Isfada By suspect affiliations Post-"Requiem." * * * * * * * It is raining in her mind. Water flows torrentially, tiny prickly shards of liquid gray – it reminds her of a paint Missy used when she was in art school, its viscosity overcome as she rinsed it from her brushes – coagulating coldly against technology-enhanced fibers. Hydrogen bonding, electrostatic attraction, drawing each droplet closer and closer to those like it, unthinking. She could draw the Lewis dot diagrams to illustrate the point, could articulate how atomic symmetry dictated such a property. The deluge is merely a backdrop, a setting, a quantitative contradiction to the dialogue being tossed against it. There should be no logic to his words – but there is. She should not believe him, she should rail against him with her arsenal of delineations, but she chooses instead to realize that some things can be right despite being wrong. She laughs. It is all she can do. Later the rain will stop and things will begin to make sense again. She can return to order and rationality, but here and now, before a crying black sky, she can only let go. They have already lost nine minutes. How much odder is this? The rain stops and they lose so much more than nine minutes. Seven years are quickly spent, time sliding past as if liquid. They know, though, that time is not so mutable as it would seem. They learn time and time again of its preciousness. Nine minutes is not so much anymore. This time it is not raining, there is no water, nothing so precise and tangible. This time it is intrigue and alien ships and radiation fields and similar elements of science fiction, all converging to create an eerie reality in which no one is laughing. But she remembers the first lesson she learned here. Some things can be right despite being wrong… Things are the same but not the same; a spiral, not a circle. They have aged and hollowed and been enriched. There is an affection, and a weariness, previously unseen. Some things can be right despite being wrong. And then, although the scenery has changed, she does the only thing she can do, the only thing she has done for seven years. She lets go. They're not coming back. * * * * * * * She is sitting in the office, her office now, poring over files when a timid knock brings her slowly to the present. "Come in." A man enters, someone with whom she is not familiar. She recalls briefly Skinner's words about a new partner. She was not paying close attention, her mind instead processing all the bits of information that she so recently had received. Her brain, it seems, cannot pause in doing so. "Agent Raymond Quinn." He sticks his hand out in a gesture of politeness, and she shakes it cautiously. Agent Raymond Quinn is younger than she expected, in his early thirties. He is tall (although so many people seem tall to her) and obviously very physically fit. His arms seem to strain against his suit jacket, the muscles constrained within eager to explode with testosterone. His face is alarmingly average – dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, a nose whose proportions go unnoticed. His bearing is self-assured, confident of his own abilities. "No one down here but…" she murmurs under her breath as she shakes his hand. She cannot complete the sentiment, and Agent Raymond Quinn gives her a brief, concerned look. She is certain that Skinner told him she was pregnant. Information like that could not be held back in a partnership. She hopes that he does not attribute all of her quirks to the pregnancy and accepts that she might very well be slowly going insane due to other circumstances. She sits back down, uncertain where to begin. Quinn stands awkwardly, waiting for her word. When it does not come readily he attempts to fill the gap. "So… just one desk, huh?" He is trying to lighten the mood, she knows, but she looks at him sharply nonetheless. The desk issue is a point of contention that she recalls now with such fondness as to render it moot. She speaks slowly, precisely, and the weight of her words makes her feel as if she is drowning beneath them. "Our current case, as Skinner may have told you, is the abduction of Agent Mulder." Quinn nods. "He gave me his report on the incident." She stares, begging elaboration. "I must say… it sounds pretty incredible. Especially coming from Skinner's mouth, you know? But I guess that's what you guys deal with down here on a regular basis, though." Quinn does not seem to notice – certainly, he does not correct – his use of the plural address. She sighs. "Skinner's report is, right now, all that we have to go on." Quinn ducks his head in an imitation of a nod. He is so young, she thinks to herself suddenly, although chronologically he is not so far behind herself. His face is unlined and his eyes are not haunted. How can she deal with someone like this? "There is a reason behind Agent Mulder's abduction." She is not comfortable explaining this to him, not now, not so soon. She does not know this man and she must trust him with so much more than just her life – she must entrust him with Mulder's as well. How can she tell him all that he must know? How can she destroy his innocence like that? "What's that?" She purses her lips, searching for a place to begin. She will give him the abridged narration, for the time being. "Last year Agent Mulder began to exhibit… odd brain activity. He was kidnapped and operated upon. When he was