.  Claustrophobia set in.  
"Dana,"  he murmured against her skin.  She struggled to free
herself. 

 "Scully,"  he said and ran his hand down her frame.  There was a
subtle shift in the atmosphere and the timbre of his voice.

"Leo?"  She spoke for the first time.

"No,"  said the voice.  She understood now.  It was Mulder.

He trailed his fingers along her belly and down in between her legs. 
He stroked her there.  Her muscles quivered, a shiver ran up her
spine.

"Mulder, how.."  She didn't have time to finish her question. 
Abruptly, she began to shake.  Her hips jerked up and a gasp
escaped her throat.

Scully sat bolt upright.  Her skin was covered in a fine sweat.  The
sheets were twisted around her legs and there was the smell of her
own sex in the room.  She rubbed her temples, clearing her head. 
Third time this week.  If it wasn't so pitiful, it would be comical. 
Maybe it was anyhow.

Had she believed in portents and omens, she would think that the
dream was a sign. But she didn't believe in them.  Or did she?

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

Wednesday, Agent Pittman stopped in to see Sheila Samski in
Accounting.  Again.  For the third time in a week and a half.  Alan
was beginning to wonder what the hell the woman had against him. 
Sitting in the visitors chair, watching her meticulously pull
discrepancies out of their expense report, he vowed to make Mike
come the next time.  Sheila claimed that Mike was not helpful, but
Pittman was fed up.

"So you rented the car when you were in Tulsa without pre-approval
was because..."  Her near black eyes pierced Alan.  She had a way
of holding his gaze a fraction too long that unnerved him.

"Because the Bureau's car was totaled, through no fault of either
Agent Davies or myself, and we needed transportation immediately. 
We called for approval, but went ahead and rented a vehicle
assuming it would be covered under the provision for ‘Vehicle
Leasing In Emergency Situations' in the handbook I got from
Audit."  Hah!  He thought, take that!  He had done his homework
this time.

Samski was clearly taken aback.  She blinked at him and colored. 
"Yes, all right then.  I suppose that will be all, Agent."  She dropped
her eyes back to the file on her desk, dismissing him.

Alan took the long way home that night.  Skinner had arranged for
his apartment to be put under surveillance.  In the last couple weeks,
packages had been showing up on his doorstep.  One contained a
pair of gloves he had misplaced.  Another a rare, out of print, book
he had expressed interest in.  He had been unable to catch the
culprit, and the other building tenants hadn't been much help.  The
general consensus was one of amusement.  Pittman hadn't told
anyone in his building about the disturbing e-mails or the other
problems he was having.            

As he approached his building, he could see a dark colored sedan
parked across the street.  He deliberately kept his eyes in front of
him.  He didn't like the thought of two other agents keeping tabs on
his apartment, but didn't have much choice.   He wished there was
another way to catch his package-deliverer run amok.

Once inside, Alan closed the blinds.  Out of sight, out of mind. 
Maybe he would get lucky and his watchers would nab someone
that night.  Yeah, and pigs would grow wings and fly, he thought.

He turned in early.  Dora was out of town, and he had been working
long hours all week.  The stalker situation wasn't exactly the most
comfortable thing to live with.  He tended to wake easily and his
dreams were vivid and disturbing.

Sometime after midnight, the noises began.  At first he thought it
was the dog – she had gotten into the garbage again. Damn, that
would be a mess.  Then, as he groggily came to, Alan remembered
that he was at home, not at Dora's.  He sat up in bed carefully,
listening.  Everything was quiet now.  There wasn't even any
discernable noise from the street.  He had almost given up and laid
down again, ready to assign blame to a half remembered dream,
when he heard it.  Barely audible, but it was there, an oh-so-faint
rustling coming from the front of the apartment.  What the hell?

Alan let his eyes adjust to the dark, then pushed back the bedclothes
and moved to the bedroom door, wishing he had his weapon. 
Foolishly, he had not brought it into his bedroom that night.  His
eyes scanned the bedroom and came to rest on his softball uniform
tossed into a corner.  His hat was perched on the bat he used in
practice.  Alan picked it up, the old wood smooth under his hand. 
Better than nothing.  He moved to his bedroom door.  The hallway
stretching before him was dark.  He could barely see the outline of
the entrance to the bathroom on his right. 

At the far end of the hall from his bedroom he paused.  The front
room was illuminated slightly by the light coming in from the street. 
The lamp light poking through the blinds gave the room an odd
striated appearance.  Alan could just make out a dark figure toward
the middle of the room, bent over the coffee table his grandmother
had given him.  He breathed in and out slowly, and, he hoped,
silently, to steady his nerves.