found, the brain activity had ceased to be abnormal. He was abducted along with a number of others who had all, at some point, displayed similar neuropathologies." Quinn's eyes have widened, and she cringes inwardly. If he is having difficulty contemplating the sequence of events she has just spelled out, he will certainly have trouble with the rest of their history. "Odd brain activity?" She looks down at the desk and begins to shuffle the file with finality. "Odd brain activity." A glance at the clock. "I'll be leaving now. Here is a copy of the file for you to review. Know it by tomorrow." Her voice is commanding, leaving Quinn no choice but to exit the office after picking up the file. After he shuts the door, she brings her hands to her face, rubbing her temples with her fingers and expelling a long breath. It has been one week since she was released from the hospital. That week has been filled with reports, meetings, appointments, and sleep, of which she can no longer deprive herself. Tonight she must see her mother. She called her mother the day after getting out of the hospital, told her that they needed to talk. Now was the earliest available opportunity. A quiet dinner, a mother-daughter chat… She dreads this. With Skinner she can hide behind professionalism; with the Lone Gunmen, she can hide behind casual friendship and their loyalty to Mulder. Her mother, she knows, will be brutal despite her sweetness. She drops her hands and stands, gathering her coat, shoving files into her briefcase. Her mother expects her. * * * * * * * She remembers when Missy took art in high school, before she went to art school and detached herself so easily from the rest of the family. She remembers sitting in their room, studying chemistry or math, and commenting to Missy that she didn't have any real homework, only art. Missy would turn to her and explain what she was doing, patient and excited about her creations and eager to have them understood by her little sister. "This is a line composition," she said about her first work. To Dana it looked like scrawled pen, an English-class doodle. "Line is one of the four basic elements of a composition. Many regard it as the most basic," Missy recited the lecture she'd heard in class that day. "People tend to think of lines as being just that – linear. But they don't have to be," she went on. "Lines are not at all defined. They can be straight and thin, wavy and thick. They can loop all over and vary in width. They can enclose a form, or they can liberate it. You see, Dana," Missy told her sister pointedly, "lines are not just what you study in math, they're more than just functions on a graph. They're complex elements that can be combined with others to form dynamic expressions, lending dimensionality and freedom to a work." Dana had laughed at her sister then, mocked her for her sudden intellectualism, drawn it out of her that she was madly in love with her fresh-out-of-college teacher. But she never liked Missy's more "expressionistic" works. She never liked those that defied line as she knew it, took something so wonderfully and rigidly defined and made it malleable. Life is no longer a straight line, she thinks as she pulls up to her mother's house. It probably never was. The straightness was an illusion, like the dimensional renderings Missy produced her first year of art school; lines seemed straight, but in truth, were simply curved to make them appear so. This is what she thinks as she turns off her car and approaches her mother's. * * * * * * * She knocks on the door with a bravado that she does not feel, and her mother opens it too quickly. "Dana," she says softly, concerned, as she envelops her daughter in an embrace. Dana reciprocates with difficulty. Mrs. Scully leads her daughter to the living room, casting watchful eyes backwards. She knows that her daughter means to tell her something. With the paranoia inherent in all mothers, she is running through scenarios in her mind, discarding them as quickly as she imagines them: Dana's cancer is back. Fox is dead. The two are marrying. Dana is leaving the X-Files. Dana is pregnant. They all seem to ridiculous to her. The two women sit, Mrs. Scully on a reclining wing chair that her husband had always claimed as his own, and Dana on the sofa. Dana hunches forward, her face towards the floor, hesitant, and Mrs. Scully's anxiety grows. "Dana, what is it?" she asks, and Dana looks up, giving her mother a watery smile in an attempt at reassurance. Mrs. Scully is not so easily assuaged. She continues to look at her daughter, prying it out of her with her gaze. "Mom…" Dana's tone is afraid, and Mrs. Scully is reminded of a time when a young Dana had been covering for her older brother, who had gone to a party and been drinking. The police had busted the party and called their house in the middle of the night, and Dana had answered. She had presented the phone to her mother the very same quaver in her voice that resonates so clearly now, and Mrs. Scully can not help but think that her daughter is covering for someone. Dana sighs and visibly gathers her strength, then looks her mother in the eye and speaks. "Mom, I'm pregnant." Mrs. Scully is taken aback momentarily, her mind flashing to her earlier thoughts. Pregnancy is, apparently, not so ridiculous a proposition as she had thought. "Dana, I thought… I mean, that's…" She is uncertain how to deal with this. Her daughter