Alan reached for the light switch on the wall.  The room was filled
with a bright illumination.  The figure froze.  Alan squinted against
it slightly, careful not to let the intruder out of his sight.  What the
light revealed made him gape.  Sheila Samski stood in the middle of
his living room, dressed in black.  There was a canvas bag at her
feet.  On the coffee table a number of items were arranged in such a
way that they reminded Alan of an altar.

He stared dumbly, confusion written on his face. 

Sheila was staring back at him with a combination of fright and
embarrassment.  

"Alan!"  she exclaimed, taking a tentative step toward him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I didn't mean to scare you.  I just wanted to..."  She gestured at the
table.  A jumble of objects littered its surface.  His service weapon
lay off to one side, easily within Sheila's reach.  "I just wanted to
show you.  So you'd understand.  The other things weren't
working."

"What should I understand?"

"How I feel.  How we're right for each other."  Her voice was low
and trembling.  "How much I love you, Alan."

"Sheila," he said, trying the name out.  "Sheila, I hardly even... I
mean, we work together and all, but..."

"Shhh, I understand.  It's confusing, isn't it?  How we could be so
right for each other without ever having really gotten to know one
another?"  Her voice was stronger now, and she took a step toward
him.

Alan desperately tried to remember what his Bureau training has
taught him about similar situations.  He paused, trying to gauge her
state of mind.  He didn't think she was actually dangerous, but he
couldn't take any chances.  Dangerous or not, he knew he should be
careful.

He cleared his throat.  "How about if I make us some coffee?"

Sheila wrinkled her brow.

"So we could talk about this?  About...us?"

She smiled then.  "All right, Alan.  I'll just wait here."  She seated
herself on his sofa, picked up the gun and began to rearrange the
items on the coffee table.  The gun glinted, dull metal as she tucked
it into her waistband.

Alan could see that she had set up a collage of miscellaneous items
positioned around a picture frame.  In the center was a photograph
of him at the Bureau – a work function he had attended.  She had a
photo of herself next to the one of him.  A few hand scribbled notes
were attached to either side of the frame.  Notes in Alan's
handwriting.  Bits of office paraphernalia surrounded the ensemble. 
Paperclips, the silver pen from his grandmother he had thought he
lost, post-its.  Mentally, he shook himself and went into the kitchen. 
He leaned the bat softly against one wall.

While Sheila hummed off-key to herself on the couch, Alan reached
for the phone and quietly dialed.  The line rang once, twice, then he
heard a click, not from the handset he held to his ear, but from
somewhere behind him.

Alan turned slowly to find Sheila awkwardly holding his gun on
him.

********************
Mulder had seen the lights in Pittman's apartment come on.  He sat
up in the car seat a bit straighter and squinted at Pittman's windows. 
He definitely saw movement.  A slight figure was shadowed against
the blinds.  It moved jerkily, then stopped.  Another, larger figure
appeared briefly, then disappeared.

Mulder sucked on the inside of one cheek and reached for the car
door handle.  He stepped outside and glanced at the Bureau car
parked down the street.  No movement there.  He trotted across to
the brick building and tugged on the front door.  To his surprise, it
was unlocked, and opened freely.

He took the uncarpeted stairs two at a time up to the second level. 
Pittman's apartment would be to his left, he thought, front of the
building.  He stopped at the first door on his left and pressed his ear
against it, hearing movement within, a low murmur of voices.  A
man and a woman.   Surreptitiously, he tried the knob.  Locked. 
Well, now is when I either become a hero or an idiot, he thought.  

Mulder put his shoulder to the door, hoping it wasn't dead bolted. 

********************
Alan insides felt as if they had been drawn together with a taut wire
and the palms of his hands broke into a sweat.  He slowly hung up
the telephone, as instructed.  It's just Sheila Samski, he told himself,
Sheila from Accounting.

There was a splintering crash from the front room.  Sheila swung
around and Alan took the chance to tackle her from behind.  By the
time Mulder reached the two of them, he had wrenched the gun
from Sheila's hands and was grappling on the floor with her.  She
was quick, and not as easy to subdue as Alan had hoped.  With
Mulder's help, he was able to get her arms behind her back and tie
hold them there temporarily while Mulder went to inform the
Agents on stakeout what has happened.