obviously has mixed feeling on the issue, to say nothing of her supposed sterility. Finally, she organizes her thoughts into something coherent. "Dana," she begins firmly. "That's wonderful. But how?" Her youngest daughter, who has always adhered to the methodolatry of scientific inquiry and analysis, can only shake her head and shrug in an admittance of unknowing. "I don't know just yet, Mom," she says, her voice thick. She smiles an honest smile, a sincere and grateful smile, and Mrs. Scully is struck that her religiously reserved daughter regards this pregnancy, at least to some degree, as miraculous. "Is Fox…" Mrs. Scully is hesitant to ask, but who else, she thinks, could be this child's father? Certainly Dana has not mentioned anyone else in her life. Dana nods and her expression clouds as she wipes a tear from her cheek. "Dana, what is it?" Mrs. Scully is suddenly fearful. She knows that her daughter, despite her independence, values Fox's opinions and influence tremendously. Perhaps he does not want this child. What then? There is a silence in which Dana attempts to synthesize what she must say into something her mother can comprehend. Finally she can only choke out, "He's gone." A look of consternation crosses her mother's face. "Gone?" Mrs. Scully thinks of deadbeat dads and alimony payments, and her face goes dark. She cannot believe that Fox would leave her daughter so easily, but then, he has done so many things to hurt Dana. "Gone like… like I was gone," Dana elaborates vaguely, and another tear makes a slow trickle down her face. Mrs. Scully is momentarily speechless, and then compassion enters her tone as she crosses the living room to comfort her daughter. "Oh, sweetheart…" she croons as she draws Dana to her shoulder, rubbing her back as she did when Dana was a child. They sit like that for some time, as if in a Renaissance tableau, before Dana excuses herself. Mrs. Scully stands and goes to the kitchen, and when Dana returns from the bathroom, looking somewhat fresher, they eat dinner. Conversation at the table is filled with the practical aspects of pregnancy, nuggets of information that Mrs. Scully passes on to her daughter. They talk of vitamins and doctors' appointments and sleep patterns and cravings and morning sickness, and Dana suddenly wishes she had some close female friend, someone besides her mother whom she could turn to for advice and camaraderie and comfort. The idea of speaking about this with Tara does not appeal to her, and her mother's war stories seem so archaic. Mrs. Scully asks where Dana plans on keeping the child, and she briefly outlines her plans to convert the small guest room into a bedroom for her child. Her mother seems to accept that she has entrusted the job to "Mulder's friends," having never met the Lone Gunmen and thus unsuspicious of them. Dana only hopes that Byers, Langly, and Frohike do not hang a Nixon mobile above the crib. Her mother makes no mention of Fox's absence, and for that Dana is grateful. They are washing dishes in companionable silence when Mrs. Scully turns to her and speaks. "You know, Dana," she begins, and Dana has the distinct impression that her mother is addressing her as a peer, and not simply as her daughter. "Being pregnant, knowing that the father of your child is far off, not knowing whether or not he will make it home safely… it is the hardest thing in the world." Dana is hit hard with the realization that this is all old hat to her mother, whose husband missed the births of three of his four children, who spent the months leading up to those events in distant oceans fighting equally distant foes. "I do know, though," Dana whispers fiercely. "He will make it home safely." Mrs. Scully gazes at her daughter, and Dana leaves shortly after. * * * * * * * When she awoke, darkness streamed through the windows. She paused momentarily, regaining her bearing, recalling where she was and what she had been doing, before pushing the scratchy woolen blanket off her form. Sounds emanated from his bedroom, faint muted noises that could be from the television. She stood slowly, stretched her muscles, and folded the blanket back onto the sofa before walking towards his room. She stopped in the doorway, watching him thoughtfully. He was sprawled with a nearly feline grace across his bed, head propped up by fisted hands and eyes staring hollowly at flickering channels. It was a moment before he noticed her standing there. "Hey." "Hey." She crossed to the bed and sat beside him, her eyes trailing to the TV screen, her hand finding its way to his back. She kneaded his shoulder gently as she attempted to discern what he was watching. "_All the President's Men_," he said after a brief pause, and she recognized the film. He turned his face to her, speaking quietly. "You should hear the Gunmen tear this one apart." She barely chuckled, savoring the tactile warmth of muscle beneath soft cotton. In a quick motion, he grabbed the remote and muted the television. "Scully?" "Hm?" She didn't look up. "You seem to… peaceful. It's, um, it's… it's good to see." He tripped over his words. "It's not so far from yourself," she replied quietly. At his quizzical look, she was forced to elaborate. "Mulder, ever since California, you've seemed much more… much calmer. Happier." She smiled sadly. "It is good to see." Her voice was hardly above a whisper. He matched her smile. "Getting over the past is always