When they came to take Sheila away, it was anti-climatic.  Alan had
prepared himself for hysterics, not the confused, hurt look she had
shot him, and not the despondent acceptance she had shown.  
     

Thank God Mulder had shown up or he might still be standing in
his kitchen trying to persuade Sheila Samski to be sensible and put
down the gun -- something at which he had been failing miserably. 
She had held the gun clumsily -- it was almost humorous the way
the muzzle had wavered around the room, an unblinking eye
looking for a place to fix itself -- but the look on her face had been
one of grim determination.  He was certain he would have been a
dead man.

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

Mulder showed up on her doorstep at 4:50 a.m., and she found,
unexpectedly, that she wasn't as annoyed as she thought she'd be. 
Standing at the door, she experienced a sudden twitch in her chest,
as if Mulder possessed a string that he had tied to her heart, and was
now tugging on it.  Tug, twist, tug.  She held the doorknob tightly,
resisting the physical pull she felt. 

"They caught the stalker," he said breaking her reverie.

Scully blinked, for a moment unable to grasp what Mulder's
meaning.  Then it dawned on her.  "Agent Pittman's stalker?"

"The one and only.  I thought you would want to know."

"Who was it?  How did you find out so fast?"  She didn't even ask
why he had not thought to wait a couple hours to tell her at a decent
hour. 

"Umm, some woman from the Bureau's Accounting Department – a
Sheila Samski, and I was sorta there when it happened."

"Mulder," Scully tilted her head and felt the beginnings of a smile. 
"How can you *sort of* be somewhere?  Either you were there, or
you weren't."

Mulder flapped his arms and gave a half shrug.  "Okay, I was there. 
Just checking things out."  He smiled back at her.  He looked warm,
appealing, loose-limbed and relaxed in his Redskins sweatshirt and
jeans.  A single yellow leaf – birch, she thought – had caught on his
sweatshirt and now hung on his left shoulder.   Her hand twitched
and she slowly reached up to pluck it off. 

"Staking out Pittman's apartment in a tree?  Tell me what
happened."  Her voice and hand were unsteady and she pulled her
hand back and folded her arms, feeling foolish.

"How about some coffee, while I fill you in on the details?"  He
looked hopefully at the kitchen.

"I think I can manage that.  I could make something to eat too."  At
the mention of coffee, her stomach had rumbled.

Mulder pursed his lips and looked doubtful.

Scully rolled her eyes.  "Come on, Mulder, I can scramble an egg
without messing it up too badly."

"Well..." Mulder began but was interrupted by a loud knocking on
the door.

"Must be that time in the morning when all good whackos come to
cal,."  Scully mumbled and moved to open the door.

Byers was on the other side, looking frazzled.

"What's wrong?"  He pushed past her into the apartment – a precise
whirlwind.  "Byers?"

"I'm leaving, Scully.  We found Susanne and Langly came up with
a way to fix things, so she'll be safe."  Despite his evident fatigue,
Byers smiled.  A truly happy smile.

"What?  How?"  This was almost too much for such an early hour. 
How come they couldn't stagger the visits?

"He's declaring her deceased.  I don't know the details yet.  I'm on
my way to Belize.  She's expecting me."  He paused.  "I just wanted
to say goodbye.  I'm not sure when I'll – we'll be back."  Byers'
voice stumbled.  He took a breath and slowed down.  "I wanted to
say that I'll miss you.  And thanks, for everything."
          
Scully stared at him a moment before finding her voice.

"I'll miss you too, Byers."  she said, her voice soft.  "And your
welcome.  And thank you, too.  For everything.  For being a good
friend."  Scully shook her head.  "I think I'm having trouble taking
this all in."

Byers grinned.  "Me too.  But I feel good.  Great."

"You do plan on coming back, don't you?  Will it be safe?"

"I hope so, on both accounts.  We're going to lay low for a while,
then make our way back to the States at some point."  He drew in a
shaky breath.  "I'm planning on this working out, somehow.  It just
has to."

Byers looked over Scully's shoulder, as if noticing that Mulder was
hovering in the background for the first time.

Byers raised his voice slightly.  "It's good you're here.  I wanted to
say goodbye to you too, Mulder."

Mulder drew closer and extended his hand.  Byers took it and gave
him an stiff handshake.

"If you need anything, let me know."  Mulder said gruffly.  "I'm – I
hope things go well."

Scully gave Mulder a strained smile and turned back to Byers.  "I'll
walk you downstairs."

Outside the sun was beginning to come up making the sky turn into
a rosy haze.  Byers stopped on the walk outside Scully's building. 