nice." She looked down at her hands, tracing the outline of his form. "I guess… Scully, I don't want you to be here because you feel like you should be here, out of some divine obligation." His words came out in a nervous rush, sudden and unexpected. "Mulder." Her tone was sharp, she was so surprised b his statement; it softened in continuance. "Mulder, I wouldn't stay if I didn't think it was right." In her pause, she sensed he was eager to rebut, and she continued quickly. "For me. And for you." That stopped him. She watched his hand snake to clasp hers, drawing it from his back to his bed. After a long silence, he spoke. "Scully, I love you." Her head dropped to her chest, her mouth curving in a grimace-smile. "Mulder-" He cut her off. "Scully, I mean it. I'm not-" She looked up, caught his eyes and held them. "Mulder, I believe you." He sat up then, and her eyes widened as he leaned closer to her. There was a brief hesitation as they exchanged breath, and then they were kissing. Momentarily he pulled away. "Scully…" he began breathily, and she knew what he was going to say, to do. "Mulder," she stopped him, her hands trailing down his chest. "This is right." Afterwards they lay half-covered by the sheets, her head pillowed on his chest. "You know," he said softly into her hair, "it wasn't California that did it for me." She looked up to him, questioning. "When Cancerman took me from the hospital," he began, and she knew immediately what he meant, "I had an extended lucid dream. And in it… in it I was married to Diana, living in a comfortable house, in veritable domestic bliss." He ran his hands down her arms soothingly, mapping her hands with his fingers, before continuing in a low voice. "In time we raised a family, and Grandpa CSM came and visited regularly." He paused, and the air was filled with the weight of her breathing. "But, Scully, everyone died. Cancerman told me you were dead. And I lay there, an old man, with nothing left – and you came to me. You were vital and very much alive, and you told me the truth. You told me what nobody else would. And in that moment, I knew that no matter how much I might be tempted by anything else, my place was with you, doing what we do." There was a long silence, and then it was split by her hesitant voice. "I never knew you to be tempted by domesticity." He spoke slowly. "Doing what we do… it has a certain allure." "You know I can't give you that," she murmured against his chest. He closed his eyes at the realization of her meaning, uncertain as ever how to broach this delicate topic. Honesty won out. "That doesn't matter, Scully." "But it does," she insisted quickly. "One day, Mulder, your job will not be so demanding. You will have time and you will want people with whom to spend it." "I have you," he replied, punctuating the remark with a soft kiss to the top of her head. "But will that always be enough?" she asked seriously. "Scully… we can adopt. There are other ways to have a family," he said gently. He glanced over to her and saw that her eyes were glassy with moisture. "Is that enough for you?" She walked further down the path of self-depreciation. "Scully, as long as you are happy… that's enough for me." Another silence, and then she pushed back the sheets, sitting upright so that her feet hung from the bed. He watched her shoulders curve forward before she stood and spoke. "I gotta go." The words were hardly more than breaths, spoken as she turned away." He stopped her by grasping her wrists tightly, turning her face towards him, examining her expression. After a moment, he nodded and let go of her hand, his eyes tracking her nude, shadowed form as she picked up her clothes and entered his bathroom. When she came out, he was asleep. * * * * * * * And that's all she wrote. Where the story was going… Scully, Skinner, and Quinn (who was to be rather Doggett-like, before we'd met the character) take a multi-pronged approach to finding Mulder. First, they get data from the Lone Gunmen about other possible, future abduction locations. Second, they contact Krycek and Marita for information. However, the FBI agents are totally unaware that, with the death of CSM (remember, I wrote this the summer after "Requiem," back when CSM was supposed to be actually dead), they're combating each other to fill the new power vacuum. Krycek ends up actually helping them, while Marita plays along with the intent to deceive them. Finally, the find Gibson Praise, whom they believe will be abducted soon himself. All of this narrative is intercut with flashbacks to S7 – Mulder and Scully's post-premiere antics in "Hollywood A.D.", the "Caddyshack" lovin' of "Je Souhaite", etc etc. Their three plans culminate in a showdown with the alien bounty hunter, whom Krycek and Marita have contacted. The bounty hunter is under the impression that Scully, Skinner, and Quinn are ready to make an exchange – Gibson for Mulder. However, the agents have a plan set up to retrieve Mulder, kill the bounty hunter, and keep Gibson safe. Little do they know, though, that they are about to be double-crossed by Marita, who shows up and wreaks havoc over their careful plans. Quinn, charged with protecting Gibson throughout the exchange, kills Marita, and in that instant the bounty hunter has access to Gibson and takes him, leaving behind a scarred and barely conscious Mulder. And that's what "Isfada" was going to be, if I'd had the time to do it right .