"So, are you two..."  He glanced up at the windows.  "I mean, it's
six in the morning.  Was he just leaving?"  He let his voice trail off
again.

Scully smiled softly, almost to herself.  "No, Mulder had some
information he thought I would want."

"This early?"

Scully laughed.  "You know Mulder.  His sense of timing leaves
something to be desired."

"True.  But he does have some good qualities."

"Yes, he does."

Byers moved fractionally closer to her.  "Goodbye, Scully.  I hope
to see you again soon."  His voice was quiet and filled with
something that made her think of hope and pain.  Byers hesitated,
then wrapped his arms around her.  She returned the embrace,
closing her eyes and letting the once familiar scent of his clothes,
skin and hair fill her senses.  The scruff of his beard tickled her
neck.

"Goodbye, Byers.  Take care.  I'm happy for you."  Her voice
choked off at the end, muffled by his shoulder.

Byers looked down and his mouth twitched upward.  "I'm happy for
you, too"  He tilted his head towards her apartment windows. 
"Whatever happens, it's nice to see you both on civil terms again."

"Yeah, it is nice."  Scully gave him a final squeeze and stepped
back.  A whisper of a smile matched the faraway look in her eyes. 
"You'd better get moving.  Don't want to be late."

Byers caught and locked his eyes with hers.  "It'll work out, Scully. 
One way or another."

She lifted her chin to him.  "Right.  One way or another." 

Scully stood in the lightening morning air and watched Byers climb
into a rented silver sedan.  The door closed, with a final sounding
thump, closing him in.  He gave her a short wave and a quick smile
and pulled away from the curb.  She raised a hand in farewell.

A welcoming aroma greeted her return upstairs.  Mulder had made
coffee.  He had also started to scramble the eggs.  Well, she thought,
this Mulder she could get used to.  His sweatshirt had been
discarded and was now draped over the back of one the kitchen
chairs.  Scully studied Mulder as he stirred the eggs and slid two
slices of bread into the toaster.  He was absorbed in his tasks and
seemed unaware that she had come in through the door.  Scully
watched as he reached up to the top shelf of her cupboard.  

A small pang pricked at the lining of her stomach – fear mixed with
longing.  Scully wanted to take this moment and cup her hands
around it, place it gently into a bowl that she could keep next to her
drainboard, off to the side, where it wouldn't be disturbed.  She
could have it there always, take it out and dip her finger into it when
she felt empty.  Like now.
                                        
She should talk to him.  Tell him what was really in her heart. 
What, really, was there to be lost now?  

She moved forward into the kitchen and came to stand behind
Mulder who looked over his shoulder and gave her a crooked smile. 
Scully very carefully put her hand out to turn him around, as if he
were made of cellophane that she might tear, and laid her head on
his chest.  She could feel his hesitation, his surprise.

"Scully?"

"I don't know how to say it, Mulder.  I'm just not sure how."  The
words were a sliver of glass, cutting her lips as they slipped out.

"Maybe you don't have to.  Maybe it will be all right the way it is," 
he replied huskily.

"You think so?"  Doubt crept in.

Mulder's arms came around her shoulders.  "Maybe, Scully.  I really
don't know.  In some ways I think, how could it be any worse?"

"At least we're talking now."

"Yeah, there is that."  His voice rumbled in his chest, sounding deep
and dark, vibrating against her ear. 

They stood like that for several moments in silence.  Then Mulder
asked softly: "What happened with you and Vega?"

Scully quelled the sigh she felt rising up.  "We just... I couldn't
make the kind of commitment he was looking for.  There was
always something holding me back."

"What about now?  With... us?"  His voice was tentative.

"You mean do I feel like holding back?  No, not anymore."

Mulder spoke again, his voice less tight.  "If we... if we continue
on... I don't know if I can do what Vega did for you."

Scully didn't answer immediately.  When she did, her words were
careful.  "Maybe you won't have to, Mulder, maybe you won't."
  
She didn't say that she thought he could if he tried.  There was time
for that later.  In her experience, inner pain faded slowly, like a deep
bruise.   What had taken years to unfold couldn't be changed easily. 
Nor was she certain she wanted to change.  She knew, certainly, that
there was a difference between erotic pain and her need to feel
recklessly overwhelmed.  She needed to start making the
distinction.  Maybe she had already begun.

And there was the possibility that she had spoken the truth.  Perhaps
he wouldn't need to.          

Perhaps, given time, she wouldn't.